Illustration by Alex Siklos
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I have always loved to work with my hands. In the age of robotics and artificial intelligence, I find it rewarding and exhilarating to simply pick up a tool and let my hands follow the thousands, if not millions of years of creativity in my DNA. I love to continue this path; I love to look at my hands as the instruments of boundless imagination as countless generations did before me.
Why am I so interested in the beauty of my hands’ movements, the logic behind their interconnection and the infinite attachment to the brain? In these times when many are surrendering to the lure of automation and the attraction of artificial intelligence, I prefer to dwell on the past. After all, the history of humanity is written by human hands, the hands that allowed us to exist over the millennia.
My obsession with the history of our species is rooted in my own past. I was not yet three years old when my father died, unable to take in the knowledge or skills fathers usually pass on to their children, too young for him to show me what hands can do. But there were traces of his existence: a shed my mother called “his space,” with odds and ends of unexplained objects leaning against it and strange aromas.
I was told time after time that the shed was too dangerous for me, but I had a childish fantasy that my father was hiding in there and would eventually come out to greet me with his smile. Even though I sensed my father’s absence was permanent, I somehow still believed the shed and its mystique could lead me back to him.
One day I gathered my courage and with the strength of my young age I pushed on the door. A strange odour greeted me that seemed pleasantly sweet. I entered, defying my mother’s explicit “No.” The shed had only one window and I noticed a spider web covering a portion of it. In front of the window stood a table crowned at one end with an attachment looking like a sandcastle that I later discovered was a vise. I could not see what was on the top of the table, but on the floor underneath were a lot of mysterious items. I quickly glanced over my shoulder to see if anyone noticed my whereabouts and quietly closed the door, the same door that until now represented the gate to the world of the unknown.
Nothing looked familiar. I touched a smooth-handled gadget with an unusual piece attached to the end of it. I tried to lift it but my little fingers could not hold the weight. The object fell on the floor with a strange clunk, the wooden piece hitting my shin. It hurt, but my attention had already moved to the next object. A long, skinny piece with an end that felt smooth against the palm of my hand. Was it a sword of a mighty knight from the stories my mother read to me?
Looking around, I found a box that I stood on to see the top of the table: There were more fascinating objects, including neat little boxes of different shapes, sizes and colours, a few spilled aside. Glass jars that my mother used to make preserves were sitting on the window sill, lined up like the little soldiers set I played with.
These objects made my imagination run wild. I did not want to leave my “father’s space,” but I was afraid my mother would come looking for me and find me in this forbidden place. I was going to open the door, but something hanging from it stopped me. It had pockets and strings, and it reminded me of an apron that my mother wore in the kitchen. It smelled of everything my father was to me. I could not name the scent – whether it was glue, oil, metal or wood – but I know it carried a trace of the father I never knew. It was he who wanted me to be in the shed, a father who would now guide me through the maze of mysterious paths the shed offered. This was his way to give me indirectly what he could not give me in person. Perhaps it was at this moment my love to work with my hands was born.
Year after year, my hands have given me endless pleasure in building my life. From constructing my own house and repairing my grandson’s toys, to providing a helping hand to others less fortunate with their skills, my hands have never failed me. Now I know why I love working with them so much: It is the thing my father left me, albeit in the way of a mysterious shed and, even more, its mysterious contents. I never truly knew my father, but each time I pick up a tool, or use my hands, I know he is with me.
Now, almost 75 years later, after a lifetime of interesting careers, all involving the creativity and dexterity of my hands, I know I helped to write the history of humanity. I do not wish for more.
Zdenek Kutac lives in Calgary.