Is there really a difference between art and craft? Is an oil painting more beautiful than a cigar box covered with gold-painted macaroni?
Isn't anything created with imagination, joy and love.... art?
Isn't anything created with imagination, joy and love.... art?
Confessions of a Craft Junkie
I should have known, early in childhood, that I would develop an addiction to making stuff. I had a ton of Barbies, but I wasn’t at all interested in dressing her, or taking her around town in her spiffy orange jeep, or even posing her in compromising positions with Ken. No, not me. I spent all my time building and decorating her dream house.
Having only the limited resources of a child, I found my materials around the house. And nothing was safe. Not my mother’s jewelry box (brooches made excellent wall decorations), not her closet (scarves became curtains), and not the kitchen table mats (excellent for carpets). When Mom couldn’t locate her pincushion, she knew she’d find it being used as an ottoman for that little blonde bimbo.
Soon came all those elementary school projects: handprints in plaster and lopsided ashtrays. In Vacation Bible School, they showed me how to cover cigar boxes in macaroni, and spray-paint them a gaudy gold. I made bookmarks and Christmas ornaments out of felt, egg cartons, pipe cleaners and way too much Elmer’s glue. While the other kids were busy spreading layers of glue over their hands just for the sheer joy of peeling it off, I labored over macaroni designs and glitter placement with all the concentration of Michelangelo painting the Sistine Chapel.
I didn’t really blossom into full-fledged crafting until I moved into my first apartment. Having little disposable income, I had to get creative. I’ve talked to other crafters and found that for many of us, poverty is truly the mother of invention. I’d see something fabulous in a store (that I could not afford) and think, “I could make that.” Or some approximation of it. God knows, some of my first attempts were indistinguishable from, say, the work of blind, motor-deficient fourth graders.
But whether it was a dorm room or a cardboard box, I had to decorate it. Had to. Just as surely as I had to breathe. And I would use anything and everything. I became a compulsive pack rat of discarded ribbons, buttons, pretty paper and miscellaneous “stuff” from garage sales and thrift stores. There was no furniture so scarred and battered that it couldn’t be painted, decoupaged or covered in fabric.
Eventually I discovered the craft and hobby stores springing up all over the place: Michael’s, Joann’s and Hobby Lobby. I’d wander the aisles, my eyes glazing over in a blissful daze of creative mania. Not just for the things I already dreamed of making, but for whole new crafts that I never even knew existed. Clay sculpture, glass painting, wire wrapping. Even the rolls of multicolored yarn, in so many colors and textures, could mesmerize me, and I didn’t even know how to knit.
I learned to cross-stitch, and for several years, the biggest goal of my life was to own every color of DMC floss known to man.
I bought my first glue gun. It was wondrous in its possibilities, but I couldn’t understand how Martha Stewart managed to use one without yelping, “Oh, shit!” as the hot glue melted all her fingers together into mutant flippers, or the cat chose just the wrong moment to stick out an inquisitive paw. But even the searing pain of red-hot glue could not stop me. Let me just say, I no longer have fingerprints. And my cat is now afraid of the glue gun.
The money I once tried to save by making pretty things now went to feed my addiction at the various craft stores. Even walking through their doors, I felt my wallet opening like a thirsty flower to spring rain, even if it meant forgoing food, rent and cable television.
At one point, a friend threatened to post my photo on signs at every register, saying: DO NOT SELL TO THIS WOMAN: SHE IS SICK AND CANNOT HELP HERSELF. My current boyfriend has suggested that I should only be allowed into Hobby Lobby if he accompanies me with a cattle prod.
When I discovered beading, I was like a pot smoker graduating to heroin. Oh, the variety of bright, shiny objects in so many colors, textures, sizes and shapes! Semi-precious stones, glass, plastic — it didn’t matter. I had to have them all, and now discovered entirely new specialty stores to plunder.
Soon I was buying sterling silver by the gram, beads on long strings in bulk. Bead shows at the fairground beckoned to me with a siren’s song. Even on vacation, in every destination from Memphis to New Orleans to Pigeon Forge, I would check the phone book to seek out new suppliers to feed the ravenous beading monkey on my back. I showered friends and family with beaded jewelry until they were afraid to open even one more gift.
