Hearing Handles
I slip the tiny key into the lock: twist, unlatch and open. My heart expands and starts to pound. Intense emotion begins circulating through my body. My legs wobble as I reach into my locker and grab the twenty-five pound bag of clay. Heavy but bearable, I haul the block to the studio like a ship carries its anchor. The endless possibilities in this moment flash through my muscles. My hands begin to anticipate forms and manipulations. My breath becomes rapid as I slice off chunks from this solid lump of earth. I squeeze a lump into a phallic shape and dip it into warm water. My right hand, wet and curled, caresses the clay downward. I rotate my wrist and stroke again. It begins to move, following the action of my hand and grows longer. The slippery clay stretches out like a serpent’s tongue. My fingers respond to the plasticity of the material. I begin to feel awake in ways that I do not have words for. I grasp the top of the clay and with slight pressure impress my knuckle. I slide my knuckle the length of the line and release at the tip. With a pinch, I snip and stick it to the table where it hangs limp to dry and wait for me to shape it into its final form. I wipe my hands on the dusty towel, grab the next chunk of clay and begin squeezing life again.
“Hearing Handles” unveils the continuum of line that stretches through our humanity. What do we hold on to? Together, the handles reveal truths and insights in the ongoing acts of life that are often unnoticed or invisible. What did you let go of yesterday? What will you do with the negative space that was created by letting go? The physical work of creating the handles was driven by my subconscious and evoked questions about negative space. I didn’t know my destination, but I understood this daunting effort: moving forward into the unknown. Imagination is the driving force that blocks inhibitions and keeps momentum moving in an upward direction. After the handles are finished, the power of progress ceases. What remains is the memory of the effort and its transcendental contemplations. I follow the lines. The marks created by the power of my hands contain a rhythm and harmony. Grouped together, they create a musical score for my mind to follow. This melody of movement was captured in a simple gestural stroke. Try to hear what I see. Envision the sound between the handles.
I slip the tiny key into the lock: twist, unlatch and open. My heart expands and starts to pound. Intense emotion begins circulating through my body. My legs wobble as I reach into my locker and grab the twenty-five pound bag of clay. Heavy but bearable, I haul the block to the studio like a ship carries its anchor. The endless possibilities in this moment flash through my muscles. My hands begin to anticipate forms and manipulations. My breath becomes rapid as I slice off chunks from this solid lump of earth. I squeeze a lump into a phallic shape and dip it into warm water. My right hand, wet and curled, caresses the clay downward. I rotate my wrist and stroke again. It begins to move, following the action of my hand and grows longer. The slippery clay stretches out like a serpent’s tongue. My fingers respond to the plasticity of the material. I begin to feel awake in ways that I do not have words for. I grasp the top of the clay and with slight pressure impress my knuckle. I slide my knuckle the length of the line and release at the tip. With a pinch, I snip and stick it to the table where it hangs limp to dry and wait for me to shape it into its final form. I wipe my hands on the dusty towel, grab the next chunk of clay and begin squeezing life again.
“Hearing Handles” unveils the continuum of line that stretches through our humanity. What do we hold on to? Together, the handles reveal truths and insights in the ongoing acts of life that are often unnoticed or invisible. What did you let go of yesterday? What will you do with the negative space that was created by letting go? The physical work of creating the handles was driven by my subconscious and evoked questions about negative space. I didn’t know my destination, but I understood this daunting effort: moving forward into the unknown. Imagination is the driving force that blocks inhibitions and keeps momentum moving in an upward direction. After the handles are finished, the power of progress ceases. What remains is the memory of the effort and its transcendental contemplations. I follow the lines. The marks created by the power of my hands contain a rhythm and harmony. Grouped together, they create a musical score for my mind to follow. This melody of movement was captured in a simple gestural stroke. Try to hear what I see. Envision the sound between the handles.
