Traveling around Uzbekistan

I used to think pottery was just, you know, clay shaped into bowls. Then I spent three days in Rishtan, a small city in Uzbekistan’

I used to think epic poetry was just Homer and Beowulf—you know, the stuff they make you read in college. Then I stumbled into a dusty bookshop in Tashkent

I used to think felting was just something my grandmother did with old sweaters. Then I spent three weeks in Bukhara’s old city, watching artisans

When Alabaster Dust Becomes Poetry: The Stubborn Persistence of Ganch in Uzbek Hands I used to think plaster was just plaster. Then I watched a master

I used to think caravanserais were just, you know, ancient rest stops. But standing in the courtyard of one in Khiva—dust swirling around crumbling brick

I never expected to find myself crouched in a dusty field outside Samarkand, watching a man named Rustam thread a bowstring with the kind of focus you’

I used to think the best time to visit Registan Square was sunrise, back when I first stood in that vast courtyard in Samarkand and watched light crawl

I’ve stood in a lot of ancient cities at dusk, but Khiva does something different to you. The sound and light show here—staged most evenings inside

I’ve spent three evenings in Khiva now, and I can tell you the light here does something I still don’t fully understand. The thing about photographing

I’ve been staring at photographs of Khiva’s tilework for probably three hours now, and I still can’t quite figure out how they got the