I wasn’t even safe in my own home, as I discovered mail order catalogs and the Internet. When I spent $200 on a state-of-the art wood burning kit on Ebay, I began to suspect I had a problem. When I donated two bulging bags of perfectly good clothes to Goodwill just so I could devote an entire closet and dresser to my craft supplies, I knew I had hit rock bottom. I had a sudden vision of myself standing on a street corner, with a sign that said: “Will Work for Beads.”
Then, I found my salvation. I discovered others who did not judge me, for they suffered from the same addiction. They understood. They did not turn away or yawn when I rambled excitedly about my new paper cutter.
I have one friend who crafts in her car during her lunch hour, and frequently puts her three children into an assembly line of prep-work similar to third-world sweatshops. Another roams estate sales and thrift stores, obsessively searching for interesting junk to fashion into funky art and jewelry. We confessed our sins, the depth and width of our addiction, like alcoholics at an AA meeting. “Hello, my name is Belinda, and I’m a craft junkie.”
We shared our secrets: new ideas, new materials, the best places to find supplies, the newest adhesives, and how to hide Joann’s receipts from husbands. We found Cafe Press, Lovli and Etsy as an outlet to turn our addiction into hard, cold cash – or at least enough to fund our next expedition to Michael’s. And when those websites were not enough, whole groups of us began banding together in armies like the Craft Mafia, CRAFT, Artsy Mamas, and the Etsy Street Team, just to name a few. When we could not find enough existing venues for selling our wares in the established fairs and shows, we took to the streets of Nashville and created our own events.
I have now come to terms with my addiction. I no longer hide in shame, but I embrace it, cherish it, and nurture it. I am not alone, and with my new friends, I have the strength to get out and testify to the masses who have not yet embraced their inner crafter. I openly scorn the mass-production of third world countries, the ugly and the just plain boring. I spread the gospel of the handcrafted and the one-of-a-kind like a born-again prophet.
I am a craft junkie, and damned proud of it.
How to Tell If You Are a Craft Junkie:
Having only the limited resources of a child, I found my materials around the house. And nothing was safe. Not my mother’s jewelry box (brooches made excellent wall decorations), not her closet (scarves became curtains), and not the kitchen table mats (excellent for carpets). When Mom couldn’t locate her pincushion, she knew she’d find it being used as an ottoman for that little blonde bimbo.
Soon came all those elementary school projects: handprints in plaster and lopsided ashtrays. In Vacation Bible School, they showed me how to cover cigar boxes in macaroni, and spray-paint them a gaudy gold. I made bookmarks and Christmas ornaments out of felt, egg cartons, pipe cleaners and way too much Elmer’s glue. While the other kids were busy spreading layers of glue over their hands just for the sheer joy of peeling it off, I labored over macaroni designs and glitter placement with all the concentration of Michelangelo painting the Sistine Chapel.
I didn’t really blossom into full-fledged crafting until I moved into my first apartment. Having little disposable income, I had to get creative. I’ve talked to other crafters and found that for many of us, poverty is truly the mother of invention. I’d see something fabulous in a store (that I could not afford) and think, “I could make that.” Or some approximation of it. God knows, some of my first attempts were indistinguishable from, say, the work of blind, motor-deficient fourth graders.
But whether it was a dorm room or a cardboard box, I had to decorate it. Had to. Just as surely as I had to breathe. And I would use anything and everything. I became a compulsive pack rat of discarded ribbons, buttons, pretty paper and miscellaneous “stuff” from garage sales and thrift stores. There was no furniture so scarred and battered that it couldn’t be painted, decoupaged or covered in fabric.
Eventually I discovered the craft and hobby stores springing up all over the place: Michael’s, Joann’s and Hobby Lobby. I’d wander the aisles, my eyes glazing over in a blissful daze of creative mania. Not just for the things I already dreamed of making, but for whole new crafts that I never even knew existed. Clay sculpture, glass painting, wire wrapping. Even the rolls of multicolored yarn, in so many colors and textures, could mesmerize me, and I didn’t even know how to knit.
I learned to cross-stitch, and for several years, the biggest goal of my life was to own every color of DMC floss known to man.
