#The History and Tradition

[arttuff]

juvenile kryptonians are quite viscious!!! be careful around them!

[therugfurnish]

The Art and Craft of Handmade Rugs

In a world increasingly dominated by mass-produced goods, the art of handmade rugs stands as a testament to the enduring value of craftsmanship and tradition. These rugs are not just floor coverings; they are stories woven into patterns, colors that hold the secrets of ancient techniques, and textures that speak of the hands that crafted them.

The History and Tradition

The tradition of rug-making is ancient, dating back thousands of years. Civilizations across the globe have honed this craft, from the intricate Persian carpets to the bold designs of the Navajo people. Each rug carries the heritage of its makers, a piece of history preserved in warp and weft.

Materials and Techniques

The choice of materials in handmade rugs is crucial. Wool is the most common fiber, valued for its durability, warmth, and natural oils that repel dirt. Silk is used for finer, more luxurious pieces, while cotton serves as a sturdy foundation. The dyes, once derived from natural sources like indigo, madder, or cochineal, give the rugs their vibrant hues.

The techniques vary from knotting to weaving. The Persian knot, also known as the Senneh knot, allows for intricate patterns and is a hallmark of quality. The Turkish or Ghiordes knot is equally prestigious, creating strong and resilient rugs. Flatweaves like Kilims, Dhurries, and Soumaks are produced without knots, making them lighter and more versatile.

Designs and Symbolism

The designs of handmade rugs are as diverse as the cultures that create them. Geometric patterns, floral motifs, and pictorial scenes tell stories or symbolize beliefs. In many traditions, certain motifs are thought to bring good luck, health, or protection to the home.

The Makers

Behind every handmade rug is a weaver, an artist whose skill is often passed down through generations. These artisans work for months, sometimes years, on a single rug, tying thousands of knots or interlacing countless threads. Their dedication ensures that each rug is unique, a singular expression of their craft.

The Modern Market

Today, handmade rugs are cherished for their beauty and craftsmanship. They are sought after by collectors and designers, serving as focal points in homes and galleries. The market for these rugs supports artisan communities, preserving their craft and providing a sustainable source of income.

Sustainability and Ethical Considerations

The production of handmade rugs can be both environmentally and socially responsible. Natural fibers and dyes are eco-friendly, and the slow process of rug-making has a minimal carbon footprint. Ethically, it's important to support fair trade practices, ensuring that weavers are paid fairly and work in good conditions.

Caring for Handmade Rugs

Owning a handmade rug comes with the responsibility of preservation. Regular vacuuming, immediate stain treatment, and professional cleaning are essential. Rotating the rug and keeping it away from direct sunlight will prevent uneven wear and fading.

Conclusion

Handmade rugs embody the intersection of art, history, and utility. They remind us of the value of human touch in an automated world. As we tread upon these woven treasures, let us appreciate the stories they tell and the hands that made them. For in every thread lies a connection to the past and a hope for the future.

This article is a celebration of handmade rugs, exploring their history, making, and significance. It's a tribute to the artisans who continue to preserve this beautiful art form, ensuring that each rug is not just a piece of decor but a legacy in itself.

[constanzarte]

The Death of Icarus, by Alexandre Cabanel

[heritagebrowser]

The crypt of the Basilica-Cathedral of Saint-Denis, north of Paris serves as the birthplace of the divine light of gothic stained glass windows and is the main necropolis of French royalty.

This medieval crypt has the remains among many others from Louis XIV and Marie-Antoinette.

