Moroccan Mosaic

As Published in Hand/Eye Magazine on August 5th, 2010

Putting the Pieces Together in Fes

For centuries, in the Imperial Moroccan city of Fes, mosaic craftsmen have chipped away at ceramic tiles, shaping the tiny pieces that comprise zellij, the art of glazed-and-cut tile pieces arranged in complex geometric patterns. The fruits of their labors can be found everywhere within the 1,200 year old Fes medina: gracing the walled city’s countless water fountains, adorning the tomb of Moulay Idriss II (the founder of Fes) and decorating the Karaouiyine Mosque and University, which vies with Al-Azhar in Cairo for the title of world’s oldest university. About a mile outside the stone walls of the medina is the Poterie De Fes factory, where pottery and mosaic craftsmen continue their work, one small piece at a time.

Late in the 8th century, Fes was founded by Moulay Idriss II, who carried out the wishes of his dying father by moving from the small ancient Roman capital of Volubilis. The new city started as a modest Berber town and grew with the influx of thousands of exiled families from Al-Andalus (southern Spain) and later from Arab families fleeing Kairouan in modern-day Tunisia. The town rose to prominence with the construction of the Karaouiyine University and it emerged as the pre-eminent city in the Maghreb, the North African region comprised by the present day countries of Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia, Libya and Mauritania. Within Fes is the walled medina, known as the “the city of ten thousand alleys.” It is listed as a UNESCO World Heritage Site and it is believed to be the world’s largest contiguous car-free urban area.

Just outside those ancient city walls is the Poterie De Fes cooperative. The factory is easy to find; look for the kilns producing black smoke fueled by olive pomace. This recycled fuel -- pulpy residue from the olive oil process--is what allows the furnaces to get hot enough to fire the clay. Our tour is led by Abdellah Idrissi, who points out that his name is derivative of Fes founder Moulay Idriss II. Abdellah is one of many craftsmen in the cooperative and he starts his tour by showing us large mounds of clay, all with fresh footprints from workers using their feet to work the clay to the desired consistency. We then move to the pottery wheel and watch a craftsman spin out about 7 or 8 pieces in 15 minutes. While the pottery is interesting, it is the mosaic process that is really unique. We walked over to the furmah tiles, the raw materials for the mosaic pieces and Abdellah explains that these tiles are molded from a hardy clay from nearby Jebel Ben Jelliq. Once the tiles are fired they can be scored and chiseled to break cleanly along straight lines. From here we move over to the furnaces, two large bi-level clay kilns. “The first floor is hotter–about 1,200 degrees–because that’s what terra cotta tiles need,” says Abdellah. “The second floor is about 980 degrees because that’s what the coloring and glazing require.” The tiles are fired twice; the first time in the hotter, lower furnace after being glazed and a second time in the upper level furnace after one side has been colored. The principal colors are blue from cobalt, green from copper, yellow from cadmium and red from iron oxide. The temperature is increased by feeding the kiln with more olive pomace.

From the furnace we move over to the craftsmen cutting the furmah pieces. Islamic mosaic work is characterized by geometric multiple-point star, medallion and polygonal figures. Start in the center of a multiple-point star pattern and follow one of the lines radiating outward until your eyes land upon a satellite star figure. From there follow any of its lines and you’ll find yourself in the center of yet another multiple-point star pattern and on and on. This subliminal sensation of movement is what gives the geometric designs their sense of life. Islamic art forbids figures or likenesses, so its artisans have focused on creating stunning graphic and geometric shapes and patterns. We watch craftsmen carefully chip away with hammers at tiles pieces, against an iron anvil and occasionally a terra cotta surface for the more delicate and detailed work. The men working are paid by the shape and in a good day they can churn out over a hundred mosaic pieces. Once the tiny pieces are cut and arranged into beautiful geometric patterns, they are placed face down on the ground. The flat surface keeps the faces of fountains and the tops of tables flat as the patterns are held together with a sand-lime or cement mixture and allowed to dry upside down. The cycles of creation and destruction and re-creation of zellij are time consuming and therefore make it a relatively expensive art form. From the elements of earth, water, and fire furmah tiles are created, only for craftsmen to slowly and skillfully destroy each one. From here it is the zellij designers who re-create, putting the pieces together upside down in brilliant geometric patterns. It is only when the entire process is finished –creating, destroying, re-creating –and the surface has been dried and turned over, can one appreciate the stunning work.

