My hands don't look like the hands of an artist to me. Sometimes I feel it pretty weired that I am able to draw with them. They are big and look just clumsy. They look like made to dig into the ground. Maybe they were supposed to be the hands of a farmer, but somehow ended up with some middleclass artist.
In a way I felt always like fighting in life. And whenever I drew it was a bit like I fought a battle with my hands as they didn't want to create those fragile lines that I intended them to do. But as I am a very stubborn fellow, they had to accept that under my command they have to create what I want them to. And I can't say I treat them good. Every year some new scars appear on their skin and the fingers sometimes ache a bit like they weren't given the proper maintaining amount of oil.
Sometimes I feel like they have kind of a character. They seem to be annoyed when I was out drinking, sometimes they try to impress me with their precision and skill, sometimes the venes are more visible than others, sometimes they get a little tan and sometimes they have a wound to heal. They mostly are just tools to me and still, sometimes I watch them and study every wrinkle. In my mind the pencil is following every line of it on a virtual paper.
