“Last night I woke up with someone squeezing my hand. It was my other hand” William S.Burroughs – Naked Lunch
‘An odd sensation when I realise that I tense my hands and fingers and then release them…’ One fist in a cradled hand, resting in its weight and volume. The left hand encompassing and fingers reaching around the knuckles. Tension in the thumb, up into the forearm and bicep.
Young hands in Pyjamas, different continents…
It is morning, the weather is wet, the last day of September, it is dark, and we are slow…taking time with the stitches. I notice that as I become more practiced the stitches appear to have a consistent form- a tangle, criss crossed, an intense bundle. It is a quiet practice, focussing on the hands and being careful in our movements and stitches, I’m enjoying the state it invokes. Perhaps because most of the holds are Read More
‘My hands live with me, very close to me, within an infinite space of possibility and wonder. My hands have always bridged me simultaneously in two directions, into communication towards the other and myself. Sometimes they hold the physical tools that amplify or concentrate my attention, intention, and commitment to a task. At times no other instrument is needed, and in those situations my hands appear as infinite vessels… they can surprise me being flexible, strong, Read More
‘I am aware of the emotions of the hands, the stories, the encounters…my whole body wants to respond.’ Whose hands are these? my mother asks…I describe them. Through the conversation the person is evoked, a virtual presence called up. My mother moves her fingers in counterpoint to the stitches, this is collaborative, not passive…we make together. The effort for smaller hands to stretch, to reach a considered, embodied approximation…a virtuality, a search for a pattern