Some women set down a record of their days in a journal, but not Claire Murray. Instead, Claire weaves the texture of her existence into rugs. You encounter the flowers, boats, harbors, arbors, and patterns that populate Claire’s reality. The shingles on her church, the sky over the water in a nearby bay, the nuances of color in a petal outside her door—all are woven into the rugs under foot. Sit down with Claire Murray, and, like a piece of yarn woven through jute, you are hooked into her fabric.