Unbelievable journey to Margelan (Uzbekistan)

We arrived in the Fergana Valley, to visit the artisan town Margilan, where ikat is produced and known all over the world. We decided to learn more about the people who make ikat. Women pick cotton in the fields, and when the cotton season ends, these same women weave at home. I was lucky to visit one of these homes — bare walls, iron beds, a low table, a stove outside. In the yard grows sweet grapes called "Ladies' Fingers" — a fitting name, since it's nurtured by women's hands. Yet those hands are calloused and cracked.

We were greeted by the head woman of the house — the weaver. She wore a scarf on her head, but through it you could see a streak of white hair. She looked about 85, walked with difficulty, her eyes tired, her face deeply lined with wrinkles. I decided to photograph them in the clothing made from the very fabric they helped create. I asked "Opa" — that's how they address an older woman in Uzbek — to take off her headscarf. It turned out she had long, fair braids. She was lively and cheerful, happily posing for my camera.

She wore a piece from the HAYOT collection — white horses on a blue background, symbolizing purity and celestial eternity. The fabric had been created right there in the workshop. It's a nontraditional pattern, but the local artisans aren't afraid of new challenges. They constantly experiment with colors and patterns — carefully preserving the ancient technology, yet remaining open to modern design. That's why they easily agreed to take on HAYOT's complex order. On Opa's feet were tabi shoes from Maison Margiela.

Later, her daughter-in-law and a lively neighbor girl joined the shoot. I tried to capture not just a story about clothing, but a story about the weaver's family — their daily life. Grandchildren and neighborhood children took part in the photos too.

Aziz, the owner of the workshop where the fabrics are made, waited for us in the courtyard — he didn't go inside, since there was no male head of the household.

After the shoot, they set the table for us — hot flatbread, two skewers of kebab, and those same "Ladies' Fingers" grapes, along with green tea. Opa gave us handkerchiefs, embraced and kissed us warmly. Later I learned that she wasn't 85, but only 66. The spark in her remained, but her strength was quietly leaving her.

As I left Margilan, I contemplated how a life of hard physical labor can age a beautiful woman. However, the cotton industry in the Fergana Valley is changing for the better. The young children who took part in our photo shoot do not work in the fields like their mothers and grandmothers.