Acts of Care: A Manifesto

Intuitive Geometries publication with bright yellow front cover and pink inside.

My hands are in their pockets as I use my tools. 

My hands flow, picking up their lines of movement before dipping wildly off course, externalising parts of myself, before we join together again, smooth and in step. A chronocyclegraph animated to a daily dance; I become bolder each day as my invisible partners and I hold each other. 

The hands working behind me are ever present. My hands are non compliant shadows, slowly gaining ground into permanence.

Part of this connection between us is that the materials are so elemental, so ancient, that the ties are unmistakable. Human—material—human like a silk thread; highly prized to those of us close enough to see the glistening in the sunlight. 

I am a custodian of the skills of many generations, so are you. 

I hold the knowledge that has been hard won; the firm and respectful movement of metals into tools and forms, but the importance isn’t in the past. The importance is in the capabilities for the future.  Acts of care and repair, weaving ourselves into the world. 

Looking after the public and the private in equal measure, as they are equally us. 

The tools I use are a muddle of mine and theirs. Mine, bought or handmade by me to enact some specific function that no-one else has seen fit to make a tool for, or that no-one else has seen. 

Theirs, a love letter to the people I have met. An assortment of gifts, hand-me-downs and finds that leave me entranced, turning and peeking into all corners for clues about their lives.  Ceremoniously they are brought together into the actions of the workshop.  

Common objects, interpreted and adapted as a language rolling and changing, passing between us. 

Daily the ritual must be completed to put the tools to bed; brush down to remove swarf, dust and filings onto floor, wipe threads, faces and plates, oil moving parts, wipe down handles, oil faces then wrap in cloth, note any housekeeping and set aside, put away into families or leave out, wrapped, for tomorrow.

Thankyou for holding me

Linda Brothwell 2021

 

Text commissioned by Georgia Hall for Yellowfields Publication

Image credit & publication design Conway & Young

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