I can't remember if I ever told you all about this or not (I was reminded of it because of an article on "Hand Models" on CBS Sunday Morning this morning), but I was once a hand model. No, really. A "Hand Model".

I was in Graduate School. I shot a lot of my self-portrait photos (in preparation for my etchings) up on the roof of the main Art building a) because I had the keys (I was also their security guard), b) could lock myself up there and not be disturbed, c) I was the cheapest model I knew, d) I needed a brick wall background, and e) it was often a lengthy, hot, personal job with lots of equipment and posing.

One day I was up there, hadn't locked the roof door, and was photographing black paper cut-out "shadows" I'd made and taped to the brick walls. I finally noticed a man watching me. He was a new faculty member in the Art History department. Mind you, I'm ALONE on this roof, and now I have a man watching me from the entry/exit door.

He approached me, and said "I've been watching you. May I see your hands?"

THAT creeped me out, but jumping over the roof wall and dropping four stories to the hard desert ground seemed counter-productive to finishing my Thesis.

"My HANDS?"

"Yes."

(A little of my hand history: My hands are small, with stubby fingers that differ in length from left to right hands. Richard, a best friend, tried to teach me basics of guitar and piano, but I couldn't make those wide finger stretches. I've used my hands as a first defense against the world. They are scarred, bent, veiny, tanned to leather, cuticles picked till bloody, the fingernails grow distorted because of it, I write inky notes to myself on the top back of my left hand, and I tear skin off of them and save it for my upcoming sculptures. My hands are brutalized. They are my weapons, tools, and art supply store. No, really.)

"MY hands?"

"Yes. I'm working on a book..." and he proceeded to explain he is also an author on primitive, pre-historic cultures, and noticed my hands one day in the third floor hallway. The look of my hands was "perfect" for Primitive Man. He'd like to photograph them in poses doing the various jobs of Pre-Man.

"MY hands??"

"Yes!"

I shook my head, laughed, said "Sure. If you need my help, you have it."

Within a couple of weeks, we'd scheduled meetings up-on-the-roof in the brilliant natural light. He brought his own equipment, and had a tight game plan. As it turned out, he also wanted to brain storm with me.

"Now, when you're rubbing those sticks together, which way feels more effective and comfortable?" We were actually finessing his theories about making and handling tools.

Months, if not a year or more later, he approached me with a gift. It was the published book, with a personal thank you in it. I have it somewhere, but haven't look at it in years. It's not on my resume or coffee table, and, I can see my hands anyday right there at the ends of my arms.

The NEXT time you see the "Seinfeld" rerun of George becoming a "Hand Model", think of me.