I have asked you to travel with me, the artist, as I work on and develop my exhibition. To do this I have to begin by going backwards, back to the point when I began keeping a record of this part of my journey – to give you a full picture:
Thursday before Christmas
The hands shake as they hover over the bun case that contains an assortment of tablets. She looks down at her hands. They are not her hands. The fingers tremble and pills disappear from feeling. One by one she passes them from her right hand into her left hand, or at least tries to. The tears are rolling down her face; she turns her head away so that none might see. None are looking, but still she turns her head away.
These are not my hands! She cries. It is a silent cry.
She takes the cup of water, the tablet is already dissolving in her mouth, but she has to be careful. Holding the cup in her left hand, her right hand open below for support; her right hand unable to close with any strength.
These are not my hands, but my wrists are stronger. My wrists! I could not do this before, just a few days ago I could not do this… well maybe not a few days ago, maybe a week, maybe more it is hard to tell.
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