Studio Friday: My Work Hands

This week's topic for Friday April 14th suggested by andrea: MY WORK HANDS. These days, making art more often than not consists of doing something on the computer, cutting and pasting.

One of the first things I notice about a person is their hands. Somehow, their hands tell me if they can be trusted, if I want to let them get close to me or if I need to keep my distance. Their hands tell me if they are gentle people, if they are comfortable with themselves, if they are confident.

I come from a family of people who work with their hands. My mother is a nurse. She carries medicines, bathes and comforts children on the Pediatrics floor. She is also a needleworker........knitting, quilting, embroidery, sewing. My father worked in a factory all his life as a machine operator, flipping switches, turning gears, drilling holes, grinding metal. He is also a woodworker, building doll furniture, baby cradles, tables, footstools, chairs, sofas, bookcases. His hands are rough and weathered, scarred and calloused. Mom's hands are soft, with joints that are becoming arthritic.

My own hands operate power tools, work at the computer, stitch, knit, cut, whip up things in the kitchen. They have spun yarn from wool and other fibers, and woven yards and yards of fabrics. They have held paintbrushes and carving tools. They have cast and molded paper pulp and used tweezers to position incredibly tiny pieces in collages. I see my mother's hands in mine with some arthritis in one finger. Several fingers have been broken and needed stitches over the years. Both thumbs have been injured to the point that the nails do not grow properly. I have thumbs that remind me of my father's.

You can't tell it by looking, but I am a lefty. I am not fully ambidextrous because I cannot write or use eating utensils with my right hand. But everything else is done right-handed. I would be lost if I tried to use the left-handed knitting or crochet instructions. Left-handed scissors were my enemy in grade school.

My hands held, carressed, and soothed lovers, babies and grandbaby. They held my children's hands when they were small. They hold my grandson's hands now. They clap and wave in expressions of joy and excitement when dancing with a three year old boy. When words wouldn't come, my hand held the hand of a dying ex-husband in expression of compassion and love.

Thank you, Andrea, for suggesting this topic.