Drip

To hold someone's hand is a sign of comfort; my fingers entwine with my daughter's fleshy hand to cross the road. This need to hold hands was never more evident than during the COVID-19 pandemic, when gloves filled with warm water were given to patients in intensive care to hold, mimicking human touch. As with social isolation in hospitals, there were not enough nurses' hands to go around (Spring, 2021). Making by hand is slowing down a direct reconnecting with matter, including crafting, sewing, making. It is often seen as women's work and, therefore, of little value, but rather a labour of love. With the abundance of digital data surrounding us and digital processes present at all stages of material making, as well as the speed at which this is available at the swipe of the screen. Drip aims to return to the wonder of human handwork and to my desire to connect with and handle materials, including offering digital materials the same care and tactile sensations as I offer my baby. My arm was extended, recording in real-time the moment, waiting for the drip of water to drop.  This felt agonisingly slow (though it lasted only ten minutes), and my shaking hand and patience ultimately gave out long before the bead dropped. The glove is used in the making process, protecting my skin while manipulating skin like paper vellum with Chinese lacquer, a toxic tree resin. The glove was reused many times, becoming a second skin, an enfolding of time and a once fleshy connection, the remains of sensual moments between hands, bodies, and materials.

 

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