A woman’s autobiography, knot by knot.
Each tribe of the Atlas weaves on the same undyed cream ground — but chooses its own dye-chord and its own symbolic alphabet. The result is never decorative pattern; it is improvised speech.
Sheep-cream warp crossed with naturally-black wool — never dyed, never bleached. The diamond is the fertility sign; sparseness is the discipline.
Atlas-foothill weavers steep wool in pomegranate rind and madder; zigzag rivers run hot orange across the field. One dye-chord per surface — never three at once.
Middle Atlas plateau weave: dense scarlet ground stitched with charcoal scorpion and evil-eye glyphs — amulets the bride carries from her mother’s house.
Cedar-forest tribe of the high plateau; deep indigo ground broken by saffron eight-point stars. The night sky over Azrou, woven slow over eight winter months.