You can purchase zellij tile work and pottery from the Poterie De Fes factory, in the Quartier de Poterie in Fes, Morocco. Their French-language web site is at http://www.poteriefes.ma/

Turkish Connection

As published in Hand/Eye Magazine on May 6 2010

Five generations of carpet salvation at the Grand Bazaar

Istanbul’s Grand Bazaar, one of the world’s oldest and largest covered markets, is a living connection between past and present. The Turkish bazaar was a stop on the Silk Road, the ancient trading route that linked East and West and lies steps from the Bosphorus, the strait that both divides and joins Asia and Europe. In the very back of the bazaar, in the Zincirli Han (caravansary), the Sisco Osman carpet business sells beautifully restored Turkish carpets that have literally connected old and new for the five generations since 1898.

“There are 4,000 carpet shops in Istanbul and 400 in the Grand Bazaar,” Says Bilgin Aksoy, the nephew of Osman Senel, better known as business namesake Sisco Osman (pronounced “chish-ko”). “Of those 400, only a handful sell old carpets and kilims that have been restored. Everyone else sells ‘new’ carpets. They just call a factory with a model number and they make it right away. Our carpets are 100% wool. People who sell new carpets claim them to be made completely of wool, but they are more like 30-40% wool…they have to be for the machine looms to be able to work with the carpet fiber.” Bilgin is one of 4 cousins that are the 5th generation of the Sisko Osman business. Osman Senel has handed over the reins to the business but is still involved in procuring the carpets. He scours the Turkish countryside looking for older, often damaged carpets and then has them painstakingly rewoven to look like new. The carpets are typically “dowry” carpets that brides-to-be have woven for their betrothed, a woven symbol of the bride and groom’s lifelong connection.

“My uncle is somewhere in remote Turkey now, acquiring carpets,” says Bilgin. “Often the village women who weave the carpets and kilims initially don’t want to sell them. But we make a note of a good carpet and come back another time and sometimes later they are willing to sell. Often it can be many years later.”

Acquisition of the carpets is a lot of work. For every 100 villagers contacted on a 3-4 week buying trip, perhaps 5 will be willing to part with their carpet. Most of the company’s carpets are between 30-50 years old, with many being as old as 80 or 90 years old. Sometimes they will acquire a beautiful carpet that is 200 or 300 years old from the Ottoman Period; those go in their private collection that now numbers about 1,700 carpets. The Turkish government prohibits the export of carpets and kilims older than 100 years.

Once the carpets are acquired, the painstaking process of restoring them begins. It takes about a year for a Turkish village woman to weave a carpet, but to restore an older one can take twice as long. The old, slightly faded carpet fibers of the original must be matched exactly and in order to repair a 2-inch diameter hole, the warp and weft must be opened twice that amount in each direction in order to seamlessly repair the carpet. An inventory of older carpet and kilim pieces is kept exclusively for this process and twenty artisans work full time restoring the carpets. Obviously with this labor component, restoration is the most expensive part of the process but the results speak for themselves. Bilgin rolls out a recently-acquired wool carpet and then lays a similar restored one over it and the difference is stunning; a harmonious connection between old and new fibers.

Over time, the Sisko Osman principals have seen tens of thousands of carpets but some are more memorable than others. “One older woman remembers when she wove her dowry carpet many years ago,” says Bilgin. “She knew that her husband really wanted an automobile but had no chance of buying one. When she wove her dowry carpet, she wove a red car in each corner.” Bilgin then has his assistant roll out the very same carpet in the showroom -- a shiny wool-on-wool, red carpet that looks like new. “Another carpet design was the view that the bride and her groom would see from the window of their new house once they were married.” Again the assistant rolls out a carpet with the aforementioned landscape -- a village mosque, trees and mountains framed within a floral border.

With Turkish women slowly becoming more modern, dowry carpets are becoming harder to find. Bilgin acknowledges that it’s a dying art. “Yes, it may be harder to find carpets like these in the future, but we have a large inventory of carpets that we’ve acquired over the years. Enough to keep this generation busy.”

You can purchase beautifully restored Turkish carpets from the Sisco Osman company in Istanbul, Turkey. Their showroom is located in the Zincirli Han section of the Grand Bazaar.

