Memories Of Art In My Hand
Have you ever thought about how memory works?
It’s a strange condition, really.
Any memory you have is like a ghost – a moment in time that, for better or worse, will never exist again.
And the only evidence that it ever did exist in the first place is either in your mind, or came out of your mind in the form of some sort of art.
Sure, other people can remember moments in time as well.
Ask your spouse or your best friend about the last time the two of you went on a trip together, and they’ll have their own clear memories of what happened.
But while their recollection of the events might match up with yours, they aren’t the same memories.
How could they be?
At very least, your memory will have your friend standing in front of you, and vice versa.
All your memories are unique to your experience.
But what about the memory of your body?
There’s a theory in science called “body memory” – you can read more about it here.
I’m no scientist, but the basic theory is that memories can be stored in the body as well as the brain.
Imagine losing a part of your body and losing memories along with it.
Imagine losing a leg, and along with it go the memory of your first kiss, of your 18th birthday, of the birth of your child.
I can’t help but connect that with the idea of muscle memory.
I’ve been a Toronto fine artist for many years now.
I’ve had the good fortune of putting brush to canvas, so to speak, on hundreds of pieces during my career.
My right hand has had a brush, a pencil, or a cup of espresso in it for more than 30 years now, doing very similar movements.
My hand has its own inherent memory built into it.
This is easy for me to prove to you – two minutes of watching me try to paint something with my left hand ought to do it.
But I’d rather you take my word for it than embarrass myself like that.
What is this memory?
I can’t tap into it on a conscious level, like I can the memory of my recent trip to Belfast.
I can’t see what my hand has seen over the years, even though I was there, because it hasn’t seen anything – it has no eyes, after all.
But there’s definitely a form of memory there.
And I can still access it.
I do every time I begin painting or drawing.
It’s part of my craft as an artist, and so long as my hand remains where it is I’ll be able to access that innate intelligence my body has built.
Contact Francesco Galle
You’ll find a number of my prints for sale on my website.
They’re printed in a wide variety of formats, sizes, and media, so you can certainly find a size that works for your space.
I’m also available for commissioned work.
Feel free to contact me using the information below if you’d like to commission me, or if you have any questions.
Until next time,