The times are urgent, let us slow down.
The times are urgent, let us play.
Anab Jain at FIBER Festival
Our hands contain our humanness. Sometimes they give us away. They clasp a chair while we pretend not to be scared. They sweat from the palms while we beg our foreheads to stay dry. They also hold. They pray. They dance along the keys of a piano. They tickle. They dust themselves in flour. They shape bread. They scratch the back of a lover. We hide so much in this life, but I don’t know if it is possible to hide the way a hand can open and close itself out of care or loss or love.
∆ Devin Kelly, from Ordinary Plots: "J. Estanislao Lopez's 'What the Fingers Do'"