The world of carpets has always seemed very foreign to my own.
I regarded it with distant respect, a complex and almost inaccessible world in museums, or even with a touch of condescension among street corner dealers. However, by dint of encountering them everywhere in Morocco as one of the fundamental objects of culture, I inevitably became somewhat interested in them. I then discovered some marvelous “paintings,” and I deliberately say “paintings” because, in fact, I was never able to physically integrate them into my world, an old hygienic reflex too obscure to be overcome
no doubt also contributing to this. But suddenly, the desire for rugs was there. It seems that, with age, I was finally ready for a little softness to tread on, a little warmth to protect from overly cold floors, a little more silence
to muffle the sound of footsteps. I also believe that Buddhist serenity, so at home at the foot of the formidable Himalayas, grazed me with a wingbeat without my noticing it during a visit to a weaving workshop in Kathmandu,
just to shake me up a bit and push me off my own beaten path.
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