A Sourcing Trip
to Northern India

I make a conscious decision not to share names and to avoid photographing faces whenever possible, respecting the anonymity of the workers and partners I work with. Instead, I focus on their hands and on the physicality of rug making, from spinning yarns to scrubbing finished rugs. This abstracts the individual, highlighting the collective effort of the hundreds of weavers I work with over the years. This is not a partnership with one artisan but with many.

Design isn't about choosing but about knowing. And you don't really know a material, a process, or a supply chain until you spend time inside it. This is an invitation to see what I see and to understand why thoughtful collaboration leads to better, more meaningful design.

The trip to Bikaner begins with a seven-hour train ride from Gurgaon, a modern city with its upscale arcades and glass skyscrapers adorned with the logos of notable multinationals. It is located just below the sprawling capital region of Delhi and is the financial and tech hub of northern India, essentially the opposite of where we are heading.

Luce and I split a first-class cabin with an older Indian woman who sleeps through most of the ride. The city of Bikaner is situated in the northwestern part of the state of Rajasthan and lies within the Thar desert. The city is a sun-baked sprawl of markets with small, tight laneways, and pink sandstone forts and palaces sprinkled throughout. It is a small city by Indian standards. Wealthy during the reign of the Raj, it is now considered a bit off the beaten path. Many of its intricately carved stone buildings from more extravagant eras are now used for contemporary life—shop storage and ad hoc office space.

After arriving at the Bikaner train station, we are greeted by my yarn supplier in the city. A middle-aged, portly man dressed in all white, a traditional kurta and pajama combo. With the late afternoon heat on my neck, I am immediately jealous. The day before in Gurgaon, I purchase a pair of western-style black linen trousers, a massive upgrade from my heavy denim jeans I walk off the plane in, but clearly, I am not shopping in the right bazaars.

A perk of traveling through India while visiting business partners is the personal drivers. To get anywhere within the packed cities of India takes time and patience. Every intersection is an exercise in creative driving and liberal honking. Planning a trip to meet producers and work on new designs is more about planning the hours spent between facilities in the back of a car. I shouldn't complain, however. My suppliers insist I use their vehicle and company driver while I am within their city limits, air conditioning at full blast. Throughout the meeting-packed days, the drivers dissolve into and emerge from the crowded streets at a moment's notice. Their job seems split between driving me around and joining the endless hangs of middle-aged men sipping chai on each corner.

There is a seamlessness to strangers spending time together that I, as a Canadian, have trouble wrapping my head around. It's not friendliness but an acceptance of each other blended with a lack of concern for personal space. From afar, these interactions feel both alienating and much more human than strangers interacting back at home. It shines a spotlight on how culturally conservative Canada is. If I am driving around stopping at various locations in Montreal, I would most likely be waiting completely alone between trips. At home, my time spent in limbo is usually done in complete isolation. In India, there is no shortage of people to argue with or tell jokes to.

Cotton makes up a small percentage of my rugs, as it is usually used as the warp yarn on the looms in traditional rug weaving (the warp is the yarn running vertically that the wool is woven between). Natural undyed Indian cotton is visible at the ends of some of my rugs as the fringe. This is the warp strings tied in a knot to keep the rug from unraveling.

After the cotton farm, we drive to an expanse of rolling dunes, where, after an hour or so of driving, we track down a shepherd, his son, and their donkey, herding a large group of sheep across the sandy landscape. We try arranging the rugs in the sand, coaxing the sheep over them. It is chaotic. The nature of herd animals is just that—to herd. This means that any action you take towards them, they usually respond by grouping up and moving away. We quickly realize herding is an artform. The subtle but masterful positioning of the shepherd puts the sheep exactly where we need them to take a few photos.

We stop for lunch at a roadside restaurant built of a corrugated steel roof with woven grass walls. We are served the largest roti I have ever seen, dripping in ghee. Our host, born of the Brahmin caste, is fasting from sunrise to sundown over a Hindu holiday. He ensures we eat too much while he abstains.

