With scars and stabs, blisters and calluses, my hands have been worn down and worked hard this year.
I was used to getting coffee spills and burns; the common scaldings that come with the work of a barista. I was used to the middle finger callus from writing and throwing frisbee. But I had nearly forgotten what it was like to have hands worn out by creating.
So many times this year, my finger nails have been covered with ink or graphite, the lingering remains of a project in progress. I’d scrub and clean, but there seemed to be a permanent remainder of art supplies upon my fingers. While working with a piece of wood to whittle a free-standing form, I had developed a sizable blister on my right thumb. On the set-up day for open house, I had a second blister form, just above it from putting in thumb tacks.
I may not have the rugged and haggard palms of my father, nor the experience in manual labour to achieve their grain. I’m not working with wood as my brother is, to dry out and solidify my hands to that of a carpenter. Yet my own hands tell the story of an artist - with small scars from a slipped knife, or perhaps the stubborn excess of graphite on my finger nails. I always wanted hands that work hard and show the evidence of it. I feel for the first time, in a long while, that I’m putting my hands to good work.
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