There are many things about this rug which are still unknown to me.
The wolf, for example. I have the roughest of ideas as to the stance, the intimacy of nose to cheek. I have left space on the side of the cloak for the tail of the wolf to wrap up, curling into the the fabric.
He is desire. He is lust. He is longing.
The ripples of black had to be thick pieces of wool, much thicker than what I normally use to outline my figures.
The reds are lush. I collected these for nearly a year before I started, looking for mottled deep scarlets and burgandy. Pinks, purples and orange tones speckle the wools. A cacophany of Red. For me.
If I go further into the woods, I might find them.
Maybe, like the fairy tales, I will find only ruin. Another woman fallen.
Waiting for the day when my wolf whispers into my ear.