Two major exhibitions celebrate how the simple act of weaving can be filled with sophistication, beauty and meaning.
My father is a weaver. He makes tea towels, rugs, curtains, cushion covers, tapestries and tablecloths. As I write this, my feet are touching one of his rugs, which is bordered with a Greek-style meander, a pattern named for a winding river in Asia Minor.
Dad, who taught ancient Greek and Latin, took up weaving in his 20s. He still weaves every day on a big loom he built himself. As a child, I watched, marveling (and sometimes a little bored, as kids inevitably are by their parents’ activities) as he set up the warp.
