It was a stones throw from the Chinese boarder. The Northern most outpost in Vietnam before crossing into China. A daily visit to this small mountain village by the local hill people from the Black Hmong, Red Dzao, Tay, and Giáy tribes. All coming to sell what they have. Carvings, produce, game, and woven products in exchange for the necessities needed in their own villages several hours walk from here.
Her brightly colored scarves and woven belts first captured my interest as I wondered among the several dozen vendors with blankets throw randomly on the ground creating a patchwork of makeshift retail space. Crouching low to closely examine the craftsmanship as she slowly turned them over showing the detailed work she had created. It was then that I noticed the stained and worn texture of her skilled hands. A lifetime of weaving thread dyed in her village. Countless hours spent pulling and twisting the fabric had created a permanent work of art on her stained and aging palms. Like the hands of any true artisan. Time spent working the medium leaving behind a residue of the creation on the creator.
The trade. A woven belt in exchange for her asking price in Vietnamese Dong and a picture of course. The belt long since gone from my possession, but the photograph that day and my memory of that brief encounter still remain.
