I washed my hands with Jade today, 2015, soap, water,
ink, paper, 38'' x 50''.
Carving the Chinese name my great-grandmother gave to me into a bar of imported soap I bought in San Francisco Chinatown — where my great-grandmother lived —, I printed the name as a stamp/chop and then washed the ink off the soap, thus washing my hands in the process, after each inking. A time and process piece, I handled the name I’ve had little connection to in my life, watching the character morph and dis/appear with each wash. It took about three hours for the soap to reduce to a sliver, at which point I stopped and let it stick to the paper. My name never appeared in a clean and crisp print, suggesting the fluidity of identity and how sometimes, what you wish to be there never shows up.