All photographs in this blog are copyrighted.

This photo was in a competition and was on digital view at the Louve

Often, after looking someone in the eye, I next notice their hands. Maybe it comes from being trained as a physical therapist as I do much of my work with my hands.  I question and notice, are they smooth, wrinkled, soft, leathered, aged, dirty under the nails, manicured? Do the hands match the face?  So many questions arise.  

As I ponder hands, I am in awe of what they can do.  Often, I marvel at the speed and dexterity of the musician's hands. They seem to be one with the instrument, be it a saxophone, a harp, a guitar, or a keyboard. The image that comes to mind is seeing Eric Clapton play live and being as mesmerized by his hands on the guitar strings as by the notes he played. The music that leaps out from under hands carries me away.

Have you ever noticed the hands of a chef or cook? They are sometimes scarred from cuts or burns.  Or those of the nurse who starts an IV with either skilled and sensitive or clumsy hands? Or the surgeon that cuts away at cancers and sews one back up?  The surgeon’s hands are delicate, yet perhaps not feminine, confident, and skilled. What do a gardener's hands look like? Or the knitter's or artist's hands?

For years as a pediatric physical therapist, I noticed the evolution of hand use in children. First, hands are used for weight-bearing. The child pushes onto hands to lift their head and body higher to look around. Then they use hands to push into hands and knees to rock and crawl.  As a child learns to use hands to manipulate objects, the mouth is like a third hand, helping hold and explore items.

The first time a baby curled my finger into its hands, my heart melted. Chubby and awkward, yet curious and determined. Watching a child learn to use crayons, scissors, and learn to make things is nothing less than miraculous. 

Older hands are also captivating. Watching my friend's elderly mother teach a child to play the piano was a visual treat into contrasts. The elderly woman had long, skinny, wrinkled fingers. They looked too frail to do much, yet they flew across the keyboard or laid gently over the top of the child’s hand which was small and tender, creamy white, smooth, and awkward.

I remember my German grandmother, Omi, coming to live with us when I was 5. Omi loved to bake and I loved to watch as her hands, covered with flour would roll the dough out or braid it. Her hands were weathered but loving and kind.

One day Omi and my mother were leaving to go to Bingo. Omi somehow got her hand caught in the door as it slammed shut and she yelped loudly and we opened the door and iced her hand as we drove to the emergency room. She needed stitches then her hand was wrapped in bandages and we went home. I shared a bed with Omi.  All night I laid awake, staring at her wrapped hand, afraid to fall asleep and to accidentally roll onto it. Over the next few weeks, we watched with wonder at the multitude of colors that marked her healing until finally, her hand looked normal again.

Mother's hands were soft and cradled the baby's head as she caresses. Father's hands were rough and multicolored from the paints he used during the day at work. Mixed with the image of my Father's hands are the memories of their smell; a mixture of paint, paint thinners, and cigarette smoke.  

Hands carry out the heart's desires. Hands hold the gun that delivers the fatal shot in hatred or fear. Hands intertwine as lovers explore the nuances of one another. Hands deliver the slap of disdain. Hands unite to express acceptance of one another's differences. Hands can stamp out racism and fear.

How will you use your hands today?  

To view the full gallery of hand portfolio go to this link.  https://monicacioffi.zenfolio.com/p845997220