Ikat

That day, on a lark, I decided to visit a nearby village known for its woven wares, a community where this legacy was passed from one generation to the next. After the short boat ride, I was on the small island. I remember the feel of the scorching sun on my forehead. I had forgotten to bring a hat, again, and I wondered how long my heavy-duty sunscreen would hold up.

I immediately found myself wandering past homes and backyards, among open grassy fields upon which stilted wood-framed houses perched and livestock grazed freely.

After some time spent tracing the circumference of the island along its only dirt road, I wandered past her backyard. Seeing me, she slowly pried open the wooden gate that demarcated her property, inviting me in for a cup of water. I accepted. With hands trembling, she showed me her loom, her work, the silk cloths she created in striking hues and prints. The cloths were mottled a bit, the threads hanging loose on some parts and forcibly jutting out on others, but, as a result of these imperfections, they appeared even more beautiful to me, more arresting.

I decided on an ikat print for 60,000 kip. I still have the cloth and have been toying with the idea of making it into something wearable, like a skirt. When I was last in Portland, I talked to seamstress-extraorindaire Lindsay about possibilities. I remain unsure. It seems a shame to cut it up.