It’s the mark of home. On the wall, over the sofa.
A trophy of our travels – we picked it up in the old city of Jerusalem in one of the covered bazaars there. The vendor was the usual blend of charm and ruthlessness but I believe we may even have gotten it for a half decent price.
The work is not particularly fine and a close inspection of the detail unforgiving but it’s handmade at least – a quality that distinguishes it from the rest of the “shit” that was on display in the man’s shop. His word, not mine.
Most of it’s made in China, he happily informed us.
Not this though, and I believed him. It would be a rare machine indeed – and not in a good way – that could weave the irregularities or simulate the errors which the curious eye can see all over its surface. More