The Pleasures (and Dangers) of Touch

Texture is the world’s way of getting our attention, of nudging us into a partnership of sensation. Texture is like the value added feature of being born on a planet with vegetation, atmosphere, and climate. I had my satin phase in high school, when everything had to be about smoothness: smooth hair, smooth stockings, smooth suede jackets, and velour pillows.

Then I moved to the rough side of texture. Burlap offered my fingers much more of what winemakers like to call “grip.” The small rounded bumps of burlap were like a secret Braille, a language of the fabric holding secrets to its history. Texture is the secret weapon of physical objects. It invites us to reach, touch, over and over again.

My mother made me my first important party dress. It was New Year’s Eve, and I was going to a party with my parents. I had forgotten about that favorite winter dress until my hands touched a piece of velvet in a fabric shop. Then it all came back to me. It was chocolate brown velvet, at once sophisticated and sultry. Wearing the dress, touching the bodice and the skirt, was like touching a living substance somewhere between moss and the fur of a cat. It seemed to have its own life, a life I was only borrowing for the evening. Empire-waisted and sleeveless, the dress existed to bring me close to the sumptuous texture of velvet, thick, creamy, and substantial. I wore it as a queen might have worn a ceremonial robe. Think of all the other lovely experiences we compare to velvet: His voice was like velvet. Her lips, soft as velvet. The velvety evening sky.

Rough bark reminds my hands how soft and vulnerable they are. Thistles and roses, blackberries and cacti. All of these beautiful creatures prick and poke, tear and cut our flesh. Don’t get too close! I once received a surprising gash on my foot, thanks to stepping on a sharp point of broken glass. I burn my fingers nightly on molten pools of candle wax, so seductive in its still liquid but burning-hot state. Texture tells me to stay alert and expect sensations of surprise.

I was on a tour of an organic farm one weekend. We wandered through a variety of planted rows of crops bordered by wild hedges of fennel and willow. Pushing aside a pesky green branch, my hand was greeted with a shocking jolt. My finger began to quiver with discomfort. It felt like a jolt of electricity. In a careless moment, I had been approached by a stinging nettle. Intruding into the nettle’s territory, my hand was being punished. Back off! My poor hand throbbed not only for the rest of the day, but well into the next one. I was impressed. My hand learned a vivid lesson of humility that day. The hand is not the only inquiring mind in the universe. The stinging nettle has a mind of its own too.