Braiding is a painful and lengthy process. Both victim and perpetrator invest time and perseverance in a repetitive task of which the result are tired fingers, a sore scalp, numb limbs from holding difficult positions for hours.
Braiding happens in a shady and quiet space, perhaps outdorrs, perhaps by a large window; the simpler the abode the more blurred the distinction.
All around, the heat and dry dust settle slowly; there is a deep silence permeating any sounds that occur.
Women wait for their life to unroll before them, commanded by others. They braid in the meantime, hoping and waiting.
There is no hint of resignation here, because there is no alternative possible.
Braiding in clay is similarly linear and serene. We may laugh and tell jokes, but the quiet remains and there is no underlying tale to tell. This is just life as it is and has to be.
Within the deep shadow inside a thatched hut, perched at the rim of the dunes piled high above the roiling sea, a woman and a young girl sit on their heels. Little hissing sounds escape now and again, audible above the restless waves' sighing, lapping, shimmering.
The morning wears on, the heat trembles on the horizon. A breeze clatters among the coconut fronds. By early afternoon, a head covered in small curvy forms, worming back and down, each finished by a colourful bead, shakes and emerges into the blinding sun: there is a feeling of soreness and joy mingled and a look of expectant pride. A young woman ready for the feast.
In clay, all of the sounds and light are blurred in a blunted edge. Within the figure, are the hollows and worried pains, encased in happiness and eagerness. A drowning in sand.
Braiding happens in a shady and quiet space, perhaps outdorrs, perhaps by a large window; the simpler the abode the more blurred the distinction.
All around, the heat and dry dust settle slowly; there is a deep silence permeating any sounds that occur.
Women wait for their life to unroll before them, commanded by others. They braid in the meantime, hoping and waiting.
There is no hint of resignation here, because there is no alternative possible.
Braiding in clay is similarly linear and serene. We may laugh and tell jokes, but the quiet remains and there is no underlying tale to tell. This is just life as it is and has to be.
Within the deep shadow inside a thatched hut, perched at the rim of the dunes piled high above the roiling sea, a woman and a young girl sit on their heels. Little hissing sounds escape now and again, audible above the restless waves' sighing, lapping, shimmering.
The morning wears on, the heat trembles on the horizon. A breeze clatters among the coconut fronds. By early afternoon, a head covered in small curvy forms, worming back and down, each finished by a colourful bead, shakes and emerges into the blinding sun: there is a feeling of soreness and joy mingled and a look of expectant pride. A young woman ready for the feast.
In clay, all of the sounds and light are blurred in a blunted edge. Within the figure, are the hollows and worried pains, encased in happiness and eagerness. A drowning in sand.
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