Lament for the IRL Craft Shop

The Atlantic

3 days ago

On a trip to my local Joann craft-supply store recently, I felt a cheap thrill. An extremely cheap thrill. Huge signs posted on the front doors read STORE CLOSING and ENTIRE STORE 30%–70% OFF. One screamed NOTHING HELD BACK, which struck me as both desperate and alluring.
I walked in and wandered up and down the picked-over aisles, skimming my fingers across the flannels, fleeces, silks, and satins. Buckets of yarn beckoned. I was even tempted to add a bathrobe, one of those items that places like Joann inexplicably stock alongside craft supplies, to my cart. And soon, in true Millennial fashion, I was lost in nostalgic reverie.
When I was 10 or 11, I started a summer 'business' selling friendship bracelets to kids at the local swimming pool, the crafting equivalent of running a neighborhood lemonade stand. That diversion blossomed into a lifetime love of hand-making all sorts of things: blankets, clothes, bags, and many, many hot-glued monstrosities. Since then, I've spent countless hours in craft-supply stores of all kinds, including Joann, which this weekend was expected to finish closing all of its nearly 800 stores, after twice filing for bankruptcy.
Joann's shutdown may sound trivial, or even inevitable—the chain is just the latest in a parade of stores that have marched to the graveyard of big-box brands. But many people in creative circles are worried about having fewer places to stock up. Over the past several decades, the expansion of chains such as Joann effectively snuffed out numerous mom-and-pop craft shops, and now many cities and towns may be left without easy, in-person access to a dedicated craft-supply store.
This isn't the end of crafting, obviously. People still have Hobby Lobby and Michaels. Even Walmart and Target sell craft supplies, though hard-core crafters will point out, rightly, that those chains don't come close to offering the selection of fabric and other materials that Joann did. Smaller specialty shops exist, but their products tend to be more expensive. And yes, items can be ordered online, but that's always a gamble: Crafting is an intensely tactile experience, and when you can't see or touch supplies before buying them, the reality frequently fails to meet expectations.
But the death of a reliable institution such as Joann isn't just about the demise of a business. Its closing creates ever more distance between materials and makers. Plenty of people aspire to indulge their creative side, yet some struggle mightily to find the space and time amid the pressures of day-to-day life. Joann, affordable and accessible, made all of that easier. Take it away, and people might not even try.
Joann's disappearance also has, perhaps, an unintended consequence: the loss of yet another outlet for building customs and community, at a time when society could benefit from having more of both. Although crafting is frequently a solitary pursuit, even a kind of invisible labor, it can be a way to form deep, personal connections with other people. I've bonded with a friend at sewing class and spent a weekend with another making Christmas ornaments by covering plastic dinosaurs in Elmer's glue and dipping them in glitter. (Very fun, very messy.) Crafting is also, for many, a matter of family tradition. I learned to crochet from my mother, who was taught by her mother. When I crochet a blanket, I'm participating in, and perpetuating, a loving legacy. And the end result is something I can hold on to for years or even generations. One of my most treasured possessions is a pink, blue, and white afghan blanket my mother crocheted for me when I spent a winter in Chicago.
Crafting isn't necessarily a frivolous pursuit (though it can be). Indeed, it occupies a storied place in America's cultural and political history. During the Revolutionary War era, the 'homespun' movement saw women spinning their own yarn as American colonists boycotted British imports. (One of the country's most famous creation myths—that Betsy Ross sewed George Washington's sketch of the first American flag—is of course a story of craft.) Sewing circles have long been a gathering space for political conversation, activism, and agitation. In 1846, Frederick Douglass wrote a thoughtful letter to an antislavery sewing circle in Massachusetts, most likely after its members had reached out to him regarding their interest in abolitionist movements. 'Craftivism' has also led to significant public displays. During the AIDS crisis of the 1980s, thousands of people contributed panels to the AIDS Memorial Quilt, an homage to people who had died from the disease. In 2017, people knitted and wore pink 'pussy hats' at the Women's March on Washington.
For the talented and deeply dedicated, crafting can morph into a sustainable livelihood or be elevated to fine art. But it is also, quite simply, fulfilling. I don't know how many hours I've filled reading patterns and sewing (and tearing out) stitches. I've crafted so many handmade gifts: some truly beautiful, such as a cream-colored fisherman's afghan I loved so much, I was sad to give it away; and others, such as an uneven, lumpy quilt I sewed in my early 20s, that were cute at best.
Ultimately, losing a store like Joann means losing two of crafting's most necessary elements: inspiration and serendipity. Feeling the weight of a particular yarn, seeing the subtlety of certain colors in certain lights, spotting a finished product on a shelf—these tangible interactions are what move many crafters to experiment with something new. This rich display of possibility is part of what makes crafting feel worthwhile. Which is why, as I tried many different projects over the years, to varying levels of success, I never felt bad about giving a new medium a go. It's also why, on my recent—and most likely last—trip to Joann, as I walked toward the checkout with several skeins of discounted yarn, I stopped and picked up a beginner's cross-stitching kit. Maybe now I'll finally master it.