I was taught to knit by many of my older female relatives, and they all agreed about one thing: I was hopeless. I could crochet beautifully. My embroidery was exquisite. My machine sewing was more than competent. Knitting? Pathetic. So I gave up and let my mother knit for me. She could knit like anything. The harder the pattern, the more and varied the cabling, the more intricate the Fair Isle, the happier she was to knit it. Every December she gave me a new sweater. My favorite, of course, was the plain grey wool v-neck pull-over with a tiny stripe of scarlet at the neck and wrist.
But then the Alzheimer's took that skill from her and I had to face the fact that if I ever wanted another hand-knit sweater in this life time, then I'd best learn how to knit my ownself. And so, I did and I do. Much to the complication of the space allotment in that studio/sewing room/computer office of mine.
The knitting gallery, such as it is. I have a pile of things to block, photograph and sell.