Venetian Resurrection

As printed in Hand/Eye Magazine June 17th 2010


Venice puts the Mask back on

Thirty years ago you couldn’t find a mask shop in Venice; today you can’t walk anywhere without seeing one. The colorful masks, usually associated with Carnevale, have been around since the 12th century, but for most of the past two centuries they’ve been largely forgotten. In the early 1980’s Mario Belloni and a handful of other artisans were credited with reviving the Venice mask making tradition. Mario’s Ca Macana mask store is a few steps off the Grand Canal and he offers workshops on the mask making process. His book, Mashcere a Venezia explores the history of Venetian mask making and Stanley Kubrick came to Mario when he needed masks for the movie Eyes Wide Shut.


With the fall of the Venetian Republic at the end of the 18th century, the importance of Carnevale and masks diminished to the point where they all but disappeared for nearly 200 years. In 1979 the municipality of Venice reinstated Carnevale to not only bring back a Venetian tradition but to bring in much needed tourism revenue. Around this time Mario and some of his fellow architecture students started selling papier mache masks in the squares. Was it the love of a time-honored tradition that inspired Mario? “No. I needed the money,” he admits. “There were no mask shops like you see today. We didn’t know about the Venetian mask tradition and that’s why today you see such variety— suns and moons and things like that. Back in those days there was just ten to fifteen of us selling masks made of newspaper papier mache. No shops, just us.”


Obviously a lot has changed. There are hundreds of mask shops now in Venice and the quality runs the gamut from beautiful and expensive handmade masks to cheap, machine-stamped plastic ones from China, Romania and Albania. Mario pulls a mask down from his workshop shelf and shows the layers of paper strips that form the texture inside the mask; the hallmark of its handmade origins.


The workshop is cluttered with half-finished masks, painting supplies, clay busts and large stacks of blotting paper. Mario gives a quick explanation of the mask-making process, “First you make a clay mold of a face and from that you make a plaster cast. Inside the cast you put a little clear grease and then you start laying in strips of blotting paper— about four or five layers brushed with water and flour paste. After drying 45 minutes or so, you remove it from the plaster, trim and adjust it, and then you’re ready to paint.”


While talking, Mario takes out an unadorned, white, sharp-beaked larva mask and puts it on along with a black cape and black tri-cornered hat, one of the most traditional of Venetian costumes. Pointing to his outfit, Mario continues, “This is the bauta. The word bauta originally comes from the black cape but it has come to mean the whole ensemble.” Still in costume, he displays another mask, a muta— a black, oval mask with no mouth hole. He turns the mask to show the string bit that allows the wearer to hold it to her face by biting onto it. “These were used by the ruling class women in their games of seduction. You knew you had won the game if she allowed you to see her face.” Mario moves over to the counter and pulls out some old pen and ink drawings. One of them features the eerie Dottore Della Peste (plague doctor) mask. This white mask with a long curvy beak was used by doctors during the days of the Black Death. The beak was stuffed with medicinal spices and herbs to help prevent doctors from catching the plague while attending to patients.


Born and raised in Genoa, it’s clear that Mario feels at home in his workshop in his adopted city. “I was coming back from Rome and the train stopped at the Venice station at night. I decided to get out and explore the city and I fell in love with it. I got my chance to live here when I was an architecture student and since then I’ve learned a lot about the history. Venice was an amazing place!” exclaims Mario. “Five hundred years of peace! It was a dictatorship by the nobles, and the ruling class was loved. It was an egalitarian society where people left their windows open at night.” Mario sits down and continues, “You must remember 500 years ago, these masks were not just worn for Carnevale, they were worn year round, to court, to parties, at the casino. They let nobles engage in behavior”, says Mario, searching for the right phrase, “that were afraid to try without a mask.” Indeed, wealthy Venetians could afford to indulge their eccentricities but the small, crowded island didn’t offer many opportunities for privacy. The mask was the perfect solution.


Mario looks around the workshop, perhaps reflecting on his journey from architecture student to preeminent Venetian mask-maker. “It was not a gift,” says Mario with a sweep of the hand, referring to what he has built. “It’s been a lot of work but it’s been great.” Many stories about artisans who create things by hand are about a craft endangered by machines and cheap offshore labor. Mario Belloni’s story is not about a dying craft; it’s about the resurrection of one.




