The Importance of Touch

The excerpts we read from Diane Ackerman's Touch, A Natural History of the Senses really resonated with me. My mom has always been very into hugging, kissing, and touching, which translated into a natural interest in massage therapy and reflexology. Although we had dabbled in these homeopathic practices before she got sick, after my mom was diagnosed with cancer, we started going to our friends Angie and Bill, Lola and Miss Janet, Jenn and Lidia, and others much more often. I always knew the human touch was a powerful thing, but after seeing its ability to soothe (and even heal) right before my eyes, I decided to make one of my life goals to get licensed in massage therapy and reflexology. All of the people I have been lucky enough to meet who work in this field are so wonderful, so caring, and every time I think about them, I am inspired to follow in their footsteps. I want to help people like they've helped me, my mom, my sister, my dad, and the myriad others whose lives they have touched.

Ackerman writes, "Among other things, touch teaches us the difference between I and other, that there can be someone outside of ourselves, the mother. Mothers and infants do an enormous amount of touching. The first emotional comfort, touching and being touched by our mother, remains the ultimate memory of selfless love, which stays with us life long" (79). For as long as I can remember, my mom has held me, played with me, rubbed my forehead when I couldn't sleep, held my hand in crowded spaces, massaged Vicks VaporRub into my chest when I was sick...the reason why I suffered from ferocious fever blisters when I was younger was because my mom passed it on to me by kissing me when she had her own fever blisters. (She claims she "just couldn't help herself!") Although my dad is nowhere near as touchy-feely as my mom, certain feelings I automatically associated with him: the stiff but lovely dad-smelling hug at the airport before he leaves for work, the heavy, proud "that's my daughter" pat on the shoulder when we're around his hangar buddies, the wet pressure of a paper towel brushing back the stray hairs that always fell into my face when I was a kid. In general, my sister is a careful balance between my mom and dad; while she has the same rigid hug as my dad, she basically sits on top of me when we're on the couch together, and we don't mind at all if our elbows or knees are touching in the car.

When my mom and dad first met, my mom used to give my dad foot rubs, something she still occasionally does. My father grew up in a very strict, fairly unaffectionate family, and so my mom likes to think she helped him loosen up and show a little more love, and I agree that she has. But my dad's not the only one who receives foot rubs. I've been rubbing my mom's feet since I was very, very small. I used to sleep at the foot of my parents' bed - for some reason I really, really liked it down there - and use my nails to gently scratch up and down her feet. My foot rub "prowess" has evolved over the years as I've learned more about reflexology techniques and, of course, after we got the portable foot spa, but one thing has remained the same: I absolutely love being able to do something for my mom that brings her so much relief and happiness. She always says, "Laura, you've got the magic touch," and it makes me delighted to know she thinks so. It's the least I can do for her after all the touch she's given me over the years.

Touch is really a magical thing. In the section entitled "The Skin Has Eyes," Ackerman talks about how seeing something is actually a tangible experience. She says, "We look at a photograph taken with someone we love at a small one-llama circus in a rural town, and remember the stickiness of that summer day, the feel of the llama insinuating its velvety nose into our shirt pocket, into our hand, under our arm, and around our chest, gently but irrepressibly looking for food. At that moment, the word 'llama' becomes a verb in our vocabulary, because you have to llama your way through life from time to time" (94). I love this notion of "verbing" nouns, how things come to life though touch and the memory of touch. I carried the motif of handprints throughout my IB Art portfolio as a sort of nod at the importance of our hands and all they do for us. I cut handprints out of canvases, put paint on my hands and stamped them onto my pieces, finger painted, and employed a host of other very tactile, very active techniques throughout my series. I am still amazed by all the things our hands can do. I am almost always fidgeting with my hands, bending back my fingers or cracking my knuckles, tracing the lines in my palms or massaging my thumbs. One of the things that amazes me the most is how fragile yet how resilient our hands are. I always think about this when I watch my sister, who is an incredibly talented pianist, play, fingers fluttering, striking one note powerfully and the next so gently. Yet there is still a power there - that bit is undeniable.

One of the reasons I think art is so satisfying is because it is so directly tied to touch. Everything in life of course has some relation to touch, but I believe art makes us very aware of our tactile interactions. I am not afraid to use my hands, to get charcoal all over them or acrylic or whatever. I love it. It shows where I've been, what I've done. It shows that the world's touched me, and I've touched it right back.        

                 One of the best feelings in the world...