“Geminis are obsessed with hands and I can see it in you”, Anoushka said ever so canonically on a March afternoon at my place. I was confused as to where she was coming from, looking around to realize my hand was in hers without me ever making a conscious call to do it. Apart from the slightly annoying and funny generalization of traits that Anoushka indulged in, it was an unravelling for something that I have been doing for so long.
The notes on my phone are an archive of quotes about hands and the gallery—a repository of a million pictures of people holding hands. I didn’t plan for this edition to turn into a stroll down these snippets on my phone, but I think you might like this as well.
Hands #1, Tony Belobrajdic
A squeeze of the hand—enormous documentation—a tiny gesture within the palm, a knee which doesn't move away, an arm extended as if quite naturally along the back of a sofa and against which the other's head gradually comes to rest—this is the paradisiac realm of subtle and clandestine signs: a kind of festival not of the senses but of meaning.
— Roland Barthes, A Lover’s Discourse
I think among all the senses that one possesses, touch is the one that’s the most underrated. We do think about sight, hearing and maybe taste and smell too, but touch seems to be lost in the wild-wild sensory overload that is our day to day life. The warmth of the other’s self intertwined in this clammy little arrangement that one might call hand-holding. Whilst you’re almost always struggling to figure out the logistics of walking in this situation, you still engage in it; religiously.
With every touch of your hand, me memorizing every nook in your palm in the slight touches and grazes my fingers have spent in there, or this yearning to find a home for my hand in yours. Not that I have not expressed this before, but a yearning has no end now does it?
Or there’s this image of watching somebody write, with their ink-stained fingers flowing over the paper like a pianist — every stroke a note, every sentence a sonata and every page a grand concerto. Look closely over their hands, open the palm, observe the fingers, follow the veins and examine the creases and folds, all in an attempt to find an innocent newness, a mysticism, almost as if you’re asking, “What is it were you penning down when this ink kissed your hands?”.
A Note on Originality, Hira Sameer Ahmed
Palm readers have long known a secret of the universe, that we have overlooked; that hands are very telling. Albeit they have like Anoushka with astrology, attached a nutty phantasmagoria to it, their focus has been placed precisely. Hands are – far more than other parts of the body – the zones of supreme eloquence and besides the eloquent definition — a tattletale.
We might, in their wake, try a similar exercise with an old or, more daringly, a new friend. Once this hand was tiny; it struggled to grasp a raisin. They maybe sucked their thumb; their fingers would have pulled up zips and undone buttons. Their hand has been employed in their most intimate activities. It’s been clenched in anger; it’s wiped away tears; the fingernails have dug into the palm at moments of anxiety (of which there must have been many); it’s signed documents; made graphically rude gestures; it’s clutched a wall in terror; it’s been held by a parent before crossing a road. And one day an undertaker will fold it carefully across this person’s chest.
— Alain de Boton, The School of Life
Hands, Hands, Hands #1: An amalgamation of pictures in my gallery
In one of the more telling pieces of art culture, or of the millions of adaptations people have created over the years based off on it (with one of the iterations being with cigarettes, which I will get tattooed this year. PERIOD). Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam abstracts the presence of hands at a primordial place. Signifying the momentous second of near contact between God and Man with their fingers and not mind or body. They are not words or a smile or an embrace: all the intensity of the connection between man and God is focused on the precise position and character of two hands: on the left, human — drawn in and more languid; and on the right godly side more open, assertive and commanding.
Part of The Creation of Adam, Michelangelo
I’ll have to reprise a piece of poetry that I think fits here and in my mind pretty well, Hands** by Sarah Kay**.
People used to tell me that I had beautiful hands
told me so often, in fact, that one day I started to believe them
until I asked my photographer father, “Hey daddy could I be a hand model?”
to which he said, “No way.”
I don’t remember the reason he gave me
and I would’ve been upset,
but there were far too many stuffed animals to hold
too many homework assignments to write,
to many boys to wave at
to many years to grow,
we used to have a game, my dad and I about holding hands
‘cause we held hands everywhere,
and every time either he or I would whisper a great big number to the other,
pretending that we were keeping track of how many times we had held hands
that we were sure,
this one had to be 8 million 2 thousand 7 hundred and fifty three.
Hands learn more than minds do, hands learn how to hold other hands,
how to grip pencils and mold poetry, how to tickle pianos and dribble a basketball,
and grip the handles of a bicycle
how to hold old people, and touch babies
I love hands like I love people,
they’re the maps and compasses in which we navigate our way through life,
some people read palms to tell your future, but I read hands to tell your past,
each scar marks the story worth telling, each calloused palm,
each cracked knuckle is a missed punch or years in a factory,
now I’ve seen Middle Eastern hands clenched in Middle Eastern fists
pounding against each other like war drums,
each country sees their fists as warriors and others as enemies
even if fists alone are only hands.
But this is not about politics; no hands aren’t about politics.
This is a poem about love, and fingers.
Fingers interlock like a beautiful zipper of prayer.
One time I grabbed my dad’s hands so that our fingers interlocked perfectly
but he changed positions, saying no that hand hold is for your mom.
Kids high five, but grown ups, we learn how to shake hands:
you need a firm hand shake, but don’t hold on too tight, but don’t let go too soon,
but don’t hold down for too long, but hands are not about politics.
When did it become so complicated? I always thought it was simple.
The other day my dad looked at my hands, as if seeing them for the first time,
and with laughter behind his eye lids, with all the seriousness a man of his humor
could muster, he said, “You know you got nice hands, you could’ve been a hand
model,” and before the laughter can escape me, I shake my head at him,
and squeeze his hand: 8 million 2 thousand 7 hundred and fifty four.
Hands, Hands, Hands #2: An amalgamation of snippets in my gallery
No story of hands can be told by me without reprising this song called “Your Hand Holding Mine” by Yellow Days, from the earlier days of this newsletter. A tale of someone who was hurt in the past and them holding their lover’s hand ever so tightly, not letting them go, shapeshifting from morose to contentment all in the euphoria of the warmth.
For these days I just count the hours
Oh, shape shifting away in all of those scours
You hold my hand so close between yours
All of this time I always thought it would be your hand
While I am attaching YouTube link here, I recommend watching the video to fully soak the essence of this gorgeous piece of music.
This project deserves its entire study or at least a division here.
While the pandemic has not lent itself short on realizations for my tiny brain, the innate desire for skinship never made it to the surface of my existence until it happened. As we step out, ever so cautious, into the humdrum of regular lives over time now, I think we will have (or have had) a newfound adoration for the act of touch. All the many ways we touch one another in the course of daily life, with friendship, love, support, caring… We hadn’t realized all the essential subtle touches that make up our experience…
“You Are Made By All The Hands That Touch You”, Elisa Moro
The month of February might lend to the meaning associated with hands more than any other. You might have the most fulfilling glass of wine in one hand but all that seems to matter is whether or not the other one has someone else's hand in it. But all that truly matters is that your hands are strong enough to hold you up. So knock back that wine, wrap those arms around yourself, give yourself a big self hug, dance a little and then way too much.
— abridged from Snigdha Bansal, Unography Mag
Happy Valentines!
With love,
Griot 💛
Links for extra reading:
Hands, Snigdha Bansal. Unography Mag.
The Queer Erotics of Handholding by Kristen Arnett
Extra credit to Anoushka for my smack dab realization and this Tumblr post by Adampvrrish for the title of this edition.