Before the evening begins, a painter unpins her hair and lets it fall. It comes down heavy on one side and loose at the ends, a dark river over pale shoulders, and for a long moment she simply lets it be.
This rug is drawn in only two colours, ink on a ground of bone. The black pours across it in one unbroken movement and frays at its tips into small squares, like strands slipping free of a braid before the last pin goes in. So much of the ground is left open that the hair still seems to be falling.
