Hands.

Uploaded 25 Mar 2011 — 11 favorites
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© Jennifer Summer
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Photo Info
UploadedMarch 25, 2011
TakenMarch 23, 2011
MakeCanon
ModelCanon EOS 5D Mark II
Exposure1/100 sec at f/1.4
FlashNo Flash
Focal Length50 mm
ISO250
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Q: How do you take a long exposure picture with people?

A: Do you know?

Photo license: © All rights reserved

What I remember most about lovers are their hands.

The need for capable hands to journey over flesh terrain is absolutely crucial. I don't need to know where your hands have been, but I do need to know how they danced while they were there.

I needed the surgeon's hands; I needed the fingertips to press down against the valley between my breasts and glide smoothly south with the precision of a scalpel. It is almost the same kind of work, the saving of a life; literally, in the operating room, and metaphorically, in the bedroom. They know just the right amount of pressure to apply to stop the flow, and to start it.

I needed the musician's hands; the squared-off tip fingers of the guitarist can pluck the snappy straps of whispery garments with just the right amount of rhythm. He can raise your breathing to a whole new octave; you can see the harmonies reverberating off the walls.

The painter's hands; like a paintbrush skiing down a canvas, his hands can make shimmering landscapes from the wetness against the insides of your thighs. An eager tongue can jab the way the fan brush bursts forth in front of the easel, creating life.

The need for the writer's hand; just as he turns the fingerprint-sticky pages of his books, he turns a nipple over and over between a pointer finger and a pen-calloused thumb. His ten digits hold volumes yet to drip out; you feel the words and sentence streams gliding inside, thrusting with prose.

The hands of the photo makers; stains thick and black, darkroom casualties, stamping and smudging the length of your spine, they say, I was here. I have recorded this.

And, then, your own hands that hold the memories and dreams of these others; the visions that wake you in the night, senseless and wrecked inside by past glimpses and jolts and currents.

Your own hands, channeling the others, reminding you.

Remembering.

Transporting.

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