No dressing injured hand + wire cube 3 December 2009
I admire the photographer’s portrait work. Although I knew his portraits were truthful and poetic, I did not like what I saw in the portrait he made last summer of the two of us, more specifically of me. But the truth was there in the face revealing all the marks of that hour, day, summer and year: the ravages of summer flu, long hours, worry about frail parents and aging. It was an honest, but not a pretty picture until I saw the hands. He had captured a surprising poetry in the hands: calm and graceful, beautiful and relaxed, hands with my father’s long fingers and my mother’s delicacy. They are hands that revealed none of what the face spoke. They are hands that no longer exist. Continue reading →