I bought my first glue gun. It was wondrous in its possibilities, but I couldn’t understand how Martha Stewart managed to use one without yelping, “Oh, shit!” as the hot glue melted all her fingers together into mutant flippers, or the cat chose just the wrong moment to stick out an inquisitive paw. But even the searing pain of red-hot glue could not stop me. Let me just say, I no longer have fingerprints. And my cat is now afraid of the glue gun.
The money I once tried to save by making pretty things now went to feed my addiction at the various craft stores. Even walking through their doors, I felt my wallet opening like a thirsty flower to spring rain, even if it meant forgoing food, rent and cable television.
At one point, a friend threatened to post my photo on signs at every register, saying: DO NOT SELL TO THIS WOMAN: SHE IS SICK AND CANNOT HELP HERSELF. My current boyfriend has suggested that I should only be allowed into Hobby Lobby if he accompanies me with a cattle prod.
When I discovered beading, I was like a pot smoker graduating to heroin. Oh, the variety of bright, shiny objects in so many colors, textures, sizes and shapes! Semi-precious stones, glass, plastic — it didn’t matter. I had to have them all, and now discovered entirely new specialty stores to plunder.
Soon I was buying sterling silver by the gram, beads on long strings in bulk. Bead shows at the fairground beckoned to me with a siren’s song. Even on vacation, in every destination from Memphis to New Orleans to Pigeon Forge, I would check the phone book to seek out new suppliers to feed the ravenous beading monkey on my back. I showered friends and family with beaded jewelry until they were afraid to open even one more gift.
I wasn’t even safe in my own home, as I discovered mail order catalogs and the Internet. When I spent $200 on a state-of-the art wood burning kit on Ebay, I began to suspect I had a problem. When I donated two bulging bags of perfectly good clothes to Goodwill just so I could devote an entire closet and dresser to my craft supplies, I knew I had hit rock bottom. I had a sudden vision of myself standing on a street corner, with a sign that said: “Will Work for Beads.”
Then, I found my salvation. I discovered others who did not judge me, for they suffered from the same addiction. They understood. They did not turn away or yawn when I rambled excitedly about my new paper cutter.
I have one friend who crafts in her car during her lunch hour, and frequently puts her three children into an assembly line of prep-work similar to third-world sweatshops. Another roams estate sales and thrift stores, obsessively searching for interesting junk to fashion into funky art and jewelry. We confessed our sins, the depth and width of our addiction, like alcoholics at an AA meeting. “Hello, my name is Belinda, and I’m a craft junkie.”
We shared our secrets: new ideas, new materials, the best places to find supplies, the newest adhesives, and how to hide Joann’s receipts from husbands. We found Cafe Press, Lovli and Etsy as an outlet to turn our addiction into hard, cold cash – or at least enough to fund our next expedition to Michael’s. And when those websites were not enough, whole groups of us began banding together in armies like the Craft Mafia, CRAFT, Artsy Mamas, and the Etsy Street Team, just to name a few. When we could not find enough existing venues for selling our wares in the established fairs and shows, we took to the streets of Nashville and created our own events.
I have now come to terms with my addiction. I no longer hide in shame, but I embrace it, cherish it, and nurture it. I am not alone, and with my new friends, I have the strength to get out and testify to the masses who have not yet embraced their inner crafter. I openly scorn the mass-production of third world countries, the ugly and the just plain boring. I spread the gospel of the handcrafted and the one-of-a-kind like a born-again prophet.
I am a craft junkie, and damned proud of it.
How to Tell If You Are a Craft Junkie:
- Family members will no longer go into Hobby Lobby with you.
- You have sacrificed sleep to make just one more thing.
- You have considered trading your least favorite child (or spouse) for a gift card to Michael’s.
- You have ever lied about how much you spent at a craft store.
- You have bought a craft material or tool even when you had no idea how to use it.
- There is at least one closet/bookshelf/cardboard box in your house crammed with craft supplies. And there are things in there you don’t even remember buying.
- You have ever refused to throw “trash” away, because you are sure you can someday use it.
- You are physically incapable of throwing away a scrap of fancy ribbon.
- You have ever called in sick to work or made excuses to get out of a family obligation in order to stay home and make something.
- The mention of a cold-temp, cordless glue gun makes your heart race faster than Bradley Cooper's smile.
