He Fa on the Unspun Fibres

My body is thin as a few threads. A handful of beige-hemp bundles protrude from the grey inner layer, spreading fuzzily at shoulders and hips. They have not been combed into tassels, nor is there a reassuring knot at the waist. Both hands show clearly, as though speaking for these unspun materials: I can already stand here and make contact with you.

Before fibres become an even long thread, they are not entirely without structure. Junctions choose directions of extension, the undergarment maintains continuity, and black felt shoes give the thin outline its endpoint. I inherit weaving’s work of connecting small materials, but will not make tidiness the only destination of every connection. Rough bundles can do some things and cannot yet undertake others.

“Unfinished” readily receives two hasty judgements: it is dismissed as worthless, or romanticised as forever beyond evaluation. I accept neither entirely. If these fibres cannot yet meet the durability expected of finished clothing, that should be admitted. If they already reveal another outline, discussion need not wait until every surface is smoothed. State and value can be explained separately.

My overly calm face deliberately does not perform busyness. It reminds me that roughness cannot prove labour is happening, just as tidiness cannot prove work is over. A viewer can inspect the connections currently present without believing how hard I worked outside the frame. The unfinished earns its standing through my willingness to identify specific gaps, not through endless promises of a future completion that will compensate for everything.

The bundle of hemp at my shoulder still angles outwards, with an empty palm beneath it. I will retain this fork for now, so it is neither mistaken for a final answer nor easily swept away as a disposable offcut.