In Harlem, I move through an empty market, early and unexpected. I catch the quiet, surprising the few souls setting up – boss moves. Inside, I trade hands with a good man, thick stacks of mud cloth and indigo-dyed textiles from Ivory Coast and Burkina Faso piling between us. We negotiate in quiet voices, hands feeling the patterns and textures, eyes studying the deep shades of indigo, counting hand-sewn panels, their thickness, their softness, their edges. Looking for the piece with history, sun-baked earth, skilled hands and old traditions. Soon, they’ll find new life at Valerie Ley Alter’s shop, fairlyworn.