I often think about my hands. I watch them closely when I work. They are my engine, my most precious tool.
They are the ones that touch the clay, that shape it, search, correct, and begin again.
Through them, my ideas travel and take form in matter.

Every day in the studio, I become more aware of their importance.
They are the extension of my inspiration.
They move through the material and read it better than my mind does.

My hands know.
My hands guide.
My hands dare.

For a long time, I didn’t really think about them.
I was simply working.
Then one day, I realized my hands deserved more attention.
That I needed to take care of them, as one takes care of a precious instrument.

Now, every day, I take a few minutes to stretch them, giving attention to each joint.
I do simple exercises, slow movements, almost like a meditation.
It has become a ritual.

A moment to thank my hands for what they allow me to create.
These gestures remind me that sculpture is a work of the body as much as of the spirit.

My hands tell the story of my craft.
They carry the history of each work.
And through them, my entire relationship with creation is expressed.