I’ve always been fascinated by hands. A friend particularly likes the work of Lucian Freud – perhaps a modern British equivalent of the towering Renaissance masters, who also seems interested in them. His hands are always a little larger than life, crafted as workpieces – hands that do things. These hands are obviously female, from “Girl with a White Dog”.
I think the mark of a master is that so much can be read into a small area of canvas.
These are maternal hands, a little careworn, the hands of a nurturer, hands that have held precious things.
My hands have been described as ‘cricketer’s hands’, functional, not particularly beautiful, square, even safe. Like Escher’s perhaps.