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THE MESSAGE IS INDISPUTABLE: rug collecting is alive
and well in New England. Of the rugs in this exhibition, more than two-thirds were
collected during the last five years. There are many stories to tell. The pictorial
Caucasian rug (no. 25) came from the attic of a Massachusetts home where an antique
furniture dealer spotted it in 1990, wrapped in 1947 newspapers. The Tekke khalyk (no. 44) turned up at a New England flea market. The "candystripe" Kuba prayer
rug (no. 23) was discovered hanging in the window of a penny-candy store in Maine.
As the scarcity of collectable rugs multiplies, however, the quest
must range more widely. The Anatolian carpet (cover and
no. 12) was collected from a
tiny shop adjoining the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul. The western Anatolian prayer rug (no. 7) was acquired from a dealer in Germany. The saddlebag (no. 38) came from
England. And the Karachov Kazak (no. 18) was collected in New York from a dealer who
had recently discovered it, surprisingly, in Morocco.
Who are these people who admit to being called collectors? For this
exhibition, they include two attorneys, a public school-teacher, an advertising writer, a
librarian, a retiree, two oriental rug dealers, several business executives, and the
owners of a bicycle shop, an auction house and a heavy equipment cleaning company. They
also include four physicians, three of whom—interestingly—are radiologists. (As
one of them explains it, "I seem destined to devote my vocation and my avocation to
the study and appreciation of patterns.")
We posed a group of questions to many of our most active
participants. Here is an amalgam of their responses.
When you are looking at a rug and considering it
for acquisition, what do you look for? What is the process that leads you to a decision?
Our collectors divided themselves into two groups on this subject; the first rational
and analytical, and the other introspective and intuitive. Here are examples of the
analytical responses:
I look for quality. Does it have superb wool? Does it have good age? Are its dyes
intense and brilliant? How fine is the weave?
I judge a piece from a combination of standpoints: age, color, drawing, and condition.
Then I ask myself; how does it compare to others in its category? It's a process of
discrimination, determining what it is and where it falls among the other pieces of its
type. If it scores high, then I'm interested. If its score goes off the top of the chart,
then I buy without reservation.
The other—and more prevalent—response approached the challenge from quite a
different perspective.
The first thing I want to know is: does the rug speak to me? Does it make my heart bear
a little faster? Even more importantly, does it keep speaking to me?
It's the same as with
people. Some dazzle you at the beginning, but you soon discover that's all there is to
them, and they begin to bore you. Others impress you at first, and then the relationship
grows and grows. Great rugs are like that: whenever you go back to them you experience a
dimension of warmth or rhythm or esthetic renewal.
I put most of my faith in the intuitive approach, and I work hard to assess my
emotional response to each rug's graphic power. But there is one danger sign to look out
for. It happens when I consider a piece that my emotional side has mixed feelings about,
and I hear my intellect whispering, "Go for it. You may never get another chance like
this. It's a bargain. Your collection needs it. Don't let this one go by." It was a
long time before I learned to distrust those little voices. Now, I know it's a signal to
leave the piece alone. If you have to work at liking something, it's not for you.
When I first look at a new piece, I usually know within a few seconds whether I want it
or not. I can't define precisely what the specific qualities are; perhaps I'm reacting to
a "look" that I recognize from having studied thousands of rugs. It has to do
with color, with use of space, with purity of design. But mainly it's the overall impact
of the piece as a work of graphic art that I'm reacting to. After that comes the rational
part. Does it fit into my collection? Does the condition pose any risk? Is it a sound
investment? Sometimes your common sense has to make a disciplined "no" override
your intuitive "yes." But in general, I place the bulk of my confidence in
heeding my inner feelings.
How do you find your pieces? Where do you look?
How much traveling does the process entail?
As might be expected, New Englanders' collecting styles vary widely. The variables, of
course, are time and resources... and the amount of energy available for the endeavor.
