Process. Experience. What I think about when making work. How that feeds into the work, not always visibly.
There is something at once melancholy and sensual in this separating of strands from the bundle of (artificial) hair before me, which I then use for crocheting. I am reminded of the way a mother might tenderly run the comb through her daughter’s long hair and then separate out three strands and weave a plait. I am not speaking from memory here, as I mostly had short hair as a child and only ever wore tiny thin pigtails which barely stuck out from my head for more than a couple of inches. Isn’t it funny, in German these short girly bunches of gathered up hair are called rat-tails…
That conjured up image of the perfect mother quickly flips over into one of the wicked (step)mother who pushes the comb harshly through the girl’s hair and gives the entangled strands sharp tugs. The opposite to everything is always just around the corner, never mind all the possibilities in-between and beyond.
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