When crafting a rug, each piece passes through the artist’s hands, one at a time. But even before this, each fragment starts to weave a part of the entire tapestry. The rug, as a combination of intertwined independent pieces, can be seen with eyes closed, felt in its entirety through touch.
When I process each material or color, it begins to speak its part. If it was a garment, I’ve literally torn it apart, cut it up, rolled a blade over it, and ripped it into strips. These strips, or ‘noodles’ as hookers call them, rest in bundles before being batch boiled, squeezed, rinsed, wrung, and hung. The more processing that happens with each shade results in different textures, or more accurately, each hue develops a distinct ‘hand.’ Once combined into the rug, the hand is contrasted between each color. Each primary usually comes from a different source, so they have their own hands. If I have dyed them, that hand is softened or stiffened. Eve’s blue sweater was mistakenly washed hot and is tight and unyielding. Nola’s outgrown orange vest is unfettered and wild as it pulls apart with the hook. It requires gentle poking. Some unknown owner's skirt, discarded after she got the job, forms a stiff and solid black background. Each color tells a story, and those stories can be felt with your fingertips.
My completed rugs are invitations to read these yarns. When one touches and feels the differences between each row or color, the pages of these books open. Of course, I strive to make my rugs visually appealing, but there is literally more depth to them that can only be felt. As I feel every strand, I tension it and yoink it up, creating these stories that can be seen, touched, appreciated, and understood by anyone.
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