[uhhgoodd]

Young Woman With Sword by Jules-Élie Delaunay (1828-1891)

[moodyacademic]

red girl

[delphianactuallydoodling]

Lovers eye paintings (2023) acrylic paint on panel INSTAGRAM

[frostedmagnolias]

Portrait of a Lady in allegorical guise, holding a dish of pearls (detail)

Pierre Mignard (French, 1612-1695)

[mythical-redon]

By Charles Holloway (american, 1859-1941)

"A man and a woman in the forest"

[academic-vampire]

𝔏𝔢𝔱’𝔰 𝔴𝔞𝔩𝔨 𝔞𝔟𝔬𝔲𝔱 𝔞 𝔪𝔲𝔰𝔢𝔲𝔪 𝔱𝔬𝔤𝔢𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔴𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔢 𝔞𝔩𝔩 ℑ 𝔡𝔬 𝔦𝔰 𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔞𝔱 𝔶𝔬𝔲—𝔪𝔶 𝔪𝔲𝔰𝔢. 🖤

[sovietpostcards]

A sweets seller of the Blue Domes café (Tashkent, Uzbekistan, 1984)

[inkskinned]

for a while i lived in an old house; the kind u.s americans don't often get to live in - living in a really old house here is super expensive. i found out right before i moved out that the house was actually so old that it features in a poem by emily dickinson.

i liked that there were footprints in front of the sink, worn into the hardwood. there were handprints on some of the handrails. we'd find secret marks from other tenants, little hints someone else had lived and died there. and yeah, there was a lot wrong with the house. there are a lot of DIY skills you learn when you are a grad student that cannot afford to pay someone else to do-it-for-ya. i shared the house with 8 others. the house always had this noise to it. sometimes that noise was really fucking awful.

in the mornings though, the sun would slant in thick amber skiens through the windows, and i'd be the first one up. i'd shuffle around, get showered in this tub that was trying to exit through the floor, get my clothes on. i would usually creep around in the kitchen until it was time to start waking everyone else up - some of them required multiple rounds of polite hey man we gotta go knocks. and it felt... outside of time. a loud kind of quiet.

the ghosts of the house always felt like they were humming in a melody just out of reach. i know people say that the witching hour happens in the dark, but i always felt like it occurred somewhere around 6:45 in the morning. like - for literal centuries, somebody stood here and did the dishes. for literal centuries, somebody else has been looking out the window to this tree in our garden. for literal centuries, people have been stubbing their toes and cracking their backs and complaining about the weather. something about that was so... strangely lovely.

i have to be honest. i'm not a history aficionado. i know, i know; it's tragic of me. i usually respond to "this thing is super old" by being like, wow! cool! and moving on. but this house was the first time i felt like the past was standing there. like it was breathing. like someone else was drying their hands with me. playing chess on the sofa. adding honey to their tea.

i grew up in an old town. like, literally, a few miles off of walden pond (as in of the walden). (also, relatedly, don't swim in walden, it's so unbelievably dirty). but my family didn't have "old house" kind of money. we had a barely-standing house from the 70's. history existed kind of... parallel to me. you had to go somewhere to be in history. your school would pack you up on a bus and take you to some "ye olden times" place and you'd see how they used to make glass or whatever, and then you'd go home to your LEDs. most museums were small and closed before 5. you knew history was, like, somewhere, but the only thing that was open was the mcdonalds and the mall.

i remember one of my seventh grade history teachers telling us - some day you'll see how long we've been human for and that thing has been puzzling me. i know the scientific number, technically.

the house had these little scars of use. my floors didn't actually touch the walls; i had to fill them with a stopgap to stop the wind. other people had shoved rags and pieces of newspaper. i know i've lost rings and earring backs down some of the floorboards. i think the raccoons that lived in our basement probably have collected a small fortune over the years. i complain out loud to myself about how awful the stairs are (uneven, steep, evil, turning, hard to get down while holding anything) and know - someone else has said this exact same thing.

when i was packing up to leave and doing a final deep cleaning, i found a note carved in the furthest corner in the narrow cave of my closet. a child's scrawled name, a faded paint handprint, the scrangly numbers: 1857.

we've been human for a long time. way back before we can remember.

[constanzarte]

“Evening by the Lake,” Max Nonnenbruch, 1901

[illustratus]

[crabsnpersimmons]

It has come to my attention that I haven't drawn sun and moon as chibis yet

I have rectified the situation:

all is right with the world