‘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.
Stitching into mannequin hands again. The relative awkwardness of handling these disembodied things. Stitching is methodical, finger-by-finger…the hand assembled in its hold, points of contact between tethered, the stitches are loci in the navigation towards the hold. Though the thing is approximate, the material sensitive and breathing- ghosting around the form.
‘By the end I started to feel like I was holding another persons’ hand – my partners’ – a holding, a caress, comfort, being held. It took the whole time to get there. To be in touch…’ My mother offers her hands again…we stitch, she tells me it is not necessary to talk…I look at the photograph, I have a tangible, physical sense of this person in a place, a memory- as I stitch I re- member. Something 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