Hands On.

After washing a turkey, Katie Holmes struggles to lift it from the sink, even as it begins to slip from her grasp. In the early morning, she and her new boyfriend are struggling to put Thanksgiving dinner together for her family for the first time in the outstanding independent film Pieces of April. I had added the movie to my Netflix queue a while back, I believe on Curt's recommendation, and since forgotten about it. I had no idea what the film was about, or that Ms. Holmes could so capably play a character so different from the one I usually see her play, and though the pacing was slow initially and the reality painfully real at times, it all led to an emotionally amazing payoff. I laughed, got angry, and cried along with the characters.

Last year was the first time I cooked for Thanksgiving, since my mom had been recovering from surgery at the time. It was a difficult process, accurately portrayed in the movie I watched tonight, but it got me thinking about “real” work with one's hands, and how fulfilling the end result can be. I spend a lot of time during the week choosing typefaces, and moving words and pictures around on my computer screen using a mouse, and I've definitely gotten away from the more hands-on art I explored back in college. Despite a vow to return to my drawing table nearly one year ago, that hasn't been the case. I've done some drawing here and there, but not regularly, and not enough to keep in practice. The LEGO robot picture I posted yesterday reminds me of how much I used to work with my hands when I was a kid, how much I enjoyed any kind of building toys and how I'd often take my mom's suggestion to “do something constructive” literally.

In my sophomore year of college I got to study sculpture under the tutelage of an Italian master. It was the only time I sculpted with clay, and the bulk of the semester was spent on a self-portrait, which now resides on my drawing table downstairs. Though ©opyright Violating Da®®el echoed the sentiment of many of my readers who actually want to know what I look like for some inexplicable reason, posting images of the bust doesn't detract from the Mysterious™. While I enjoyed the process, glancing at a mirror as I shaped and molded my features with my bare hands, occasionally using a fork or other tool, the end result prompted my professor to suggest, “that looks-a like you buddy Rey!” Maybe it was the complexion, or the fact that I had sculpted a goatee at the time he made the comment. In response, I shaved my chin that night and the next day adjusted the sculpture to match what I looked like. These days I wear a five o'clock shadow, so the sculpture is even less accurate, especially since it was done over a decade ago.

The only other large sculpture I did in that class was (supposed to be) of a cat. I was proud of my progress when my professor noted the swatting arm would crack off in the kiln. I disagreed and, in front of the other students, he ripped the cat's arm off. I was insistent that the paw be up, and reattached the arm, building a support in at the end. I did an excellent job reintegrating the clay, at least by my youthful arrogance. After it was fired, however, it cracked in the precise spot I'd reattached the arm. It taught me never to disagree with someone who studied in Italy and had been sculpting since before I was born.

I sometimes envy professions where people create with their hands. Chefs, carpenters, mechanics, sculptors and others have something tangible at the end of the day, something to show for their time. While the things I create are eventually printed, at the end of a work day I have 20-30 saved files, seeing printed pieces weeks later when I'm working on the next issues and barely have time to admire my old work. I'm finding outlets in my creativity through writing, music and photography, and I don't think I have the time, space or energy to take on sculpting again, at least right now. Just as our taste in food changes as we get older, so too do our hobbies. Things go away and sometimes, things come back. The last few times my dad's worked on my car, I've done a lot more of the actual work under his direction, since carpal tunnel syndrome and arthritis hinder his ability to tighten or loosen tough bolts. When I was a kid, I didn't even enjoy sitting there handing him wrenches, and would bemoan the cartoons I was missing or important bike riding my friends in the neighborhood were doing. I never believed I'd regret not paying more attention, even though both my parents told me as much. We all have to learn such lessons through our own experiences. Life itself will probably give me plenty of opportunities to use my hands. Someday I'll own a house, and there will be furniture to build and walls to paint. More and more I'll have to do my own automotive repairs, and as my dad gets older and cars get newer, consult the internet when we're stumped, putting my passive computer abilities to practical good use. There will be other struggles in the kitchen with turkeys. And 30 years from now, when the deadlines are gone and the hours in the day are suddenly hard to fill, I may look back on my youth and decide to revisit an old hobby, and perhaps attempt a feat of clay.