A Touch and Yet Not a Touch
M+M Gallery is pleased to present our group show "A Touch and Yet Not a Touch”, opening on August 15. The exhibition explores, through a poetic lens, the subtle state of intimacy that exists between closeness and distance. J.D. Salinger once wrote in his book Nine Stories that “…love is a touch and yet not a touch”—like a hand extended into the winter sunlight, feeling its warmth at the fingertips, yet pausing before true contact is made. Intimacy is not solely a matter of physical proximity; it is also the delicate breath exchanged between hearts.
We long to draw near, to feel each other’s warmth, yet fear that holding too tightly may crush what is tender. And so, we linger in the meeting of glances, brush past in shared laughter, and exchange silent messages in quiet moments. In Zaam Arif’s new work, Fragments of Silence, a woman reclines sideways on a sofa by the window, the stillness of the sea behind her. She appears both asleep and quietly contemplative. Beneath a burnt ochre sky, the ocean seems to murmur: intimacy, like the tide, always recedes—only to return more gently to the shore.
At times, a certain distance can be comforting—leaving space for breath, like the margins of a page, where imagination and longing may unfold. In Billy Coulthurst’s Townhouse Interior, a warm-toned living room holds flowers, lamplight, and the softness of upholstered armchairs. Two men converse quietly, visible only in the reflection of a mirror. The space appears almost empty, yet a half-step of separation lingers, evoking an unspoken “come closer,” while also warning against breaking the delicate spell of the moment.
The works of Jannika Frangen are like holding a newly opened blossom in cupped hands, afraid that a petal might fall. She quietly observes the details of daily life, guiding us through a first-person perspective to watch the sunset, to gaze at flowers blooming in hand. This recalls Caroline Walker’s voyeuristic vantage point—watching anonymous figures from the corner, peering through fences. The viewer seems to remain at a distance, yet is, without noticing, fully present within the scene.
Gaze is the most tender—and most dangerous—aspect of this nearness and distance. Eyes can approach sooner than hands, and they are more honest; weightless, yet able to send a shiver through the heart. In Lu Yu’s Red Mole, the seemingly serene girl may already harbor a quiet undercurrent. Lenz Geerk’s Couple (2019) captures lovers asleep in a gentle embrace, smiling in their dreams as if the afternoon breeze were softly brushing their faces with love. And gaze need not always be solemn—it can be lighthearted, even playful. In Katherine Bradford’s Lifeguard Dive Paddle Board in the Sky, some figures play, some prepare to enter the water, others simply watch—undisturbing, only observing—allowing everything to remain natural and luminous.
Love is a form of touch, but also the lingering echo of what has not yet been touched; the quickening of the heart when drawing near, and the tenderness in stepping back. In a touch and yet not a touch, these works speak to each other like a series of unspoken dialogues—some gazes so sincere they still the breath, others leaving just the right measure of distance. Perhaps love and intimacy are precisely this: creating, between approach and retreat, a space that is both real and poetic, a space in which we may return again and again, to experience and to savor.
