I spent two weeks last winter measuring a family tent panel laid across the cool tile of a back room, counting red bands by thumb instead of ruler. The register was uneven in the way honest work is uneven: one cream line leaned, one black lane narrowed, and the whole surface kept its rhythm.
The pattern is a map before it is an ornament
Every motif carried a practical memory. The tree marked shade, the eye marked vigilance, and the twist marked a route that refuses to run straight just because a planner drew it that way. A digital archive can hold the image, but the argument lives in the pauses between bands.
A woven record does not ask to be enlarged; it asks to be approached.