The drums begin, and a woman who has never danced in front of anyone begins to dance. Her hair works loose. She stops caring who is watching, except for one.
At the heart of this rug a face burns in the middle of its own hair, which streams out in ochre, orange and teal like a flame caught in a draught. Behind it the ground is split in two, ivory and black, and the hair crosses from the light into the dark without pausing. Its name is an old word for both passion and colour, as if the two had ever been apart.