We continue with a visit to the yarn factory, where we meet the owners, two brothers, in their office with traditional Indian music humming out of the speakers, overlaid with a voice chanting "RAM" on repeat. The tour of the factory is a deep dive into yarn-making. This is my first time seeing every single part of the process, from raw wool to finished yarn.

Luce captures videos and photos with a growing fan club of factory workers trailing her. By the end, she has ten men following her, which she handles much better than I ever could. She even puts them to work, moving some items around to get the right shots.

As Luce shoots the facility, I break off to finalize new yarns I have been developing for a new collection. It is a spinning technique that blends five fiber colors in a mixture of Bikaner and New Zealand wool. Even with all the emails, photos, illustrations, and drawings, nothing speeds up the development of a new design like sitting down with the producer and discussing the project with a sample in hand. This is the value of a sourcing trip. In thirty minutes, I can discuss limitations, challenges, and problems with a new design—conversations that would take months over the phone and between international FedEx shipments. I can cut through language barriers and cultural assumptions with simple, direct feedback. There is an instantaneous syncing of intent that is incredibly hard to achieve over the internet, regardless of bandwidth.

The next day begins with high hopes as we head to a 500-year-old cemetery and fort complex for our first product shoot. Upon arrival, however, the guards—alleged descendants of those buried on-site—make it clear that we can't shoot there. We scout the vicinity and find some old structures near an ancient reservoir. Though not ideal, we capture what we can, trying to salvage the morning.

For the second location, we find a small, lesser-known fort with a friendly caretaker. Proudly granting us full access, he declares, "No entrance fees!" Luce sets up and shoots against the fort's worn walls as the sun climbs, while local women in traditional dress linger nearby, watching the unfolding photoshoot, too shy to attempt their limited English.

As two Westerners moving through more rural parts of India, we attract many eyes. It's understandable—we look different from everyone else. But a specific relationship forms. There's a feeling that our presence can quite literally represent wealth. Not that I am wealthy by Western standards. This trip is expensive, but it's a cost I can afford.

The stares I receive in India don't feel malicious, but at times they feel extractive. I'm not worried for my safety, but I know that unless I'm accompanied by an Indian willing to negotiate on my behalf (best done when I'm not present), I will be overpaying in markets. I will be charged more; the only question is how much more.

Being so obvious anywhere we go, me, over six feet tall, and Luce, a bleached-blond French woman, gets uncomfortable. I feel like I'm on a stage with no performance to give. This is where my work comes in. I've been lucky to travel extensively throughout Asia over the last decade, sourcing and developing products with local partners. The act of working gives me a sense of legitimacy here. If I'm running a photoshoot, touring production facilities, or meeting with suppliers, I have a clear reason for being on this stage.

Passersby can watch, and while their interpretations of what I'm doing may vary, the general character I play and how I fit within the larger community, region, and country is not vague. I feel like a functioning part of where I am, even if only for a short time, rather than just a voyeur passing through.

This entire trip is framed by watching weavers and workers do their jobs. I document them through Luce’s camera. I ask them to be on a stage as well. To refuse the same in return would be hypocritical. The purpose of this trip is to showcase their work to an audience, so when we draw an audience in this small fort in Bikaner, it feels fitting. Having work to perform makes being watched tolerable.

By midday, the heat is relentless, and I am drenched from moving heavy rugs for the shoot. But Luce powers through. Afterward, we return to the airport to catch our next flight, only to discover a five-hour delay.

We head back and roam Bikaner's old town, stopping by a temple as heavy rain begins to fall. We watch as locals celebrate the rare, out-of-season desert thunderstorm. Before returning to the airport, we stop at a palace-turned-hotel for a late afternoon chai, settling in by the marble courtyard as another storm sweeps in. The five-hour delay turns into seven, and we try not to upset the temperamental gods of regional short-haul flights.

Multiple flights later, we arrive at our hotel in Varanasi, terribly late and completely spent.

