Testing My Patience

TESTING MY PATIENCE

Testing My Patience began almost as a joke: “testing, testing, 1, 2, 3… testing… my… patience?” Made from leftover clay and discarded doll parts, the piece developed through an intuitive process of accumulation, pushing an extremely thin-walled mug beyond what it could comfortably contain. As I worked, sections repeatedly collapsed and even part of the text “my patience” was lost.

The fragmented bodies reflect my experiences of disability and medical care. Repeated examinations, tests and invasive procedures can become deeply dehumanising, reducing the body to something to be inspected, handled and processed. At times I have felt less like a person than unwanted meat: a collection of problematic parts to be assessed and managed.

The figures are crammed together rather than comfortably contained. Disability is enormously varied, yet the systems intended to support disabled people frequently offer standardised solutions that do not fit individual bodies or lives. We are metaphorically scooped up, placed into structures not designed for us, and expected to work out how to fit.

One handle fell from the mug during making and was reattached upside down. Its absurd uselessness became important: “You said you needed a handle. Here’s a handle.” It exists, but cannot properly perform the function for which it was supposedly provided. Like inaccessible support, the requirement has technically been met while the need remains unanswered.

The precarious construction mirrors this tension. The vessel is simultaneously containing, supporting and failing the bodies within it, while those bodies strain against its limits. The work acknowledges the genuine support I have received through medical systems alongside the ways those same systems have failed, dehumanised and attempted to contain me.

In testing the limits of the material, the piece quite literally tested my patience too.