The Boxes Piece: Expanding "Tactile Memories"

Just a few short hours ago, I had an intense, yet inspiring, conversation with a fellow artist about the power of tactility; specifically, in relation to memory.

As I create new material for tomorrow's rehearsal of my Boxes Piece, I believe I will weave this tactility into my work. So much of this piece revolves around loved ones we have lost, and the words we hope to carry to them, that it seems clear to me now (thanks to this earlier conversation) that the piece should at times involve the beginning. That moment when we learn we've lost what we have lost.

Some tactile moments I hope to pull from within the boundless chapters of my own memory:

• Losing a friend to pancreatic cancer in middle school. I first remember hearing a rumor of his death in the hallway: Harsh concrete. Next, when I learned for certain, I crawled inside the footwell of my teacher's desk: Cold metal, slowly warming with my prolonged presence.
• An earlier memory... Losing my elementary school nurse, with whom I was extremely close (Yes, I was that kid.), also to pancreatic cancer. Learning the news in my parents' living room: Rough carpet on skin.
• An even earlier memory... Wanting to see my great-grandmother just one last time before she passed. I was barely 3, but I have this strange, faded memory: Wriggly against a plastic car seat in the dark; a warm light outside.
• In college... The hospitalization (leading to the soon-followed passing) of a dear old neighbor. I'd just won three awards at the Five College Film Festival, so work with me here, but at the point of hearing the news, I was standing on my bed, which was littered in my $89 prize money mostly in fives and ones: Somewhat grungy, crumpled dollar bills against clean, smooth sheets.
• Most recent... Losing a dance partner. This memory is so fresh that it's easy to remember most of my actions. I read the news on my computer screen; I paced my wooden floor hoping my friend would pick up; I sat on my bed while talking to him on the phone for a long, long time. But oddly enough, the tactile memory I have is the actual act of crying: Sticky face; burning, salty lips.

These five (or six) tactile memories come to me the most clearly, though I certainly have many more losses beyond these five. Yet for now, I think I'll begin by feeding these physical memories into my work. After all, that is the beauty of expression through movement, through motion, through dance.