2022 / Childhood
As a child, I would spend most of my time playing with my hands and fingers in a way that, viewed from the outside, might have seemed at least autistic, if not slightly retarded. In fact, what I was engaged in was framing and composing views with my hands. The views themselves didn’t matter so much to me; what captivated me was the framing, not the framed.
The continuous composing of countless transitory microworlds, each one pouring its impermanence into the next, this was something to me!
The continuous composing of countless transitory microworlds, each one pouring its impermanence into the next, this was something to me!
I would literally create parallel worlds with my own bare hands. Easily impressionable like most children, these short-lived worlds were deeply alluring to me.
No doubt an autistic pursuit, as the satisfaction it instilled in me would cut me off from the outer world in which I was enveloped. I would let myself sink slowly into other worlds: the little ones at my fingertips.
And not only that: my framing hands would switch into moving sculptures in the blink of an eye, simply by shifting the focus from the spaces in between to the hands themselves.
