Hands are among the most important tools of our bodies. We learn to count on our fingers, to grip a pencil to write and draw, to communicate through gestures, and so many more lessons all with our hands. In my case, I learn to create form, texture, and materials with the very things that explore tactile natures. Our hands are so much like domestic objects. They function for us and show age and scars, much like our beloved mug or favorite chair shows wear and lost battles with time and use.
Hands have always been important to me, and I often use them to exhibit and inspire movement, action, and time. 2020 has been an extremely difficult year for the whole world. Among the isolation, injustices, and death, it has been hard for many of us to find comfort, in work, at home, or even with our families, because we have been forced into an environment of mistrust and longing. For me, my main consolation has been making. Using my hands to learn new skills and revisiting old ones to keep my hands and mind occupied has been imperative to maintain my comfortability. But what hindered many of my creative processes was the environment. In my childhood home, my bed became my desk and my floor my worktable, as my bedroom was the only feasible place for me to work. At my partner’s childhood home, I was constantly bumped from room to room, surface to surface, not able to occupy a space of my own because it was not my space to take. I, like most of the world right now, have had no agency in my environments, making my coping mechanisms a challenge to maintain.