Six New Chunky Cardigan Kits for Autumn and Winter, and Where Each One Came From
By Fernando Santos
Six new chunky cardigan kits, just in: the Parade, the Dual, the Film Roll, the Retro Pop, the Retro Neon and the Technicolor. Each one started with something I remember from my childhood in the eighties: a roll of film, a shoebox of photos, a packet of felt tips. Here is what each one is, why it means so much to me, and what it is like to knit.
A child of the eighties
I grew up in the eighties, and colour worked differently then. A roll of film held twenty four pictures and you waited a week to find out whether any had come out. The good ones went into an album with sticky corners, and the very best went into a frame by the window, where the sun slowly turned everyone peach. You got the colours you got, and you lived with them.
The other thing I remember is drawing. Every child I knew drew the same rainbow: an arc of felt tip, every colour in the packet, pressed so hard the paper went shiny. Nobody taught us. It was just what you did with a new packet of pens.
My love of colour, shapes and design started then too. I was one of eight brothers and sisters, stuck in the middle, in a household that was loud and full of people, and shapes and colours gave me structure. I would sit and copy the logos of the Globo soap operas off the television, over and over, until they were right. That is where the designer started.
Every stitch of these six was designed in Gigante Studio, the tool I built so anyone can paint a cardigan the way I painted these: one square at a time, on a grid, in the colours you choose. I kept coming back to my childhood while I painted them. Not the tidy, endless colour a phone gives you, but the kind with a bit of weather in it. A print left on a windowsill. A hem worn soft.
Six cardigans, each one a small piece of my eighties, knitted big.
A funny thing. The week these went live, the eighties were suddenly trending on Instagram. I had no idea. I have been working on these six for several weeks, head down in the Studio, and I only found out when I came up for air.
If you have never knitted a cardigan, three of the six are made for exactly that.
The Film Roll
What it is. Peach, sunset and ruby chevrons on eggshell, dipping to a point down the centre back and meeting again in a second V down the front. The chevrons move one stitch every row, so it is a step up from a plain cardigan, and worth it.
Why it means so much. These are the colours of the photographs I grew up with. Kodak film, prints stuck into the Kodak photo album, the album kept on a Formica worktop in the kitchen. We never had a Polaroid camera, I only knew them from the films: there is a scene in Desperately Seeking Susan where Madonna takes a picture of herself with one, a selfie years before the word, and that is the Polaroid I remember. Not the colours the day actually had, but what thirty years did to them: the reds gone to ruby, the skin gone to peach, the whites gone to eggshell. When I see this cardigan I see my family's photos, and the version of the eighties that only exists in them. Have a look at the Film Roll kit.
The Retro Pop
What it is. Sunshine yellow all over, with one bold trim along the hem and straight up the fronts and the centre back. The colour lines run straight up and the sleeve stripes run straight across, so you always know which stitch changes next. A great first project.
Why it means so much. This is the kitchen in one of my childhood houses, with its blue and yellow tiles. It was where my sisters and cousins gossiped while they baked a cake on a Saturday afternoon, and it was a no boys area. It reminds me of a time when my only worry was getting to school, and struggling through my maths class very early on a Monday morning. Have a look at the Retro Pop kit.
The Retro Neon
What it is. The Retro Pop after dark. Deep wine all over, a bright line along the hem and straight up both sides, a soft band at the seams and cream at every edge. Like the Retro Pop, the lines run straight, so it is a great first project too.
Why it means so much. Christmas. The desserts my mum used to make, the fruit we only saw at that time of year in Brazil, plums and cherries in those deep wine colours, and a lot of sangria. It was the sangria fruit that got me drunk for the first time, long before I was allowed a glass. Have a look at the Retro Neon kit.
The Technicolor
What it is. Four solid blocks, in a cardigan. Each piece is one or two of them: pink at both hems, lilac and orange up one front, lime up the other and across the back, one lime arm with a pink cuff and one arm all orange. There is no colour change mid-row anywhere, only a handful of whole-row changes, which makes it the simplest of the six to knit and the loudest to wear.
Why it means so much. Two things. The old Technicolor films that were on every afternoon after school, where the sky was bluer than any sky and nobody blinked at four colours at once. And the colour bars. I have never slept well, up late or up at silly o'clock, and when I was seven my mum took me to a sleep doctor because of it. The television was my companion, and when it closed down for the night the colour bars came on: solid blocks of colour, side by side, glowing in a dark room. This cardigan is those bars, and every afternoon film, in one. Have a look at the Technicolor kit.
The Parade
What it is. Citrus, raspberry, sunset and lavender rise from the hem, over the shoulder and onto the sleeve, with eggshell at the hem, cuffs and front bands. Five shades and curves that climb one stitch at a time make this the one for knitters who love a challenge.
Why it means so much. This is the rainbow every eighties kid drew, pressed hard with every felt tip in the packet. It is also Rainbow Brite and My Little Pony, which boys were not allowed to watch, unless you were playing with your younger sister, which gave me a free pass. Laura, thank you. And it is Xuxa, the biggest children's television star Brazil has ever had, who sang a song about a rainbow where every colour stood for someone different. That was punk rock back in the day. Today the same song is sung as an LGBTQ+ anthem in Brazil. I did not design this one so much as remember it. Have a look at the Parade kit.
The Dual
What it is. Candy Floss pink one side, Catkin yellow the other, and a staircase of giant stitches where the two meet. Two colours only, so the staircase is the one thing to watch. A step up, and worth it.
Why it means so much. The Dual started life as pink and blue. That was the dilemma of my childhood: a boy dressed in blue, a girl dressed in pink, and no other answer. Yellow was the all inclusive version, the colour nobody had claimed, so I made it less obvious, and here we are. Turn one way and it is pink. Turn the other and it is yellow. Have a look at the Dual kit.
What comes in the box
Every box is packed to your size, and the wool arrives already split and combed by hand, so you cast on the day it lands, not the week after. Add a pair of 25mm needles if you need them, or finger knit and you need nothing else. And add the Finishing Kit if you want the two things I brag about to anyone who will listen: a felting needle and mat, for the perfect finishing touch on every end, and a wool comb, so your cardigan looks new for years to come. The pattern for your size, the construction guide and the 43-minute video masterclass sit in your Gigante Knits account the moment you buy.
If you are not sure which one is yours, message me.
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