An American journalist living in Greece, Brian Murphy, had considerable and travel experience in Iran and Afghanistan when he became interested in the mysteries inherent in Persian carpets. This led to a quest to become more knowledgeable about the spiritual aspects and the significance of Persian carpets for those involved in making and trading them. This book is also a record of what are undoubtedly vanishing skills and ways of live for carpet weavers, dyers and carpet traders in a part of the world that is increasingly cut off from the west. The madder root of the title is the source of many of the oranges and reds found in Persian carpets made from naturally dyed materials.
The book is a mixture of many things: a travelogue through Iran and Afghanistan, a political analysis of their regimes, a socio-anthropological treatise of their people, but most of all, it is a book about carpets, and about those who weave them, those who dye them, those who trade them, and those who adore them. Brian Murphy uses a very poetic language to present all the above. And the book itself is a pleasure to read, with lots of stories, information, human conditions, and knowledge.
Whenever I come across a passage or phrase that catches my attention in a book, I tend to dog-ear the page so that I can come back to it. I’ve dogged-eared quite a few pages in this one. Rarely have I read a book that so readily captures the magic of what fuels the fiber enthusiast. These textiles are about stories captured in fiber and structure. Meanings and symbols may or may not give up their secrets outside of the carpet weaver’s mind and hands. Here is such a passage:
“My grandmother made this carpet when I was a boy…I must have been very young, because I can remember only little fragments of her making this carpet. There was a big pot where she made the dyes from different things. There were some leaves and dry plants. I remember the colors so well. I had never seen such things. It was from nature, the world where we walk, but also—how can I say?—part from somewhere else….When my grandmother died, I was still young. I remember whispering into the carpets, thinking my grandmother could hear me….I think what we make, what we say, what we do are all little parts of our soul. We leave these things for others to find and collect. This carpet was from my grandmother’s hand and her mind. It is now with me and my family….Life is in this carpet. So why is it wrong to believe that my grandmother is not still connected to this carpet she made; that she can feel the love we put in keeping it clean and repaired?”
I got caught up in the author’s carpet education and the insight he gained for appreciation of the poetry and imagery of Persian carpets.
