Soul Search Sessions | Volume 2 | Colour

We grew up in a home filled with art and colour and inspiration. Our father is a sculptor and our mother loves the garden. Ceramics, glazes, textures, vegetables, herbs and flowers. Growing up in the countryside you get to know a ‘man’ for everything. The Mole Man. The Chimney Man. The Bat Man. The Carpet Man. Colourful people coming and going, all adding to life’s rich tapestry. I especially remember Carpet Man arriving with his loaded van. If Dad was in the market all the rugs would appear and be draped over the front drive so that our parents could wander through, and look at the colours. A running commentary of their stories and their histories.

Over the years we have decorated the stone floors throughout our old home with rugs from all over the world. The colours are rich and engaging. They’ve worked hard those carpets. An endless stream of pets have made their marks whether we like it or not…as children we roller skated, ran, rolled, skipped, crawled and cried on those rugs. They’ve absorbed tantrums and tears.

Every room is brought together by a rug or three, because without they feel bare and lack warmth. The patterns are intricate and the colours are those from a foreign land, they’re uplifting and inspiring – and they are what instilled my obsession with colour, warmth and tone. Imagine a world without colour. A house with rugs!

When I began inlaying leather pieces on to masks, I turned to the floor and would study those patterns. I discovered a synergy in their symmetry that translated wonderfully to the shape of a face. Many happy days were spent tracing their patterns, then scuttling down to the studio to transfer them on to masks.

The depth of each colour palette in an antique rug is absolute magic in my eyes. It compels and inspires enquiry, conjuring up imagery of a past worlds heritage and an inner warmth. The sun + pigments = chemistry, and in my eyes thats alchemy. A tincture. Tinct.

You can loose yourself in a rug. Eyes searching those marks, pondering the age, thread worn bare from thousands of busy feet, not acknowledging where they tread, but golly how they work those rugs, and they wear, and they continue. Stoic. And then, after years of use they enter their most beautiful and cherished era.

Whispy looms and structural bones appear. And like anything cherished it has a story, and a history to be proud of.

Photo Credits: Sarah Weal