The studio, in the early hours, is quiet in a particular way. Before the light finds the window, before the city begins its low hum, there is only the sound of fibre against fibre. I have been thinking, lately, about repetition — not as decoration, but as memory made physical.
My grandmother wove without looking. Her hands knew the movement so completely that she could hold a conversation, sip tea, glance out the door for a passing neighbour, and never break the rhythm. What she was doing was not craft in the way I was later taught the word. It was closer to breathing.
When I return to the same knot for the hundredth time in a single piece, something changes in the room. The thinking mind steps aside. The hand becomes the one that remembers. I do not think this is mysticism. I think it is what happens when a gesture is inherited rather than invented — the body carries a history the eye is only beginning to read.
I am often asked why the works are not signed on the surface. The answer, if there is one, is here: the signature is in the repetition itself.