It's not about the looks-they help, though, but think about it; you can paint a Monalisa on sandpaper and it won't make you want to rub it against your cheek. With rugs, it's the same. You can have a grey rug, but if the colour is right, if the texture can be felt even before you touch it, then you are making art.
I have led a life under this principle, and I have known that making rugs is not where the philosophy ends. Like has to be beautiful, up close and far away. Flaws are impossible to avoid; even the best rug I've ever made has had a loose thread, cleverly covered with thousands more to skim perfection. You aim to slowly have the least amount of loose threads, or missed knittings or rough edges. We aim for perfection, and yet, that's an impossible concept to achieve.
Not even the moment I met Norah, my wife, was perfect. I can't remember the first thing she told me; it was a question. I was too distracted by the impossibility of her beauty. Perfect, I thought. She was clearly not from around. The camera and the backpack was evidence enough. Talking to a foreigner came easy most of the time, I mean, I make my living of selling.
"I'm sorry, say again?" I stuttered.
She flashed that half smile and I melted once again, though I forced my ears to separate from the rest of my body so they could catch her words and bring them back, whole into my infatuated self.
"I said, what do you do for a living?" Words trailed by a shallow chuckle.
"Oh, yeah..." I cleared my throat. "I make rugs."
I perfectly remember how hard it was for her not to laugh at that. You know, a courtesy in case I wasn't kidding, yet, her next words betrayed her.
"You're kidding, right?"
It did felt like a punch to the gut. I have been told worse things about my work by then, yet, my mind was focused on doing all in my power to get this foot-taller-than-me, brunette angel to fall in love with me. I knew, right then and there, even after the mocking question, that I'd marry this woman and we'd create more than just rugs.
"I am not." I replied, with a hint of indignation. "If you ever touch one, you'd never want another rug, ever."
She raised a brow and I knew I had caught her attention. I also knew that I wasn't lying. My business-and my father's before me-is well known in this region. People come from all villages you can imagine; some must ride horses and donkeys and camels to get here. Rich people order the weirdest ones, complex, daunting creations I gladly weave and assemble. And yet, they don't know they're paying so much for the same quality even the poorest of my costumers pay.
I don't meant to take advantage, quite the opposite. My father taught me no business should ever rise above its first ever costumers. He stood humble, and I stood the same next to him. Those who can pay so much, should pay so much. Extra earnings I give to anyone in need. I live with dignity, not among weakening luxury.
Two weeks crawled through me and all I could thing was of Norah's eyes, that mixture of jade and honey, stealing my soul and every bit of reason. She came to the store an hour before closing. The day we met she told me it was impossible to come and attest to my claims, so, we made a bet: as soon as work spared her, she'd come, if I was true to my claims, she'd go on a date with me. If not, she would take any rug she wanted, for free.
I know my craft. I have been visited by heads of state from all over the world and none, so far, has left my store empty-handed.
She stood on the doorway, eyes gawking, marvelled by the lack of bare spaces in my modest shop. Walls and ceiling are covered in fabric, of colour, of my family's soul. There's only a path of naked, polished concrete on the floor, a net of streets you can safely walk to browse and choose. You could find gold and silver threads here and there, silk from every possible breed of caterpillars, any new variety of cotton I can get my hands on. And I must be very clear: nothing in my store is synthetic. Ever. Not even the tags.
