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Me, Myself & I

Terminus – The Last Thread, The Last Breath

A thread begins as a whisper, waiting for the hands to pull it into a pattern. Some weavers say a rug does not end when the last knot tightens. It breathes in silence, holding the maker’s weight, stretching itself, waiting for feet to pass over it.

Terminus Collection speaks of weight; you will witness it in the air. The great halls of Byzantium held such weaves, their threads heavy with history. The Ottoman courts stretched them across marble floors, their patterns unbroken even when the kingdoms that housed them crumbled. Every thread carries a name, every pattern a past. Çınar ties them together, knowing nothing fades

PATHOS

Some knots tighten with sorrow, some lines twist with grief, and some colors bleed from wounds too old to name. Pathos remembers the hands that wove through hunger, the mothers who traced their children's names into patterns unseen, the weavers who worked through wars that stole everything except their threads.

A pattern holds sorrow like a river holds depth—unseen, yet felt. No weave cries for attention. It waits, knowing the right hands will one day pass across its surface and hear what words fail to say.

CREDO

Some weavers tie their knots like monks kneel before an altar. Credo speaks to hands that move with trust, knowing the weave will guide them, knowing the loom will hold them if their grip falters. A prayer moves through wool, presses into silk, and hides inside a pattern.

Saints walked across the cold stone, whispering to God. Sultans knelt before grand tapestries, their foreheads touching the same knots servants had tied. Faith lingers in the weave, waiting to be touched. Faith moves through hands before it moves through voices.

MYTHOS

A ship sank long before the first weaver pulled silk from a cocoon. A king tied a golden thread to his waist and followed it out of the darkness. A woman wove the names of the dead into a rug so fine no one dared walk across it. Mythos carries those stories, threading them through knots so tight that time cannot slip between them.

A pattern holds power without needing a name. A rug does not need a voice to tell a tale. The myths live in the weave, waiting for the right hands to free them.

PHILOS

A weaver moves with reason. A loom sings it. Philos speaks in lines that never break, in angles that never falter, in patterns built by hands that trust the weight of their certainty.

A Greek once carved numbers into stone, believing the world held order. A scholar inked golden circles onto the parchment, tracing logic through the dust of forgotten empires. A weaver tied silk into knots so precise they could be read like scripture. Order bends itself into the weave, and the thread holds its shape. A pattern forms with purpose. A thread twists with reason. A rug speaks in silence, always knowing the method behind its madness.

ETHOS

A sultan stood upon a rug so fine his feet never touched the floor. A beggar wrapped himself in a weave so thick it held back the wind. A merchant walked a hundred years before selling a rug he had carried as a boy. Names shift. Blood washes away. A rug remembers. A name lingers in the hands that built it, in the patience that shaped it, in the silence that carries it forward. A weave never forgets, waiting for the right hands to pass across it, waiting for its story to be read.

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.