It's a three-step process for me. First, identify the
dealers with the most astute eye and the reputation for finding the best things. Next, get
to know them and communicate exactly what I'm looking for. And finally, convince them of
my serious intent as a collector. Traveling is not important to me; I don't have the time.
Nor do I need to. Proven intention has a gravitational effect; when the word is out, you
don't have to go looking for things. Things come to you.
Traveling is absolutely vital. How else can you meet the people who become your
sources? And you've got to stay in touch with places like Germany, Austria, Italy, Turkey
and the UK, because that's where a lot of the action is. Granted you can always find
something exciting close to home. But even that means being on the road, staying in touch
with the market. Keeping yourself visible is absolutely vital.
The key ingredients are time and patience. Good pieces just don't appear very often;
you have to look at hundreds of rugs for every outstanding one you find. It takes
mobility. It takes going to auctions and dealer exhibitions, and meeting other collectors.
You have to be where the great rugs are and it helps if you get there first. Timing and
presence are everything.
The days of making fabulous finds in flea markets are pretty much over. Great things
still crop up, but there are so many dealers and pickers who specialize in finding them
that your chances of being the lucky one are astronomically slim. The trick is to get to
know those people, and to be at the top of their list when they do find something great.
What do you feel is the most direct route for a novice to become an
experienced collector?
Here there was consensus: learn, learn, learn. Becoming knowledgeable about rug designs
and their origins requires learning about the history, geography and ethnography of the
rug-producing regions. Understanding about the quality of rugs entails the study of dyes,
fibers, weaving methods, and other technical textile matters. Most important, of course,
is learning about the esthetics of the rugs themselves. The sources: books, people... and
rugs.
The most important part of learning about rugs is seeing and handling thousands of
them. To understand a particular weaving, you must see it in relationship to all the
others that are both like it, and unlike it. You accomplish that by seizing every chance
you can get to look at rugs. Go to museums, rug society meetings, auction previews and
dealer exhibitions. Get to know dealers and collectors. And when you can't look at actual
rugs, look at them in books. The best books have color reproductions of great pieces you'd
otherwise never find in one place. Lastly, of course, start acquiring your own. There's no
better way to get to know rugs than living with them day and night.
While you're studying and seeing and talking about rugs, you've also got to assert your
own personal tastes. Some people make the mistake of collecting what they think they ought
to because what they really like isn't as fashionable. For example, 20 years ago you were
considered a bit mad to collect Baluch rugs. Today they've come into their own, and people
recognize it wasn't such a dumb thing to do after all. It's very important to follow your
own esthetic instincts, because it's the only way you'll be fulfilled as a collector.
Start acquiring rugs right from the beginning. They don't have to be great rugs. But
it's important to experience the process of collecting—mistakes and all—while
you're learning about it.
How do you avoid making mistakes when you
collect?
I don't. I've made spectacular ones. But they weren't mistakes at the beginning;
they simply became mistakes as my knowledge grew. I treat each one the same way: with a
measure of gratitude. It hurts, but you end up wiser. Trying to achieve error-free
collecting means practicing defensive collecting, and that's probably the biggest mistake
of all. The familiar adage applies here: as long as you're not making the same ones twice,
you're growing.
If you're going to become an effective collector, you've got to take chances. It's how
you not only learn about rugs, but about your own taste as well. If your taste is going to
develop, you've got to put it on the line and test it constantly. If you make a decision
and you were right, you learned. If you're willing to take reasonable risks as a
collector, and to cheerfully write off any financial losses as "tuition," it's
usually a win-win proposition.
What are your feelings about restoration? Should
an exceptional old rug with wear and damage be left alone, or should it be restored?
This touches on one of the most controversial questions in rug collecting, and the
collectors' responses confirmed that little consensus exists on the issue. If there was
any agreement, it was to recognize the limitations of restorative work
-- even when done by
the very best restorers.
