Proof

Oct 31 2011

In the portrait photographer’s studio,

where light is used

for contrast

illumination

concealment.

Where the dark-room arts

can fashion truth

steal human souls.

Where your face becomes you,

becoming, or not.

And even the devout don't believe

are made in the image of God.

The famous portrait of Churchill

as scowling bulldog,

when Karsh snatched away his cigar

snapped the picture.

Captured

in immortal black and white.

When I realized

he wants your hands in the frame.

Which tell as much about the man

as anything.

Because poker-faced

he gives nothing away.

But clasping hands

you can read him blind-folded.

I will grip the arms of the antique chair,

knuckles clenched

stretched white skin.

I will prop them under my chin,

and then regret

appearing so pretentious.

I will brandish a pen,

the writer at work

thoughtful, pensive.

A cheap ball-point BIC,

as usual

the well-chewed end

ink-stained fingers.

A portrait of the man

that will be hung

in a place of prominence.

Who must trust the photographer

with his life.

This poem began very simply – as do most! I heard it said that a good portrait photographer wants to see your hands.

Hands are, or course, a powerful symbol. Even though the idea has been discredited that tool use separates us from the other animals, the opposable thumb still distinguishes us. And hands bear all the evidence of a life. They are our conduit to touch, to the highest intimacy. Even the word – manos – reveals the impossibility of disentangling one’s humanity from oneself. So this should have been self-evident all along: you can’t capture the essence of a man without showing his hands!

The statement immediately brought to mind Karsh’s iconic portrait. Me, I’ve never sat for a picture like this. But I think I would revert to the awkward self-conscious adolescent, who isn’t quite sure what to do with his hands!