Exhibition Text by Sophie Mackintosh

𝘐 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦. 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘦𝘵 𝘶𝘯𝘢𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘥, 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘐 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯, 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦, 𝘢 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘤𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘰𝘯𝘦.

𝙃𝙖𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜

You might think to pull an artery between your palms would feel like rope, would feel like rubber. You might think that when you gently press the twine of it with your thumb and forefinger it would give way.
We are stronger than we give ourselves credit for, less easy to erase,
though how I may have dreamed sometimes of leaving no trace.

But a body is more than a mouthprint of breath left on glass, more than a halo.
But my body feels the earth burying my feet, the wind hard against skin, the roots of me inside the earth.
Feels it. A thousand neurons firing, a constellation.
The theatre of my memory holds me firm.
It roots me to the ground.

Let the rain come for me
Let the weather come for me
Let me be weather
Let my palms meet where the artery runs, twisting and strong.
Let me be of the flesh and more than the flesh. Let me be ageless, hewn from something bigger than myself.

𝘽𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜

In the memory theatre, things could be displaced.
The stage could be re-set – I told things differently each time I told them.
There was an echo
There was a tuning fork, ringing
There was a wrong note, the right notes, a whispered voice
There was a whispered story and a shouted one and both were true.

In the memory theatre I curated and re-curated
I believed and unbelieved
In re-remembering I found another kind of story
I no longer knew the true story.

But then there was no one true story, I knew. Not one definitive thing written or read.
Only the one that lived inside of me,
lived inside a thousand changing versions of me.
A story traced against the velvet of my lungs and heart and throat.

There was no knowing which stories would land,
which would sink into the earth,
which I could write upon myself for all to see.

𝙎𝙩𝙞𝙩𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜

Needle – thread – blood pinpricks: a constellation.

I watched the movement of the metal swim under skin, tensile silver fish, slip of a thing.
A surfacing.
There is pain in re-mending,
there is pain in remembering,
there is pain in the piecing together.

I felt the nerves of my fingers alive, and I felt myself again of the flesh and more than the flesh.

I have been a new kind of thing, and I do not wish to lose pain, which is not to say embrace it.
In the memory theatre there are a thousand different ways to patchwork,
embroider, weave.
I choose them all.
I leave myself behind like a garment,
remade, re-mended, made do.

I will remember
I will be remembered in turn
And so it goes on,

a constellation: blood pinpricks / thread / needle.

𝘕𝘰𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘸𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘩 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘭𝘺, 𝘸𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘭𝘺, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘸𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘸𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥.