Joris Iven





Every time I looked at a woman, I first looked at her hands.

I know that these details also strike you when you look. Always the two,

three small hairs, the short-cut nails, the curve of a finger,

a little finger. Those tiniest of features have often attracted me.

They have led me where I was also going. I saw hands lifting

a cup from a saucer, clasping a book, running through hair.

And I was never tempted by what was flawless. Time and again those

face freckles, those hairs on arms or legs, that spot that shouldn’t be there.

I know that what is mutilated also affects you, when you are in the dark.

I loved many hands, and accompanying loose hairs, hoarse voice,

squinting look. I loved those hands until they wanted to persuade me.




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