You can purchase a mask or Mario Belloni’s book Mashcere a Venezia at his Ca Macana store at Dorsoduro 3172, Venice, Italy. You can also purchase them online at http://www.camacana.com/

Dream Patterns, Weave Memories: Nilda Callanaupa

As Published in Hand/Eye Magazine on November 14, 2009

Nilda Callanaupa and CTTC work to preserve Peruvian textile traditions

Nilda Callañaupa, founder and director of the Centro de Textiles Tradicionales de Cusco (CTTC), is a woman on a mission. As a young girl growing up in the 1960’s in her home village of Chinchero, most weaving was of inferior quality with synthetic fibers and DayGlo colors. Learning traditional weaving techniques from the elders and educating herself at university (the first person from her village to do so), she began to encourage, teach and support what she had learned. During the turbulent political crisis of the 1980’s and early 1990’s Nilda remained focused on her mission. In 1996 she founded CTTC in order to further promote and preserve traditional Andean weaving techniques.

Although Peru is in a period of relative economic and political stability, Nilda remembers the political crisis during the 1980’s when she was a university student. “You could feel it,” she says. “Friends you knew went missing; some were captured by the Sendero Luminoso (Shining Path), or were sent to jail. I saw it and knew it was happening and there was a general feeling of fear in the town.” Violence like this obviously impacts a community, both emotionally and economically; tourism in Peru suffered greatly during this time. “Because of Sendero Luminoso, there were not many tourists here in Cusco, so many young people went to Lima looking for greater opportunity. That affected us a lot. The production of textiles for everyday use did not change much…weavers were still weaving, but the production of textiles for tourists declined greatly.”

Shining Path leader Abimael Guzmán was captured in 1992 and the era of terrorism soon ended. In 1996 Nilda started CTTC: “It would not have been possible to start CTTC in the 1980’s. Many non-profits were leaving Peru and some foreign volunteers were killed, especially in Ayacucho. During this time there was no CTTC project but I was doing it anyway. I noticed that there was a lot of demand for high quality textiles…mainly by collectors. Many grandmothers lost their beautiful woven heirlooms, either by selling them to collectors or having them stolen. I wanted to expand this high-quality end of the market and also return to the traditional weaving techniques of the past.” With Shining Path subdued and tourists coming back to Cusco, Nilda was ready to exert a leadership role. “When we started the center in 1996, political turmoil was behind us, tourists were coming back and the market was ready for us. It all came together.”

Thanks in large part to CTTC, traditional Andean textiles are blossoming and youngsters aren’t moving to Lima anymore. Nilda acknowledges that income plays a part in this, but she also sees this as an expression of cultural identity. “Well, I’d say that part of the motivation for the younger generation was the financial opportunity, but for many people who had these traditional weaving skills, it was a way to show status in their community…something to be proud of…and it was good for their self-esteem.”

As Nilda looks into the future, she sees indigenous Andean textiles evolving. “At this stage, I am seeing more creation of new products that are more acceptable to world-wide markets. I’m talking about products that are more functional, like wall hangings, placemats, pillow covers, clothing and jackets.” CTTC will host the Encuentro de Tejedores de las Americas in October 2010, inviting weavers from all over the Americas to come to Cusco to share knowledge and experiences with one another. “It’s my dream. Most importantly, it’s an opportunity for the weavers to share with one another and to let them say what they have to say.”



For more information about CTTC, visit http://www.textilescusco.org/cttc/eng/Nilda’s book Weaving in the Peruvian Highlands: Dreaming Patterns, Weaving Memories (ISBN 978-1-59668-055-5) can be purchased at Amazon.com.

Miguel Andrango: Backstrap Challenge

As published in Hand/Eye Magazine on January 31, 2010

Miguel Andrango foresees a rocky future for backstrap weaving in Ecuador

On the surface, the remarkable success of Otavalo's craftsmen and musicians is a blueprint for indigenous people everywhere. Ecuadorean Otavalenos have become the wealthiest and most commercially successful indigenas in the Andes. Land Rovers, overseas clients, brand new houses and Otavaleno expats living in New York, Milan, Barcelona and Tokyo are visible manifestations of that wealth. Miguel Andrango has seen much of it happen during the 33 years his Tahuatinsuyo Workshop has been supporting traditional weaving. But just like Miguel's intricate two-sided backstrap weavings, there is a story underneath.

