In Begüm Erciyas’ “Hands Made”, the audience’s hands are in the spotlight, creating a space for encounter and ambiguity. The piece can be experienced and co-created on 8/9 February at Radialsystem.
I am in complete darkness. It makes no difference if my eyes are open or shut. Silence.
I’m wearing headphones and sitting in a kind of cabinet next to another person whom I can’t see. Bit by bit, a small spotlight illuminates a small lectern in front of me. The voice in the headphones invites the person next to me to place a hand on the lectern. Nothing happens for a long time. Then, very hesitantly, a few fingers move to the edge of the lectern’s surface. Slowly, a hand glides upwards over the lectern, hesitates, stops. I observe the fingernails, the joints of the individual fingers, the veins on the backside of the hand, the slightly reddish skin, the pores on the skin, and the small hairs. After a while, I, too, am invited to place my hand on the lectern. My nail polish sparkles in the light. I should’ve cut my fingernails beforehand. My veins are more pronounced than those on the other hand. And darker. My skin is dry. I couldn’t find my hand cream. Years of neurodermatitis and cortisone cream and gastronomy jobs with constant moisture, dish detergent, and cleaning supplies make my hands appear older than they are.
The voice in our ears gives us additional tasks. We move one after the other, together, rhythmically, and in alternating time to the background noise that I associate with a factory. We copy the movements of the other hand, attempting to imitate even the smallest details. At some point, it is no longer clear who initiates the movement and who follows. we have become one body, with movement sequences that have taken on a momentum all their own and a brain that lies outside both our heads. We are both part of a practiced process.
Hands that work. Other hands that work for these hands. And yet more hands that work instead of these hands.
I think about my mother’s hands. She’s had an open wound on her thumb for months and it won’t heal because she comes into contact with cleaning agents every day. I think about the hands working on this Saturday so that I can sit in this theater. Being able to engage in cognitive manual labor instead of working with my hands. I think of hands working near and far under conditions I never had to work under. Of the backs of hands that carry my comparative prosperity.
The background voice spurs me to imagine how it would be to touch the other hand, to softly graze its skin with my fingertips. How might it be if this hand were to stroke my hand. I feel surprisingly trusting of the person next to me although I know nothing more than that this person sometimes wears black shoes with red details and owns an iPhone. I feel the urge to glide my fingers between the fingers of the other person and squeeze, to hold tight and be held.
The light slowly dims. I don’t want the piece to end.
Outside, I try to find the black shoes with the red details. I don’t see them. A part of me is happy that the magic of not knowing remains intact.
English translation by Melissa Maldonado
Hands Made, by Begüm Erciyas was shown on February 8 and 9, 2025 at Radialsystem.
