A mask holds its expression long after the ceremony that made it has ended, divided, deliberate, never quite at rest. This rug carries that same composed stillness. Hand-tufted by artisans in Jodhpur, its face is built from flat fields of colour set against raw wool, sage, ochre, deep red, bordered top to bottom by a black arc strung with hand-knotted florets, like a crown worn once and left in place. Each section sits beside the next without blending, the way old icon painting divides a face into planes of meaning rather than likeness. Against a Georgian cornice or concrete ceiling, its symmetry holds the eye the way sculpture does, asking to be walked around rather than simply walked past. Five feet by eight, it commands a room without raising anything. In a Richmond hallway, morning light crossing its arc, it feels less hung than presided over.