At the Tahuantinsuyo Weaving Workshop, in the small hamlet of Agato which overlooks nearby Otavalo, Miguel sits on a woven reed mat and eases into his backstrap loom. Miguel is a master at creating double-faced weavings using complementary-warp pick-up and multiple heddle techniques. "To be a backstrap weaver you need a lot of patience," Miguel says, as he places the shuttle over and under alternating warps to create the waves in a lake motif. He is working on a traditional Inca manta with a central geometric design, flanked by ojos de dios ("eyes of god") and wave designs, which symbolize the tranquility of the nearby Andean lakes. Just to run the shuttle through each of the warps, it takes him about three minutes. "For example, a well done, hand-made poncho takes about a month to produce," says Miguel. He and others in his workshop are part of an ever-decreasing number of backstrap weavers in Otavalo who still make woven goods by hand using natural dyes and fibers. Most of the commercially-successful Otavalenos now use mechanized looms and export most of their product to clients in North America and Europe. These businesses can crank out two or three lesser-quality ponchos per day at prices of less than half of what a high-quality, hand-made poncho will bring. As the economics of this proposition suggest, the future is uncertain for traditional weavers.

While Miguel works at the loom, his daughter Luz Maria and his brother Manuel explain and demonstrate how the sheep wool is cleaned, spun, carded and dyed. Luz Maria handles a leaf of penco cactus and explains how it is chopped and pulped to make the mild soap that cleans the sheep wool. Manuel demonstrates the carding of the wool using flat, wood card-combs with metal teeth. He then holds up a much older one with twelve dried thistle heads framed to form a two-sided comb, a reminder that this process has been around a very long time. Luz Maria then sits down and carefully spins and pulls thread onto a spindle from a lump of cleaned and carded cotton. Miguel walks over and displays a basket full of natural dyes -- walnuts for brown, lichen for yellow, cochineal insects for various shades of red -- and then holds up a small wooden basin for dyeing that has been in his family for several generations.

For hundreds of years Otavalo, a two hour drive north of Quito, has been the site of one of the most well-known markets in South America, and in the past 20-30 years it has changed markedly. Two decades ago, most of products in the Plaza de Los Ponchos market were hand-made and young men proudly walked around in their traditional costumes: fedoras, blue wool ponchos, white pants and sandals. Today over 90% of the textiles at the market are machine-loomed using synthetic dyes and materials and the young men are wearing Hollister hoodies and Tommy Hilfiger T-shirts. "The changes have been good and bad," says Miguel. "A little more bad than good," interjects his brother Manuel. Miguel continues, "The young ones don't wear the traditional clothes and they don't want to eat traditional foods. Instead of taking the time to prepare the flour and corn and make tortillas (savory or sweet corn pan cakes) they want fast food, like hamburgers and hot dogs. They are too impatient."

While in many ways Otavalo is a success story for indigenous artisans, not everyone has tasted success. "Many weavers can't afford a permit to sell at the market and it is very difficult to get a visa to go overseas to the U.S. or Europe to sell," says Miguel. Perhaps larger than these impediments, the international market is telling Otavalo that they prefer the cheaper, machine-loomed goods. "I'd like to start a museum and textile center here in Otavalo to educate the public, but it is difficult to get the money." Other Andean weaving communities, notably Nilda Callanaupa's Centro de Textiles Traditionales de Cusco in Peru, have had success supporting weavers to get fair prices, getting young people involved and getting buyers to appreciate and pay more for hand-woven textiles. The question remains whether the commercial success of the Otavalenos has dampened the desire to start such a center here. Facing a mountain of mass produced, machine-loomed products, Miguel Andrango and his Tahuantinsuyo Weaving Workshop continue to weave beautiful handmade textiles one piece at a time.

Miguel Andrango's products can be purchased at the Tahuantinsuyo Weaving Workshop on the main street in Agato and from the store at the nearby Hacienda Cusin hotel.

The Last Fez In Cairo

As printed in Hand/Eye magazine on April 8th, 2010

Mohammed Al-Tarbishi is a man of his word.

