Clara Bolle

A R T & W O R D S : C L A R A B O L L E

The Secret Lives of our Hands

Clara Bolle

Two hands holding each other. One hand veiny, liver marks, riddled with age. The other hand wears a wedding band, nails painted in a colour which I like to call tropical coral. The story behind this image is one we experience or read so many times during the pandemic. Loved ones saying goodbye has become a treacherous affair. The chance of contamination is so high that many had a lonely death. These two hands are the only parts not wrapped in medical attire. Touch is a touch of the hands, not a kiss goodbye on the forehead. The news comes in. We need to wear face masks in The Netherlands in public spaces. Eyes staring at each other. No mark of a smile or a whispered thank you when your fellow Saturday shoppers hand you their used basket to do the groceries (not that sanitary, I know). Who are these anonymous people? The Dutch don’t use hand gestures, but a hand does tell a story. A hand is expression, identity, symbol, part of a larger body. Our hands are not only a mark of a physical body or an individual life story but a community in its own right. We use our hands and that of others every day. We grab stuff, we touch, feel the world by the tips of our fingers. Our hands are where our body ends, and the world outside our body begins. The hand is a mediator between the inside and the outside. Only skin prevents us from a symbiotic unity between us and the other. Just like our feet, our hands carry us during a lifetime. They are the witness of pain, joy, anger. They tell us our story of what we do for a living: a piano player or a blue-collar job. We are our hands.

During Black Lives Matter, our hands became a fist. A symbol against injustice. We marched the streets. We typed articles to express our feelings. Pointing fingers. Praying. Our hands became a force to be reckoned with. An individual body became a legion. From the tender touch of a goodbye to a symbol of power: the hand is quick to change when it comes to emotion. Some people even dare to say that we cannot only read our past in the palms of our hands but also predict the future by following life lines marked in our flesh. Our hands hold secrets we are not even aware of. To translate the many lives of thumbs, pinkies and index fingers to art is not an easy task. The hand of the artist has its own way of expressing itself. The mind is strong, but the brush is even stronger. A stroke can make a U-turn or forget where it was going. Colours can be unfriendly neighbours. A hand painting a hand is a surreal experience. It’s also one of the first exercises in art school: draw your left hand. As an artist, you’re your first life model.

Exploring our body starts with exploring ourselves. A baby touching its feet with its tiny hands or sucking its thumb in the womb of its mother. It is only at the end of life that we realize that we get to know ourselves by touching others. Our last touch is the touch of the hand holding our hand.

Clara Bolle As a philosopher I view my writings and art as tools to do research. My main question in relation to thinking and making is: What does it mean to be your body instead of having a body? Website: clarabolle.com Instagram: @clarabolle