Varanasi is a city void of time. The city has always been here and will always be here. Rising from the Ganges River, its history violently smashes into the present moment like a car crash, with the inevitable traffic jam backing up in all directions. Its ancient stone temples press up against one-star hotels. Cars honk at horse-drawn carriages. Beggars and holy men walk alongside Japanese tourists with thousand-dollar cameras.

Endless groups of Hindus take the picturesque steps running along the riverbank plunging into the river Ganga to wash away their sins. All of this happens just downstream from the bodies of the deceased being cremated on open-air wood fires, their ashes scattered in the Ganges—a tradition all Hindus pray to one-day partake in. Considered one of the most spiritual sites in Hinduism, this city is guaranteed to be over capacity at all hours.

Our day starts with reading the marriage ads in the Hindustan Times while eating dosa at the hotel. Unfortunately, unlike my previous visits, this trip doesn’t allow any time to explore the holy city. We are essentially using the city only for its airport. We head to the small city of Bhadohi, just a few hours outside Varanasi, for our first meeting with one of my rug suppliers.

As soon as we arrive, I send Luce off with one of the supplier’s sons to photograph the looms, which are located further outside the city. The owner himself, possibly the tallest Indian I’ve ever met, carries a strong presence—he reminds me of a Muslim Denzel Washington. Their offering of new weaving techniques is impressive, and I choose too many rugs to sample and send home with me.

Once Luce wraps up, we head to watch the rug washing process. There, Luce commands a team of rug cleaners, orchestrating every shot until she is satisfied. The team of washers is visibly taken aback by Luce directing them with such conviction (while also washing the same rug five times over). All my rugs are double washed, meaning there is an initial yarn washing, followed by a second wash after weaving. This ensures the softest hand feel. The soaps used are all natural, and combined with 100% natural rug fibers, this makes wastewater treatment much simpler.

We arrive late to our hotel in the next city stop of Mirzapur, where our driver scrapes a two-foot section of the van against a concrete column right in front of the hotel concierge. All parties involved decide to ignore what just happened.

Luce opts out of dinner after putting in a heroic day of shooting, so I meet another one of my rug suppliers, who is waiting in the lobby. He promptly leads me to the bar hidden at the back of the hotel, where we proceed to drink heavily. Plate after plate of regional dishes arrives at the bar, and after quite a few beers, he announces it is finally time to go to dinner, though I was under the impression that had already happened.

At the end of dinner, my host offers me various mouth fresheners, and when he pushes some chewing tobacco on me, I accept. He gives me a pinch in a tissue with specific instructions: "Take when you wake up before your morning movements." I toss it as soon as I get back to my room. I'm just not cut out for Indian chewing tobacco.

The next morning, I am late to breakfast, and the staff’s partial English, mixed with my lingering drinks from last night, makes ordering a coffee difficult. We drive a short distance to my supplier’s home, which also functions as his finishing and shipping facility. We send Luce off to document the burning of loose fibers, rug washing, and the kilims on the loom. All the looms are located outside the cities. Weavers typically own their own looms or work on communally owned ones. My suppliers hire weavers as independent contractors who choose their own hours and production volume, many of them also being farmers or mothers.

I spend the day reviewing new designs and discussing various techniques on display in his showroom. Afterward, my supplier and I sit in his office, pretending to be important businesspeople until Luce finishes her photoshoot. Apparently, the weavers give her a round of applause as she wraps up the shoot at their shared loom facility.

Returning to the hotel by 11 p.m., we prep for our early wake-up to catch a 4 a.m. flight, with our host haggling for a discount on the bill—a process that drags on for another 20 minutes before bed. I wake up the next morning with a significant price reduction on my hotel receipt. In India, everything is up for negotiation.

This Travel Journal was first featured in the Fall/Winter 2026 issue of Elle Decoration Canada, and has since been self-published as a small standalone booklet. If you'd like a printed copy to keep at home alongside your rug, you can now order one on our website. A nice little companion to the piece in your space. Click the image below to get your copy.