I have always loved tracing my hand. Since I was a child. I love the sensation of the pen moving along the sides of my palm and fingers, slightly tickling. And looking at the beautiful shape that is somehow me, turned into a work of art. The first time was in daycare and I remember feeling proud and happy that such a pretty shape had been made from a part of my body.
Maybe that is why I also love the marks from outlined hands in the Pech-Merle Caves. Somebody put their hand against the wall of the cave and blew colour onto it 25.000 years ago and perhaps took pride in looking at it. Perhaps felt happy sensing the paint spray over the skin of the back of the hand. I like picturing the face of that stone age woman, smiling, wiping the paint off and thinking about how others will look at her mark and wonder who she is. It is a statement – I was here, I can create something, I want to be remembered. It is a link between that woman and me who looks at it so many years later and feels a connection somehow. It looks like she waves hello, to me, 25.000 years later. And I feel the urge to respond.
Maybe that is why I also love the marks from outlined hands in the Pech-Merle Caves. Somebody put their hand against the wall of the cave and blew colour onto it 25.000 years ago and perhaps took pride in looking at it. Perhaps felt happy sensing the paint spray over the skin of the back of the hand. I like picturing the face of that stone age woman, smiling, wiping the paint off and thinking about how others will look at her mark and wonder who she is. It is a statement – I was here, I can create something, I want to be remembered. It is a link between that woman and me who looks at it so many years later and feels a connection somehow. It looks like she waves hello, to me, 25.000 years later. And I feel the urge to respond.
Maybe because I am thinking about the hand as an identity mark and a way to connect with the world, I have the urge to fill it with things that I like and that intrigue me.