Fingers and Fragments

The slipping away of thread, the inevitability of the pulling out. Leave it hanging and what do you expect, it’s an invitation and was always meant to be such a thing, a temptation for all-comers, along with the peeking and sliding in of fingers small and large into a purposely affixed half-open drawer. As if this was not anticipated it was. Shining and glittering they’re mainly all still there in the back of the drawer, needing reassembling not replacing. The pulled thread on the table generates a different sensation and response. Bring out the white glue again and apply in fine strands, or fix them down in the same way as the café table, where hanging threads are fixed fast underneath by staples, inset by a centimetre, pull and nothing happens. Visually, the difference between the two is vast, to me, and the loss of temptation in the café version leads to thread curling and twisting in doodle state of sitting waiting for the food to arrive or the drinks to cool, so again there’s a visual difference. The emotion in my response, what I’m feeling as I look down at a pulled thread, hangs between the satisfaction of engagement and participation and the irrational pain of invasion: I spent hours doing this and you think you can just come along and give it a yank.

And the dark specks falling onto the once immaculately creased and domed white tablecloths, sooty particles released from the dark ancient beams of the Long Gallery, which was a barn before conversion, a working barn. Like the pulled threads, they keep coming back. They keep coming back and sometimes it feels like love, I haven’t forgotten you, look I’m still tugging and scattering. Fingers and fragments. Fix me up, dust me down, or not, no consequence, no blame. More house than gallery. More mansion than house. Live with it. Live in it. As you do.

 

thread pull

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