Things With Holes (Blanket Statement)

When I was a little girl I did not have a pacifier. I did not suck my thumb. I sucked my pointer finger - the one on my right hand. Until I was about six, I also carried around first a blanket crocheted by my great aunt Delia, which I wore threadbare by worrying it between the thumb and middle finger of my sucking hand, and then a three foot tall rag 'big doll' made for me by Annie, my mother's mother with yellow yarn hair, knotted and braided for texture. The silent fussing, this rubbing and sucking, was, of course, a blissful shelter for me. But one day, I decided I was too old and quit. Put my doll away. I wasn't told to, I wasn't made fun of, I just stopped. I wonder now, as an adult with the same needs for comfort and security and companionship, what happened to that discipline and courage. When did my brain stop listening to my body? How absurd, in my priviliged life, that now the pursuit of fundamental ok-ness has so many shameful detours and complicated loopholes.

When she was three my twin sister dreamt that she pulled on her snagged big toenail and then, to her horror, she unraveled. Spiders often eat parts of their own webs to regain energy lost from spinning. The thread between self construction and destruction is so tenuous.

I am still compelled to use my hands and mouth repetitively and rhythmically: crocheting, carving, biting, casting, linking; creating decorative and narrative dichotomous objects which make fun of and celebrate the way I overwork, overeat, and over stimulate.

The resulting, symbolic "things with holes" are defined by what is missing from them. Holes allow us to enter but also fall through.

Silly as it seems, I do not want to unravel. I must keep my holes intact. In the process, I hope to share beauty, comfort, and humor with those I encounter.

Stephanie Lanter 2007

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