artw o r k s f o r m e d i n f o r m e d b y w a t e r
v i g i l
I wash my dirty hands.
Such a mundane act.
I wash my hands in the bathroom.Such
a mundane act. Hands dirty from working in the
studio. Wash my hands in this stream of water. The tap drips - it can’t
be turned off. ‘Perhaps the washer is going’ I hear myself say, feigning knowledge of how all this works and
echoing Dad who is right now, downstairs, gradually fading away. I can no more stop the water from flowing out than stop him from
leaving. I realise now. I let it fall through my fingers and honour this brief
entrance and exit. Tap to drain, the water emerges, breaks into the light, sings a little, then is gone. In reverence I gather the trace of it. I keep vigil there for hours in the bathroom till the water evaporates
off the paper and all is left is a small stain of ash -- dirt of living. Residue of some thing that once articulated light. Residue of some thing that briefly caught the light and
shone with it, then let it go.