The hardest thing to decide is when to restore, and when to leave it alone. Sometimes
there are small holes, low spots and tears that don't affect the rug's graphic power at
all. Those should be left untouched. But if the rug's visual integrity is compromised,
then I seriously consider reweaving and repiling. It's a judgment call.
Whenever I'm tempted to have a big hole rewoven or a worn area repiled, I try to
imagine what Venus de Milo would look like after a restorer added new arms. If the essence
of the piece's beauty is still there, leave it be. We don't have any business interfering.
I think that if a rug can be "touched up" to eliminate holes and areas of
wear, it should be done. Holes and worn areas bother my eye and interfere with the
integrity of the design, and I want them fixed.
The problem with restoration work, and I'm talking about the very best work, is that it
always remains visible to the practiced eye. When I see signs of it I think, "This
piece has been restored; it's not all original," and that makes me uncomfortable.
This is especially true of pieces that come from the European market, because when a
valuable rug emerges there, it's frequently restored from top to bottom. I think we are
seriously degrading an important legacy of the past by doing this.
It seems that the more a collector experiences the results of restoration, the less he
or she resorts to it. I've seen expert restorers wreck some wonderful pieces. The
reweaving and knotting wasn't the problem; it was excellent. But too often it's virtually
impossible to match all the variables: the integrity of the wool, the character of the
dye, the texture of the weave, the luminescence of the pile—all those magical things
that make old rugs unique and irreproducible. Besides, even if the work is perfect now,
what's it going to look like 20 or so years from now when the new wool undergoes wear and
the dyes react to light? I used to have pieces restored. Now, for the most part, I avoid
it.
What do you think are the trends that will occur over the rest of this decade?
What is the future of rug collecting?
Even the more articulate collectors spoke cautiously on this subject. Never in the
mainstream, oriental rugs and other Islamic textiles have historically made slow progress
in gaining recognition from a wider, more appreciative audience. None of the lenders to
this show saw evidence that the pace will quicken.
Most collectors, however, had well reasoned if tentative views on the directions rug
collecting might take. To summarize the general consensus:
With public taste traditionally focused on painting and sculpture as the paramount
"creative" media, museums and academic curricula have historically been cautious
about including Islamic weavings. In the public eye, they continue to be viewed as an
obscure and unheralded—if fascinating—art form. The predictable result: many
facets of rug and other textile collecting will remain accessible to the collector of
modest means.
The trend away from classical and workshop carpets toward tribal weavings will
continue, fueled in part by the inevitable forces of fiscal necessity, but also by today's
sustained, ongoing interest in spontaneous folk art coupled with a concurrent de-emphasis
of the formal decorative arts.
Good pieces will continue to appear on the open market, though less frequently than
before. Fresh pieces—those entering the contemporary market for the first
time—will be mostly gone by the end of the decade. But the breakup of collections and
the release of inventories now being amassed by major international dealers will keep the
market alive and the supply accessible.
To remain viable, the field needs an influx of new collectors. The fact that this has
not yet happened creates an atmosphere of opportunity for those now entering the market.
Collectors mentioned many fields that are currently undergoing a rekindling of
interest, including classical oriental rug fragments, pre-Columbian and South American
textiles, weavings from North Africa and the Greek Islands, Indonesian textiles, Coptic
weavings, and pile rugs from China.
Competition for virtually all kinds of oriental weavings will continue to stiffen, the
natural result of sustained demand in the face of diminished supply. Pieces perceived to
be "the best" will increase sharply in value, while "mediocre" pieces
will linger. All, especially the less-sought-after types, will be subject to the voguish
vagaries of collectors' tastes. As a result, opportunities will always remain for the
collector willing to accommodate risk, develop a strong sense of esthetic values, and
become a careful student of the field.
