Somewhere in the city, maybe right in the center, through the backstreets and alleyways, the sound of pieces of wood colliding and crashing onto each other has been heard for years. Hand are slamming and ramming and knitting constantly to weave yarn; maybe they are weaving centuries to make them merge. Or maybe with every slam, they are weaving moments to make them immortal.
In the mist and the rays of light, there were five men determining the fate of colors here and there on the cloth. We were a few, their guests, and we spent time knitting, playing and creating. All the way through the warp and weft, and through the mist, they gave us a space to practice by their work of art. Perhaps in us, they found their young children practicing at the side of their fathers; they were pleased and they had a contented smile on their faces.
Negar Farajiani – Spring 2012