While a student in London, I encountered the Ardabil Carpet in a dimly-lit chamber of the Victoria and Albert Museum. Exact motifs were difficult to make out in the soft light, but I remember its warm shades of pomegranate and indigo. During later travels in the Atlas Mountains of Morocco, I discovered the spectacular Beni Ourain and Azilal rugs woven by Berber women to be draped on floors, walls, and beds during the colder months.
As a student in London, I taught myself the Mongolian art of wet-felting. I gathered and experimented with natural dyes, and learned the difficult yet meditative practice of weaving on a floor loom. While my research centres on the cultural significance of textiles, a true understanding of these can never be divorced from the very fibres, processes, and communities that create them.
As a student in London, I taught myself the Mongolian art of wet-felting. I gathered and experimented with natural dyes, and learned the difficult yet meditative practice of weaving on a floor loom. While my research centres on the cultural significance of textiles, a true understanding of these can never be divorced from the very fibres, processes, and communities that create them.
Over a decade spent between Paris and London sparked in me a desire for our home to be a refuge, close to a forest, a sanctuary from overstimulation. I love pulling on a big sweater, lighting a fire, drinking tea and listening to the rain. In a very raw space like ours, the task of selecting textiles to soften edges and create warmth is an important one. But choosing rugs, throws, and pillows is challenging with taste that’s full of contradictions: I appreciate rawness and almost monastic simplicity. At the same time, I value traditional weaving techniques, natural materials, and the imperfect patina that develops in handcrafted textiles from years of use. Textiles created in communities with centuries-old knowledge of dyeing and weaving that blend seamlessly into modern or minimalist interiors are difficult to find.