Before his father died, he made a promise to carry on the family business started by his grandfather over a hundred years ago. The business of the family is the fez, or as it’s called in Egypt, the tarbouche. Buried deep within Cairo’s frenetic, market alleys just off the famous Khan al-Khalili bazaar, the small Al-Tarbishi storefront factory continues to handcraft the iconic tarbouche. While attitudes in Egypt towards the tarbouche have changed dramatically in the past couple hundred years, time stands still in the Al-Tarbishi factory, the last remaining fez maker in Cairo and indeed all of Egypt.

The tarbouche is the familiar-looking, truncated cone hat made of red felt that is topped with a black tassel. Its origins are somewhat of a mystery but its rise to prominence started during the Ottoman Empire in 1826, when the sultan Mahmud II decreed that all males should wear the hat. At that time, the tarbouche symbolized Ottoman modernity and the brimless hat was perfect for Muslims when they pressed their forehead to the ground for daily prayers. In 19th century Egypt, Muhammad Ali Pasha mandated the tarbouche as required headgear for Egyptian males. During the 19th and early 20th centuries, most men in Morocco, Egypt, Turkey and Syria proudly wore a fez or tarbouche.



Its decline began in 1925 in Turkey, when Mustafa Kemal Attaturk outlawed the fez in his successful efforts to make Turkey a more modern and secular country. Egypt followed suit in the post-revolution 1950’s. “Before the 1952 revolution the tarbouche business was much bigger,” says Mohammed. Indeed, hardly anyone wears the tarbouche in Egypt these days and the al-Tarbishi business is a fraction of what it was prior to the 1952 Egyptian revolution. Mohammed’s principal livelihood is as an engineering consultant, but he continues to keep the factory going and he looks in on it a few days a week. He apprenticed in the shop while in school and university from the time he was 15 to the time he was 27. While his grandfather started the business and he and his father have carried it on, the future is uncertain. “My son doesn’t want to continue the business. When I retire…,” and he leaves off with a shrug and rueful smile.

Mohammed walks over and displays the raw materials, which are now all made in Egypt, but during the business’ heyday were imported: felt for the outer surface of the cap (previously from Austria and Czechoslovakia), woven straw for the interior padding (previously from Greece), leather for the interior headband (previously from Belgium) and silk for the black tassel (previously from Lebanon).



He continues over to the waga, the large tarbouche press that takes up almost a quarter of his dusty thirty-five by fifteen foot storefront factory. The waga looks like an oversized brass stovetop upon which rest three large hand-tightened presses. Each press has a large handle on top that hand-cranks pressure downward onto the forms – which in turn resemble two upside-down, brass pails that nest on top on one another. With heads coming in all sizes, the factory needs to keep quite a few sizes of brass molds on hand. One of his workers, Ramadan, works at the waga heating the molds that shape both the inner straw padding and outer felt surface of the hat. The inner form is hollow and Ramadan heats it on the waga’s stovetop. “The mold is heated to 90 degrees (Celsius) and there is no thermometer on the waga,” says Mohammed. As he says this, Ramadan gauges the heat by licking his fingers and briefly touching the waga. He does this a couple times until he is satisfied that he’s got the right temperature. “If the temperature is more than 90 degrees,” says Mohammed, “the felt will burn. He knows what he’s doing; he’s been doing it for 40 years.” Once the inner straw and outer felt are formed they are allowed to cool and are sewn together with the antiquated Singer sewing machine next to the waga. The waga is so old that the manufacturer died 50 years ago, leaving Mohammed and his staff to improvise repairs on the ancient machine. The waga sits on a track so that the press can be partially rolled outside when it gets too hot.

“It takes about three hours to make one tarbouche,” offers Mohammed. “If I sell one hat to a tourist it will cost one hundred Egyptian pounds (about $18) but these days we only sell a couple per month. Before the revolution we sold many, many times that amount each month,” he says. With demand for the tarbouche down to a trickle, it is only orders for similar-looking religious caps from nearby Cairo schools that keep the business afloat. “There are a few workshops that sell to tourists in Cairo, but we are the last factory.” When Mohammed al-Tarbishi retires, a long Egyptian tradition may retire with him.


You can buy a tarbouche from Mr. al-Tarbishi at his storefront factory on 36 Alghoria Street, which runs between Khan al-Khalili bazaar and the Bab Zuweila citadel.