The world of rugs has always seemed very different from mine.

I regarded it with a distant respect as a complex and almost unapproachable world in museums, or even with a touch of condescension at the shops around the corner. It must be said in my defense that I keep vivid the childhood memory of crossing the living room to greet my grandfather. The room seemed huge to me, but obviously it was only quite large, but above all, it had to face a diabolical entanglement of Oriental rugs, dark red masses placed in unstable equilibrium on the well-waxed floor, and of course, I never missed to stumble as a humiliating ritual always recommenced. Only the left elbow of my grandfather would stand up and that sigh of implacable irony was enough to shame me. It must be added that I am well avenged since, as I am the only « artist » of the family after him. He had also announced it, which in his value system suddenly put me at the top, my mother giving herself the more romantic role of « the one that could have … ».

So, in my story, the rug is not one of those innocuous accessories. By dint of seeing rugs everywhere in Morocco as a basic object of this culture, I became necessarily a little interested. I then discovered wonderful « paintings », and I speak deliberately of « paintings » because, in fact, I could never materially integrate them into my universe, an old hygienist reflex -too obscure to be overcome- probably contributing to it too.

And then, suddenly, the desire for rugs was there. Age coming, I was finally mature enough for a little softness to tread on foot, a little heat to protect me from too cold floors, a little more silence by stifling the sound of footsteps. I also believe that the Buddhist serenity, so well in its place below the terrible Himalayas, touched me by surprise with a stroke of the wing when visiting a weaving workshop in Kathmandu, and pushed me a little off my beaten track.