Painted

I come from a long line of artists. My hands were covered in paint for a good part of my life. I would come home from school and disappear into my studio until my mom would call me for dinner. She often needed to call me several times as I'd keep asking for just another minute. I spent evenings listening to music loudly, lost in my thoughts as I painted for hours. My hands were a pallet, a brush, a conduit from my heart and mind to the canvas. "May I take a photograph of your hands?" I asked as I stepped closer to him. "But they are filthy," he said, uncertain of why anyone would want to photograph them. "They aren't filthy; they're beautiful," I replied. Unintentional art that can mom...View all