About the work

The mat was already old when it arrived. Someone made it by hand, braiding each strand, giving it a weight the lavender can’t quite match. It traveled further than the flower, through a dozen hands, always with the scent of something dried. Now it waits on this pallet, its journey paused, a small red petal having blown onto it from somewhere else entirely. It carries the marks of all its travels, but none of the dust.