Two things. First its “carpet”, not “rug” and this was anything
but a “factory”, a word that conjures images of hunched over women in dark
rooms…toiling.
Tall windows with natural streaming light are necessary I imagine, to discern the colors of yarn and to do this intricate work. This room is a place I would happily spend my days in if only I could do this work.
We went to Quba
with friends who are watching their carpet being made and have visited several
times over the months to see the progress.
The owner and family greeted us warmly, made us tea and lunch. They told stories of the carpets, new and ancient designs. They talked of the patterns and their effect on visual development in children who lay and play on them.
They are a family
of artisans. They dye the wool and make carpets to order in sizes, designs and
colors you can choose. An old, old piece of carpet is used as a guide to make
something new.
I remember a
story told at the Carpet Museum in Baku – that people in these parts of the
world are born on carpets and die on carpets and all the time in-between live
their lives surrounded by these fabrics and patterns and colors – carpets are
life. I wonder what splendid, enduring thing my life is wrapped in, surrounded
by, protected and warmed by.
