Knitta, Please!

Hitting the streets with Montrose's craftiest taggers

She's always been an impatient knitter: half of a blanket, a quarter of a hat, a sliver of a scarf. She has to intertwine her hobby with a full-time job, a daughter and a boyfriend. Last May she began working on a baby blanket for an expectant friend; by September the baby was out and the blanket was only halfway done, even though she'd found time to stitch plenty of cozies and coasters in the meantime.

"I get bored and antsy," she says, "and that's why I probably have about ten different projects going at once."

These unfinished swatches of comfort and color used to be scattered around her house -- fuzzy testaments to crafter's ADHD -- but two months ago she figured out a slightly illegal, completely irreverent way to get rid of them: graffiti. Knit graffiti.

The prep work can take hours.
Keith Plocek
The prep work can take hours.
That'll keep that antenna nice and warm.
Keith Plocek
That'll keep that antenna nice and warm.

One night she went out with another Montrose mom and stitched a pink-and-purple cozy onto a boutique's door handle. It was an act of artistic defiance, a soft, warm tag in a part of town dominated by aerosol arrogance. Other swaths began appearing on street signs, car antennae and park benches, and word soon got around there was a new crew of taggers in town.

Their noms d'artiste are AKrylik and PolyCotN, but you can call them Knitta.

The back of Poly's house is rumbling. Her kids are playing dress-up with AKrylik's daughter, and each new outfit is announced with an explosion of giggles and a sprint to the mirror. The two moms are fairly oblivious to the fashion show, save for the occasional "You look great, honey."

Poly and AKrylik wish to remain anonymous, but we can tell you they're both working mothers in their early thirties, both attractive and both brunette. They almost look like sisters, sitting on the couch at Poly's house, knitting and talking about how their graffiti differs from the spray-can variety.

"It's considerate to the victim," says Poly, rifling through a bag of yarn. "If they don't like it, they can just unbutton it."

"It's not vandalism," adds AKrylik, fiddling with her baby blanket. "I almost wish there was a little more permanency to it, that it was a little harder to remove."

On the coffee table is a morass of stockinette coasters and cozies. Each item has a paper tag attached to it, a calling card of sorts, with the message "knitta, please!" or "whaddup knitta?"

These tags pop up every week, usually on Friday nights and Sunday mornings. But tonight is a special occasion: Poly's going out of town this weekend, visiting family and doing some West Coast bombing, so the women of Knitta are tagging on a school night. That is, they'll be tagging once Poly's husband gets home and can look after the kids.

Knitta is at the confluence of two rising cultural tides: crafting and street art. The former has been embraced by hipsters almost as much as bad haircuts: sites like boast 300,000 unique visitors a month; Stitch 'N Bitch groups are popping up all over. As for street art, it hasn't gotten so much respect since the days of Basquiat: Time and Esquire recently ran articles of praise; the Museum of Modern Art in New York has begun acquiring contemporary pieces.

"We're taking graffiti and making it warm, fuzzy and more acceptable," says AKrylik. "I like the duality there. Also, I really think there can be a lot more to the new, alternative knitting craze than meeting at the local coffee shop every Sunday afternoon to make scarves together -- not that I don't like to do that, too."

A toddler wearing diapers and stiletto boots greets Poly's husband when he gets back from the store. The hubby shakes his head, sits down in the kitchen and begins helping his daughter make a family tree for school. He plans to put photos of Divine, from the John Waters movies, in place of relatives whose pics can't be found. As he gets out the scissors and paste, Poly and AKrylik gather their things and hit the door.

Victim No. 1 is the owner of an SUV in the Museum District. Poly shoves a pink, white and blue cozy on the antenna, bending over just long enough for AKrylik to snap a photo for their Web site,

"You know, we have these friends with all these punk-looking little boys," jokes AKrylik. "We should just pay them to tag."

On the way to Westheimer they stop at the corner of Hawthorne and Dunlavy and revisit their greatest work so far: a stop-sign pole wrapped in a five-foot-tall orange-and-blue cozy. "We knotted it on," says AKrylik, "and it took forever."

Buttons, they've learned, are where it's at.

Poly stands guard while AKrylik puts a pink, red and gray swatch on the bike rack at Poison Girl; it's done faster than you can say "Christo." The duo then walks down that stretch of Westheimer that might as well be called Aerosol Alley.

"I've always wanted to have a nice, big, giant garage door and a sign that says, 'Graffiti away, if you're good,' " says AKrylik. "I love Gone and I love Next. Those are two really good taggers."

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