One collector concluded his comments this way:
Collecting great textile art is synonymous with collecting art of any kind: as long as
opportunities abound, there is room to participate. The key thing, especially for the
collector of modest means, is to move off the beaten path, discover an exciting area, and
begin building a collection. There are still many relatively unexplored tribal weaving
areas; the Central Asian weavings of the Uzbeks, Tajiks, Kazakhs and others, for
example. Northwest Persian tribal rugs are, in my opinion, some of the most interesting
folk art the region has ever generated, but they are still surprisingly unrecognized. This
is abstract art at one of its most interesting and, in some cases, most sophisticated
levels. Most of today's collectors are absorbed in their own chosen pursuits, so the
future is wide open to new collectors willing to take the plunge.
Finally, we addressed the question that for many collectors is the most difficult one
of all:
What is a great rug?
The group used words such as singular, unique, and one-of-a-kind in earnest attempts to
capture the essence of its concept of greatness in an oriental weaving. The idea is
elusive, implying a know-it-when-you-see-it kind of quality—one which is often the
subject of disagreement even among the most experienced
collectors.
There was this agreement: 99 percent of the rugs one sees as a collector are
unmemorable. They are simply perfunctory copies of common design themes, some slavish,
some casual, but all singularly uninspired. The sought-after rug is the one that sparkles
with freshness. Far more than being simply a textile, it is a powerful visual experience
that demands the return of one's attention again and again.
Freshness is born from clarity of wool, intensity of color, elegance of fiber, and
harmony of weave. It is catalyzed by the presence of tension within serenity. Nearly all
rugs are conceived as symmetrical, whether by centralized or repetitive design. But in
most of the best, it is the subtle counterpoint of spontaneously inspired
asymmetry—an altered dimension, an interchanging ambiguity between positive and
negative spaces, a surprising cascade of animal or floral figures, an abrupt but clearly
intentional abrash, an unexpected twist of line or form just at the point of
tedium—that transports a weaving to subjective pinnacles of greatness. The weavers,
like artists in many other craft media, must create within the constricting confines of a
rigidly observed design convention. Inside those boundaries, of course, there is still
room for marvelous creative maneuvering. The superior weaver is the one who marshals the
same idioms, the same techniques, the same colors, and the same materials into something
wonderful and unique.
A great rug delivers a sensuous experience that gets repeated every time you revisit
it. I think a lot of people miss that because they're so used to seeing rugs simply as
home furnishings to be walked on. But a great rug is a one-of-a-kind creation that the
weaver poured her soul into. All those emotions are still right there, waiting to share
themselves with you whenever you open yourself up to its message.
I think it's best to look at specific rugs as examples. Take the Tekke carpet in this
exhibition (no. 42), for instance. At a quick glance it is simply a repetitive-
design rug with no variation from top to bottom. At a deeper level, it is an entire
environment, a kindly, orderly enclosure where there is depth and richness and a feeling
of well-being. Compare that with the Anatolian rug (cover and
no. 12). This one is
based on a repetitive design too. But here you have a sense of wild exuberance that is
happy, humorous, even slightly crazy. The Tekke is a Bach cantata; the Anatolian is
improvisational jazz. A lot of other rugs in the exhibit do this too; they reach out and
leave you with a mood, a feeling, even an understanding that you didn't have before.
There aren't any words to describe a great rug with much accuracy. Many times I've had
dealers call me and give a glowing description of a rug over the phone. I can picture it.
But I still have no idea of its actual merits. It only takes one look at the real thing to
tell the story, though. Its greatness, if it has any, comes from its spirit. It's like any
kind of graphic art. If it's really wonderful, words are irrelevant.
Some collectors have a special phrase. They will look at an outstanding rug and mutter,
"This rug has something." What that means usually defies words. It asserts a
presence. An aura. A quality that elevates it above the others of its kind and assures its
endurance as a work of art. The weavings in this exhibition, in the opinions of their
collectors, all have something. It is a something that is meant for everyone, from the rug
scholar to the totally uninitiated newcomer to the field.
MH |
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