Blue in the drying cloth

An original literary non-fiction-style account of visiting a small batik studio while cloth is being examined.

The blue cloth hung between two wooden posts in the studio yard. From the doorway it looked like a calm piece of weather. Closer to it, I could see narrow pale lines travelling through the colour, branching and stopping without ever becoming quite regular. The maker, Anisa, held one lower corner while her assistant looked from the other side.

They were deciding which length to use for a commission. Anisa wanted a section where the blue deepened near the border. Her assistant preferred a quieter part, with fewer pale lines. Neither called the other section wrong. They moved the cloth across the line, bringing different portions into the shade, and their conversation became a sequence of small adjustments: here, not there, perhaps beside this.

On a nearby table lay a sample the size of a book cover. It carried the same colours but looked busier. Anisa put it against the hanging length, where it briefly resembled a window cut out of the larger surface. She said that a small piece could make every mark seem equally important. With a whole length, she could allow some areas to remain quiet.

A gust lifted the cloth. For a second it filled like a sail, erasing the straight edge they had been studying. Both reached for it at once, laughed and steadied it. A wet corner left a blue mark on Anisa’s wrist. She looked at the mark, then returned to the border without wiping it away.

When they finally chose the section, her assistant tied a loose thread around the edge. The rest of the cloth remained on the line. In the afternoon light, the chosen piece did not announce itself. Its difference existed in their agreement and in the little thread, almost invisible against the blue.

How does the writer present the makers’ judgement of the cloth?