I love women's hands, but I would dare to say hands in general.
I adore them, seriously.
Apart from the butt, the breasts, the eyes, and the mouth (titillating but in themselves trivial), hands are the things that attract me most about a woman. Also the ankles, if we really want to mention, but that's another matter.
The delicacy of the fingers, how well they integrate into the harmony of the person, the grace of movement, the interplay of the right hand with the left, how they hold a cigarette or how they manage an earring, often create a truly irresistible charm and alchemy that reveal, most of the time, much if not "everything" about the person in front of us.
Certain encounters, certain moments, certain people I remember solely for their hands.
Perhaps, over time, faces get mixed up but the memory of hands held, brushed, or just glimpsed: that will stay forever. And how many hands have we held or touched in a lifetime? The strong and calloused hands of a grandmother, the peasant and wise hands of an uncle, the slender and "milky" hands of a newly born niece, the sweaty and warm hands of a passionate lover, the cold and cadaverous hands of a supplier...
Hands tell us much about "who we are" and where we come from.
Beautiful in this regard is contemplating the masculine hands in this study on cardboard by Durer (1471 – 1524) where the fingers weave unusual and unpredictable embroideries.
The first gently grasps a thread, the second compresses itself, and the third points to the sky. And already this triptych makes us perceive the absolute expressive potential of this irreplaceable organ.
Sometimes a handshake, given even absentmindedly, is enough to feel the energy it transmits to us, to configure ourselves in other "worlds of contact" and to capture a thousand possible connections. Certain hand brushes, imperceptible and casual, given or received in the metro, on trains or in line at some counter, ignite in us fleeting flames and make us shiver for moments that last centuries.
Loading comments slowly