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Me, Myself & I

Surveyor – Icons Of Our Time

A merchant once knelt before a rug so fine he thought it had swallowed the light from the sky. A ruler traced the weave beneath his hands, reading its lines as if they held the history of the world. A mapmaker laid his parchment beside its borders, searching for roads the thread had already found.

The loom hums in the dim-lit room, a low and steady breath drawn from fingers that have worked for years. The weaver moves purposefully, pulling silk-tight, knotting stories into the grid that will outlive him. The thread follows no errant path. It knows where it belongs.

MORRIS

Sunlight warms the wooden floor of an empty house, its scent rising through the silence. Beneath the traveler, a rug sprawls with patterns so intricate they pull him in. Vines and flowers bloom endlessly, bending in harmony no nature could replicate. The weaver must have dreamed in color.

A scholar once claimed beauty lives in quiet places, where hands work with devotion, not haste. Each morning, a mother traced the petals on her rug, believing its symmetry kept the house at peace. A painter, long sleepless, once sat on silk that brought him to tears.

SULLIVAN

Stained glass filters the last stretch of light, its reflection spilling across a rug built to hold it. Threads drink in gold and crimson, bending in ways glass cannot. A city could rise from this pattern alone, its blueprint woven instead of drawn.

A builder once stood on such a weave, tracing its edges with boots caked in years of dust. A merchant pressed his hand against silk the color of a harvest moon, convinced it could tell him where the wind would shift. Long before crumbling, a cathedral held a rug so fine the sun itself paused to rest upon it.

Voysey

A philosopher kneels before a weave so precise he believes the world could be measured within its lines. Angles bend without faltering; arcs hold steady without force. The weaver must have grasped something ink could never capture.

A sailor carried such a rug across the sea, trusting its pattern would lead him home. A scholar spread one across his table, seeing in its form the same logic that built the stars. Too weary to speak, a ruler once traced a perfect curve in silk, finding the answer he’d sought in its stillness.

FELIX

Silk runs cool beneath the priest’s hands, its warp and weft pressing into his palms. Gold threads don’t shine, yet they hold the air as though light has wrapped itself inside. Fortune, after all, is earned, not given.

A merchant once placed his last coin upon such a rug, waiting for an answer. A child took his first breath on silk as his mother prayed, believing the weave had already set his path. Barefoot on wool dyed the shade of fire, a gambler whispered to the pattern as though it could hear him.

CRANE

Before a rug holding more roads than parchment ever could, the mapmaker’s apprentice kneels. Borders stretch in ways ink has never managed. Gold twists through the wool, bending toward corners where stories wait to be read.

Once, a traveler rested upon such a weave, knowing he’d found his way before opening his maps. A queen traced its edges, convinced the roads woven into it led to kingdoms yet unbuilt. Pressing the last knot into place, the weaver knew the map he’d made would outlive him.

TRADITIONAL COLLECTION

Arabesque, Terminus, Emblem, Surveyor, Folklore, and Promenade collections house the grandeur of centennial artistry. Brace yourself. Every collection will carry you on a traditional odyssey. 

An album of artisan hands, a collection of millions of knots

CONTEMPORARY COLLECTION

Art is constantly transforming. Seasons, Dermis, Lovers And Dreamers, Cosmic Order, and Holding Court collections all mirror that. The present moves, but silk holds onto it, preserving light before it slips away.