Brooklyn, New York
The un-destinated destination.
I made that word up, and only fitting for Angie. We began our journey, both tentative, feeling each other’s presence, and very quickly abandoning our preceding ideas of one another.
Like a long river, a train route, passing by each landmark of one another. We trail through personal history, through family, through childhood. Then through moving, through college, through post-grad. We talk about biking, we talk about walking, we talk about Brooklyn, we talk about New York. This beautiful establishment, so charming and so very difficult.
We didn’t stop too long to peruse the objects, the art. We kept trailing, I touched, squished, bundled, and pulled at each fiber, fingertips grazing. Moving from one object to the other. The route didn’t leave room for over complication. I had never felt so close/ so autonomous to any work. It was the element of touch, the invitation of objects that had the physical ability to wrap around you. All crafted through a carefully calculated practice, yet feeling so natural–that metals can be woven into bending squares, that the coarsest vision of yarn could feel so soft. From hats, to fabrics, to objects. The amount of surprise at each touch was never questioned, our path, our conversation, and the art was never doubted. I never pictured an end destination.
There couldn’t be a destination, the way I saw it, Angie was going to continue to manipulate, distort and break your recognition of touch.