Ever since I was a kid I’ve admired hands. Hands with long tapered fingers, beautiful nails with those lovely, gentle half moons. My fingers are the Froddo Baggins of the hand world – short, fat, with chewed nails and gnarled knuckles from a youth spent working in a commercial kitchen and time spent in the garage with my old Dad.
Now that I’m a maker and with the drying effects of clay the chance of my hands taking on the appearance of perfection has been reduced to nil. Makers hands tell the story of their trade and passion. Each scar, burns and scratch is the price that is paid for creating an object of beauty. The next few post will be photos of makers hands.
These hand belong to my fellow ceramicists at TAFE. Their works differs in style and size but what is consistent is that all their hands perfectly illustrate their love of clay with all it’s frustrations and setbacks.