Hands

I'm in love with hands right now, which stems from a particular interest in a few pairs of hands and has since branched out into an unexamined (until now) fascination with hands and what they do. I get all uncomfortable with the singular versus the plural, "pair of hands" (singular) versus "hands" (plural) but will forge ahead.

I love, for example, the hands of one Jude Hill. She creates the most sensual, incredible, mythic and innocent artwork in fabric and thread. Her work really speaks to me right now, in that it is totally about process and finding one's way, and yet it comes out speaking fluently of its roots and its origins as it evolves, seemingly without any sort of control or controversy. She stitches, embroiders, invents, deconstructs and reassembles these delicate tapestries of narrative in fabric -- and she has big hands, hands that defy feminine convention, which I adore. (Being someone who has never felt comfortable within the parameters of feminine convention.)

Other hands currently captivating me include those as innocent of want and malice as my young son's; and progress to those of folks I won't name out of respect for different types of confidence and intimacy.

Hands though -- where it can be so difficult to find people, find their hearts, in their faces -- still, you can get some sense of who they are, what they mean, what they love, from their hands.