The Pazyryk carpet, the oldest known hand-knotted carpet, in the Hermitage Museum
The Pazyryk carpet — Hermitage Museum, Saint Petersburg

In 1947, the Russian archaeologist Sergei Rudenko discovered the oldest known hand-made carpet in the Altai Mountains, in the Pazyryk burial mound.

A nomadic horseman had been buried there with all his belongings, including his horse — and the saddle was still covered with this carpet, frozen solid for the last 2,500 years. As the ice melted, out came this extraordinary piece, almost 90% intact after all those centuries.

For a long time the debate has gone on over whether it was made by Iranian or Turkic nomads, and whether it was single- or double-knotted. Whoever made it, in my humble opinion it represents a cultural heritage that belongs to all the peoples of the world today — there is no need for prejudice. That's why we call them oriental carpets. All the countries of the Orient have used the same designs century after century, so we classify them, broadly, as "transborder designs."

In the last twenty-five years, though, certain producers have customized those designs and registered them under their company trademarks, so copying these special, award-winning carpets is now banned under international law. How effective that law actually is, of course, is anyone's guess.

1947

Year discovered

2,500 yrs

Frozen in the ice

~90%

Intact when found

Two knots, two traditions

It's generally accepted that Persian — Iranian — carpets are made with the asymmetric, single-knotting technique known as the "Senneh knot," while the Turkish peoples preferred the symmetrical, double-knotting technique known as the "Ghiordes knot." But these two great powers of the hand-made carpet art have borrowed each other's techniques over time. Even today, some thirty percent of Iran is made up of Azeri people who not only speak a Turkish dialect but also use the longer-lasting double-knotting technique in their carpets.

To understand the difference: the single knot loops around one warp string while twisting around the other; the symmetrical Turkish double knot wraps around both parallel strings. That means the double knot takes more time and more material — but it produces a more durable carpet. The Turks chose the longer route knowing it was the economic disadvantage: more time, more material, and more of both needed to finish a carpet of the same size. And, as ever, time is money — and so is the material.

The knot count per square centimetre or inch raises the price for the same reason: more knots mean more time, so more knots generally means more money. That said, it's only one of the factors that define the fineness of the work.

Hand-made carpets are knotted; kilims are woven — and we study them all under the art of weaving.

What makes a carpet a collectible

Technically, a true hand-made carpet is unique and can never be duplicated. The weaver finishes each line of the carpet before clipping the excess pile with specially gauged scissors, then uses an iron comb to beat the pile down so the carpet comes out square. Her mood may change from one day to the next, and that can affect how she beats the pile down. So if she makes two carpets one after another on the same loom — as with this "Taşpınar twin carpet" — and you measure them separately, you'll find one a little longer, perhaps a little wider, than the other. How do we know they came off the same loom? Because they're still joined to one another in the middle. That uniqueness increases the value of any piece — and it's exactly what makes hand-made carpets collectibles.

I also keep a Yalvaç kilim, partly woven and partly knotted, so you can see the difference between the two techniques side by side. I bought it ten years ago while touring Pisidian Antioch — today's Yalvaç township — with a church group.

And here is a hundred-year-old Kars village dowry carpet: a prayer carpet for couples, in fantastic condition, that I still use from time to time so it stays that way. Notice how heavy it is. That region sits over 2,500 metres above sea level, and the sheep there grow thick wool to survive the bitter winters. Notice, too, the sheen — that comes from the wool's richness in lanolin, the natural oil in the fleece. When sheep in that country are shorn at the beginning of June, having fed all spring on green pasture, they give wool with exactly this beautiful sheen, and it's that lanolin that makes the carpet last.

Written by Aydin Eroglu for the House of Rugs Journal.

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