Have you seen “kilims” or any oriental rugs of the Middle East? I’m particularly enamored with the Persian and Turkish ones. They are technically considered a craft, but to me, they are masterpieces of the visual arts. I’m not surprised that these expensive rugs are in high demand across the world. Their bold colors, geometrical play, freedom in execution, and breath-taking harmony are just a handful of qualities that put me in awe.
When I began studying kilims, one of the most striking aspects was how they defy the typical “rules” of the arts. Alignment, symmetry, and proper geometrical ratios are some examples that, typically speaking, one expects to find in pieces of this tradition. Even scientific studies have shown that our minds are configured to find symmetrical shapes and faces more “beautiful”. But if you pay close attention, there is NOT prefect symmetry. The weavers slightly and sometimes drastically broke the rules of symmetry as they wove.
Take a look at this:
See the half-finished diamond? To strictly follow the rules of symmetry and geometry means that the weaver would have needed to pre-calculate the dimensions of the rug and the diamonds, so that last diamond would be whole. In other words, by traditional standards, that half-finished diamond is an imperfection in the piece.
But to me, that half-finished diamond is anything but imperfection: in a world of machine-manufactured objects, that half-diamond points to the human touch. It speaks of playfulness, of weaving for the joy of weaving, it speaks of being inspired by shapes and colors, as opposed to limited and repressed by rules.
The story behind the weavers is that they believed perfection was unattainable because it only belongs to God. For this spiritual reason, they were open to their mistakes, and as a result, have produced some of the most beautiful pieces.
Below are some of my favorite kilims with perfect imperfections :
This type of rug is called “Beni M’Gild”. Do you see the central square blocks? Notice how the orange/white pattern “spills” into its left-side neighbor; I imagine the weaver forgot s/he had reached the midway point of the kilim, where s/he had to switch patterns.
In this kilim, the lower red margin is crooked and is larger than the top one. Also, the size of abstract flowers inside is neither even nor aligned.
Here is a common motif of kilims: repeating a simple pattern over and over. Such repetition typically produces stagnant and immobile pieces, but when I look at this kilim I sense movement. Why? Because of the irregularities in the shapes and placements of the repeating units. These human errors give the piece its vitality, liveliness and make it flow.
In this sample (Kurd, Kordi, Kurmanji), it seems that the weaver ran out of the thread color and used a different one at the bottom to finish up the piece.
These perfect imperfections are a big reason why I feel connected to these pieces. They show me that a human soul exists behind the work, not just a machine.
If we extend this approach to our day-to-day life, it shows us that maybe our enemy is our own desire to be perfect all the time. What these pieces inspire in me is the desire to let the human soul run free, to experiment and break traditional routines… and in the process, exist in a more harmonious state between my mind, spirit, and my surroundings.
