photo: © David Moenkhaus - all rights reserved 773 612-4166

when your hands go out

First of all, thank you to all the recent followers!

 

When I began this blog in 2009, I mostly just posted one image at a time.

That worked for a long time partly because I love the simplicity and  power

of the single image,  and partly because my image library

is fairly extensive.

But if you’re a regular reader of this blog, you already know that over the

last couple of years or so I’ve been broadening the

scope and richness of these posts by pairing my work with poems, text,

quotes, maps, video, and hyper links.

 

Last night, after reading the poem below by Pablo NerudaI quickly put

this post together to feature some of my hand imagery.

Most all the images are from previous posts and clicking on each photo

will take you to the original post.

photo: © David Moenkhaus - all rights reserved 773 612-4166

© David Moenkhaus

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Glove molds and couch

16″x22″

photo: © David Moenkhaus - all rights reserved 773 612-4166

© David Moenkhaus

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

after M.C. Escher – Polaroid SX 70

 

photo: © David Moenkhaus - all rights reserved 773 612-4166

©David Moenkhaus

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Art Institute of Chicago – Polaroid 669 emulsion lift

 

 

© David Moenkhaus - all rights reserved 773 612-4166

© David Moenkhaus

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

tiny phone

photo: © David Moenkhaus - all rights reserved 773 612-4166

© David Moenkhaus

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

plaster hand – Polaroid SX 70

 

 

Your Hands
by Pablo Neruda
 

When your hands go out,
love, toward mine,
what do they bring me flying?
Why did they stop
at my mouth, suddenly,
why do I recognize them
as if then, before,
I had touched them,
as if before they existed
they had passed over
my forehead, my waist?

Their softness came
flying over time,
over the sea, over the smoke,
over the spring,
and when you placed
your hands on my chest,
I recognized those golden
dove wings,
I recognized that clay
and that color of wheat.

All the years of my life
I walked around looking for them.
I went up the stairs,
I crossed the roads,
trains carried me,
waters brought me,
and in the skin of the grapes
I thought I touched you.
The wood suddenly
brought me your touch,
the almond announced to me
your secret softness,
until your hands
closed on my chest
and there like two wings
they ended their journey.

 

 

 

download

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

M.C. Escher

2 thoughts on “when your hands go out

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