When I was a little girl my father used to take me to the glass factory often while in Palma. It was a place where water and flames be dancing in a constant precise balance in the hands of a man.
I went back few days back to the same place that put glitter in my dreamy eyes. Nothing had changed and I felt at home. The fire had the perfect glow and the ballet to create the glass piece took me by the mind in a sort of trance. The dancer had precision and beauty and I wish I could be the glass in fusion constantly rocked at the tip of the iron bar he was holding. I trusted hands like that, I could give my life for hand like that.
I stood there and never wanted to leave this precious sight: the concentration of his mind and surely the escape of his gaze. The pleasure I had watching this man was intense, the same pleasure watching the Ape with his well-kept tools making total abstraction of his surroundings.
I realized how much I had missed hands of creators, workers, these hands who can talk more than and political speechs or philosophical arguments. I had missed the essential because I was lately lost in a world fascinated by the object while the real value is in the shadow of these men’s hands.