For those of us who are not essential workers, 2020 was the year we migrated into a virtual space. Time became diffuse, space was fixed, our movement was limited, our senses restrained, and our bodies isolated.

How will we look back on this time that was mostly spent on screens? The classes, meetings, birthdays, and memorials that we experienced virtually. How do we remember an experience does not go through our body and leaves no trace?

“I write in my notebook to remember, and sometimes I write to forget. My students, my kids, no longer write by hand. In just a year the notebooks have become obsolete. But what is lost when we lose our own handwriting?“

“How static is the thought of someone who no longer moves? What do we lose when we no longer cross paths with strangers? When we cease to see the world from multiple or moving perspectives, when we cannot put ourselves in each other’s shoes? What are the political repercussions of isolation and stagnation?”

hand, writing was made during the pandemic, with the elements at hand: my kids, my iPhone, some observations, and many questions. It started as an exploration on memory and its relationship to the physical world. I wanted to explore these issues with curiosity, tenderness, and lightness, in an intimate diary, resonating with questions both personal and political.

—Julia Solomonoff