Dishing

Text by Capucine Fachot

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Two divers step on a metallic terrace by an ocean of bubbles amidst unidentified floating objects. The change of environment will allow them a few milliseconds of friction to adapt to a new environment: temperature and humidity levels.

Eager for the cold water embrace, they reassess past mistakes balanced by regaining confidence in their maneuvering abilities. Inner and outer conflict arises between a robotic mindset who aspires to a non-error process and a relaxed diver, fluent with experience under water. The final jump will erase those feelings.

Meddling with risk, washing the dishes is an experience half sensual, half suicidal. Semi-expecting a catastrophe, dangerous furrowing of voluptuous porcelain mugs slip out of the fingers’ embrace, falling back in the tin-cased sea with open roof. The confidence in one’s hands and their abilities to conduct the washing could be destroyed at every moment.

Oscillations on a mindset, they depend on odd accidents recollecting. The moves are consciously and unconsciously proceeded with. Depending on past recording entries, the body takes control, supplemented by experience. Command, control, ritual, shuffle, register, hands handled by themselves.

This bundle of fear, the fear of the slippage, in a world of shattered glass and shards of sounds appears life-terminating. Expected, foreseen, experienced, the shudder of the accident induces all kind of agonies. The brunt of an incident would only be a broken cup, only. Yet, a move pressed with urgency, could also mean a cut, blood gushing and pain.

Control regained by the brain, just a broken cup, the divers reinstate the automaton moves in the half-bent position. Hovering between shelves and sink, a stiff diagonal back, puppeteers are stuck and frigid as the swimmers glide with fluidity. Gleaming with suffused joy, they vibrate on adrenaline releases.

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Enjoying washing off the dishes is an acquired taste, experience savoured by the few who changed their perspective on the chore. Shuffling attentions between shapes and textures, the chore is intricate. Impregnated with haste. Hands and mind are grappled with conflicting moods. The rush of water escapes from the tap, as the series of stumbled objects are handled at once. Chain-maneuvered, yet individually loved.

Steady hands filled with complacency and reassurance, the sponge glistens with syrupy green liquid in all-in-one massage package deals. Ecstatic energy confined in malleable ceramic cups, the drains act as a repository of sorts, a cemetery in shades of white and beige.

The consumed drink leaves possession stains which need to be removed. All together forgotten in the act of rubbing, scrubbing and cleansing. The ablutions to make anew the cup, reinstall the virginal aspiration of the object.

Amphibian hands hurry, there’s no denying the thrill of seeing the sink getting cleared out. The arid world comes as soon as the hands reach out for the piece of fabric destined to dry them ultimately. Wrapped in cloth, a dual embrace between palms of hands nestling a cup, as it turns and turns to lose every drop of water. Similar to a freshly-out-of-the-bath baby, the world of care and warmth is re-entered. One by one, they are enveloped in a skin of love through a dry towel.

Glazing in the light, turned upside down, there, cups await their future use, occupying a shelf and breathing in répit.

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