While the antique tribal rug show is still up in our gallery, I have been moved to depths by the artists who wove them, how they loved their animals, the efforts to collect the dyes, spin the yarn and knot the rugs that were their home. The collection transformed my perception about "oriental rugs". Each rug is the home of an ancestor, the paintings detailing their life. Nomadic or village , you see the pride and love they transfer onto a necessary structure, the only essential structure, the textile.. As I have always said, what do you do with a flat piece of fabric?
Working Backward
Rolled in home
my essence of luxury
Was the abrash painted before the spinners song
You have to unweave to know
Green in the ancient abode
Mark of the dyer
pomegranate's fate made him
How far for stones that transformed plants' hue
or pilgrimage for treasured insects
Who tended wild roots of turkey red
three years would pass before harvest
Earth and heavens, temperment of soil,
water fluid or drought
defined softness and color
When did she have time to weave
the daily routines kept her hands busy
like a 21st century woman
her hands forming knots of forms
layers of meaning in stripes
like sedimentary rock
unearthing but preserving the past
You hear your drums
foot patterns make paths
in lyrical borders that dream
your next sojourn
Palette of treasure records
bonds with all around
and happy animals' souls
eternally bed you
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