1940, somewhere on the edge of the desert of Lut. Life is tough, the land is rugged, and the weather is harsh. Everything in life is a challenge. Far from the influence of industrialism fever and struggles for modernism and glamour of city artists, the weaver sits behind a loom. Her family works hard on the farm and herds their camels and sheep. She has the yarn that she has spun with the help of her daughters from the wool of camels and sheep. The thread from the camel is soft and blonde. She loves the colour, and she loves the feel. The wool from sheep is courser, and she needs yarn in colour. She prepares the fire, puts the water in her pots to boil with the indigo and madder she has collected over the past few months, and dyes the yarn. Colours are her delight, her happiness, but she doesn't need too many as she has learnt minimalism from dessert, from the single flower amidst the endless sand, which seems like hope, like a hint of a happier life. She is a lover, a mother and an artist by nature. She starts knotting, and her feelings flow through her fingers into the rug. A couple of hundred knots into the weaving, she dreams of the bird she was, flying high with open wings, and her hands keep dancing...

2023, I can't admire her enough for her creativity, perfectionism and fantastic taste, and I wonder how high she could fly in a different environment...And by the way, do you see the bids?