Elin Johanna Lantz

The sand is wet and cold. Swells of seawater and melting snow have made it dense and difficult to penetrate. She digs until the cold creeps into her tiny fingers, until the pain in her soul spreads outward, into her numbed hands – reaching every corner of her body.

Hands move in patterns shaped by words and actions. They penetrate, tearing apart until the material can no longer be recognised. Boundaries stretch and are crossed to understand what is happening and why. In a body. A soul. A child. A material. It is taken care of, not gently. To do so would be like saying that what has been subjected to some form of brutality has a flaw, and therefore needs to be repaired and handled with care. To deny the right to use the language that has arisen through acts of violence could be seen as a repetition of abuse. Forced into silence by gentleness – in movement words can pass without sound.