I think of this reply to K, which I could have sent her yesterday.

She asked for an explanation of a sculpture I had sent her an image of, ‘Motherboard’.

I sent it to her on the train coming back from Oxford because we had been exchanging messages about our Mothers. I feel sad that the image of the sculpture has not worked for her. She has only seen a two centimetre rendition of it on the screen of her phone. Whether she zoomed in or not, I don’t know, whether she noticed the reflection of me, in the mirrored surface of it, taking a photo of it, I can’t know either. I told her that it was about my relationship with my Mum. Her reply is: “Looks like a heart. Other than that you might have to explain it to me.” That the work needs an explanation makes me sad.

I wake up just now thinking about the explanation of physical works that need to be experienced in the flesh, viewer-to-sculpture, sculpture-to-viewer and about how the explaining of them in words is inadequate. That translation that takes place that is not only inadequate but impossible and which is also a betrayal into Logos, the tongue of the Patriarchy.

Interesting, as I type that, now, how I notice how dangerous that feels for me, towards myself, to write that, in language, that fear of the power of the Patriarchy. This is one reason I needed the safety of the password to protect this space as I was initially keeping this blog. Now, editing it for making it public, I feel bolder. What the hell.

I didn’t reply to K. I had already told her that my phone battery was about to run out and that there were no charging points on the train, which was true. So I let it hang. Much like the sculpture hung, on a wall, after I had made it, two metres high for others to make of it what they would, given that it was on show in the past and then became a photographic image of itself, on a screen, pinging backwards and forwards. It’s also an image I use on my business cards. ‘Motherboard’ on a piece of card, ten by four centimetres big alongside my name and contact details.

So I think of this reply now, at 3am when I wake in the middle of the night, to send to her:

“The day after surgery, an anxious spouse asks the surgeon how the procedure on her husband had gone. He replies: “We won’t know if it has worked until you and I sit down together and I explain to you what I did.” I don’t understand this yet but I feel it is approaching some kind of relevance.