I was trapped in a crocheted body suit that was around my face and down to my toes. I asked to get out and Olek said, “You have to stay in here until six.” I felt like I was in an episode of Are You Afraid of The Dark? — like a kid trapped in a strange situation with no way out. Then she smiled and undid my mask with a simple flick. “You guys were really great!” she suddenly exclaimed. I was happy she liked my performance, but I was more happy it was over. Being a part of “Knitting Is For Pussies” was one of the most thrilling experiences I’ve had in New York.

Located at 127 Elizabeth Street (between Broome & Grand), the exhibit is put on by an artist named Olek. She says that she doesn’t have inspiration, “Inspiration is for amateurs. I go to work.” The piece took her “6 seasons of Lost on DVD.” She explained her work pretty beautifully to me:

A loop after a loop. Hour after hour my madness becomes crochet. Life and art are inseparable. The movies I watch while crocheting influence my work, and my work dictates the films I select. I crochet everything that enters my space. Sometimes it’s a text message, a medical report, found objects. There is the unraveling, the ephemeral part of my work that never lets me forget about the limited life of art object and art concept. What do I intend to reveal? You have to pull the end of the yarn and unravel the story behind the crochet.

It’s definitely up for interpretation.

I walked into the exhibit and saw the room covered from corner to corner in thread. There was a rack in the right hand corner of the room with threaded jumpsuits. I asked if I could put one on and she gave me the red, black, and orange one. After I managed to squeeze myself into the suit she came up to me with what I thought was a hat. She then asked me if I wanted “the full experience.” I agreed not knowing what was about to happen. She slipped the mask over me and then started crocheting the mask to the suit. In a matter of seconds I was trapped in the suit and she explained the rules to me. “Once in the suit you can’t talk, you can’t interact with anyone not in suits, and you have to pretend like this is where you live.” I was game.

I tried to walk around the room like I owned it. I sat in the crocheted bathtub, I laid on the crocheted bed, I even picked up the crocheted telephone. Gawkers looked at me in disbelief that I was real. Asian tourists took several pictures of me up close up, and I had to pretend like they weren’t. Now I know how Lindsay Lohan feels – minus the coke addiction of course.