I wrote about the homely act of yarn bombing for Youth Central. Yarn bombing (also known as guerilla knitting or woolly tagging) is the act of making graffiti using knitting and crochet, and I talked to some rad ladies from Melbourne and New Zealand about why they do it!
Find the article here
It was two in the afternoon as “Bali” tagged the thick grey pole on Melville Street in West Brunswick. She looked around furtively. “I usually put them up late at night or early in the morning,” she said. “I don’t like people watching.”
In a café behind her, staff and patrons watched with mild curiosity. Bali finished attaching her tag with a knot, cut her needle off, and attached a note to lead curious passers-by to her blog, Twilight Taggers.
However, unlike the ugly scrawled tags on trains and brick walls, Bali’s graffiti is a length of knitted black wool stretched around the pole and adorned with colourful crochet flowers.
At three am, the only sound around the Pantheon is the constant trickling of water in the piazza’s fountain. Bathed in orange light, I lie underneath the bronze doors, many times taller than I am, and contemplate the meaning of the word insignificance. I also know that, for this short span of time, this building that has been gazed upon for centuries belongs solely and absolutely to me.
The Colosseum is the same; just before sunrise a car will circuit leisurely around the crumbling stadium, but once it disappears there is no one in sight. This is the moment when there will be no tourists wearing absurd hats in the foreground in every single one of my pictures.
The night is the time to contemplate the must-see attractions of Rome. It’s so much simpler to picture how life moved around the meandering streets when these buildings were still in use.
While this is one way to see the Trevi Fountain, the Vittorio Emanuele II monument, and St Peter’s Basilica, it may not be the ‘ideal’ way.
The energy that buzzes through the city during the day is just as intoxicating as the serenity of night. The sight of frustrated families, gaping tour groups, young locals locked in an embrace, harried shopkeepers, suited businessmen, men in uniform and everyone else either going about their lives or drinking in the splendor of Rome reminds me that Rome is not just a museum or a history book; Rome is alive.