Hands on dresser
Hands- the hand is the means to putting mystery to action, to create, harm or heal, to protect and defend. The hand holds the power to pull the trigger, write the word, plant and harvest, comfort or destroy. Hands are very powerful things.
For a long time I have collected hands, drawn hands, embroidered hands. Most of these are put away for one reason or another, but there are a few about in most every room. A small white hand of china- actually a chopstick holder- holds a blue stone egg in the dish cabinet. There are assorted mannequin hands on bookshelves or in bowls- they are not scary, they just hold things, or point to things of worth. In the bedroom there is a glove cast on a shelf (a glove cast is a plaster hand model from fingertips to elbow, used for repairing, creating or displaying gloves) with a beaded snake wrapped around it. On the dresser rests these three hands- love, fate and hope.
The hand of love is a mans hand- one of the few I have- and a relic from one of my installation art works back at college, that and a leftover charm. In the hand is a formed wax heart- it has been melted and distorted by time- with three rhinestones in it and a sewing needle. An attempt to solidify the core of long ago, to sew together and strengthen connections. The next hand is a palmistry model- the lines are labeled on it. This is the hand of fate, the marks of life lived and inscribed for those who know how to read. I have never mastered palmistry- occasionally I can read, but it is in a rare burst like a thunderstorm. I am much better with the cards. Yet I love this hand, for it is mysteries that I don't know, potential. Fate and Memory, a stone of black glass from the Irish coast. The smallest hand, the child's hand, is inscribed with a golden R and is fittingly a gift from my Mother. This little hand holds a little key, a key to a long-lost diary (not one of mine, though I do believe that these keys are universal, which is a song and story all in itself). This is the hand of hope- of secrets hidden, of hope still waiting at the bottom of the box. Belief that after all, everything goes on and always, always has the potential to get better.
The odd thing about the smallest hand is that it is a left hand, not a right one. The majority of my hands- not counting the mannequin hands, which are found happenstance, are right hands. Right hands, left brain- right hands are the hands of logic and control, language, order, numbers, time, action, intention, power. The majority of people are right handed, and I am one of them. This suits the hands of love and fate- both of those things are what you make them, forged in your own fires. But the left hand is different. It leads to the heart (thus why we put wedding rings there) and the other side of the brain. The side full of dreams and emotions, creativity, imagination, space, metaphor, analogy, synthesis, empathy- the part that feels, responds. (And yes, this is a vast over simplification of neurology, but valid in its own way). I am not left handed, but after time and practice, I can write and draw with my left hand, though not as well as with my right. (I can also write and draw simultaneously with both hands, as long as I am writing/drawing the same thing. It's one of my favorite parlor tricks to impress students with my absolute awesomeness- it actually isn't that hard to learn).
Today is the last day of this semester- and I have much to put into action. I must grade and return papers and art, most of which will end up in the trash. I have to finish a project for a friend. I must either suck it up and write for the fashion course or quit. I have new classes to organize and start- things to end and things to begin. The forsythia in the yarden is blooming, tricked by our spring-like weather- it is to be 70 this morning and then snow tonight. The world itself is changing hands, unable to make up its mind which to use, or impressing us with its parlor trick. Take me seriously for I am magical.
No comments:
Post a Comment