My grandmother taught me that a cloth is a sentence. That every weave is a word and every pattern a paragraph. That what we wear is what we are saying about ourselves to the world.
Last month I sat with the women of Kihiihi for two days. They were preparing fabrics for a ceremony none of them would attend, the celebration of a daughter who had married into a family three districts away. The cloth would speak in their place.
What our IMAGINE travellers often ask, after an afternoon at the looms, is whether they may take a piece home. The answer is yes, and the answer is also that the cloth is no longer only a cloth. It is now a sentence they have agreed to carry.
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