‘Hands are an end and also a beginning. Feeling the outside become an inside, gliding, interlacing, taking weight…the left over varnish on my nails like little islands. The sound of my hands brushing each other, loud in the quiet.’
We admire, enjoy the choreography of the hold- finding it loosely, the gloves so pliable- the hold lives within them- but must be found- searching/ feeling for it.