About this essay
They do not speak, yet everything in them tells a story.
Skin marked by sun, time, and wind. Lines etched like pathways, silently tracing the course of a life. Through gestures repeated a thousand times, yet never quite identical.
Throughout my travels, it was sometimes they who stopped me. The hands.
More than fixed smiles or breathtaking landscapes, they drew me in by what they reveal — without pretense: labor, faith, knowledge. Hands don’t pose. They act. They work, they pray, they create, they feed. They express the quiet beauty of the everyday — and at times, its harshness.
A silent language that resonates deeply with that of photography.
Occasionally blurred, sometimes imperfectly composed, these images are raw fragments — moments suspended between two gestures. Their beauty, perhaps, lies in that very imperfection that captures the raw sincerity of an ordinary act.
