Back in the fifteenth century, in a tiny village near Nuremberg, lived a family
with eighteen children. Eighteen! In order merely to keep food on the table for
this mob, the father and head of the household, a goldsmith by profession,
worked almost eighteen hours a day at his trade and any other paying chore he
could find in the neighbourhood.
Despite their seemingly hopeless condition, two of Albrecht Durer the Elder's
children had a dream. They both wanted to pursue their talent for art, but they
knew full well that their father would never be financially able to send either
of them to Nuremberg to study at the Academy.
After many long discussions at night in their crowded bed, the two boys finally
worked out a pact. They would toss a coin. The loser would go down into the
nearby mines and, with his earnings, support his brother while he attended the
academy. Then, when that brother who won the toss completed his studies, in four
years, he would support the other brother at the academy, either with sales of
his artwork or, if necessary, also by labouring in the mines.
They tossed a coin on a Sunday morning after church. Albrecht Durer won the toss
and went off to Nuremberg. Albert went down into the dangerous mines and, for
the next four years, financed his brother, whose work at the academy was almost
an immediate sensation. Albrecht's etchings, his woodcuts, and his oils were far
better than those of most of his professors, and by the time he graduated, he
was beginning to earn considerable fees for his commissioned works.
When the young artist returned to his village, the Durer family held a festive
dinner on their lawn to celebrate Albrecht's triumphant homecoming. After a long
and memorable meal, punctuated with music and laughter, Albrecht rose from his
honoured position at the head of the table to drink a toast to his beloved
brother for the years of sacrifice that had enabled Albrecht to fulfill his
ambition. His closing words were, "And now, Albert, blessed brother of mine, now
it is your turn. Now you can go to Nuremberg to pursue your dream, and I will
take care of you."
All heads turned in eager expectation to the far end of the table where Albert
sat, tears streaming down his pale face, shaking his lowered head from side to
side while he sobbed and repeated, over and over, "No ...no ...no ...no."
Finally, Albert rose and wiped the tears from his cheeks. He glanced down the
long table at the faces he loved, and then, holding his hands close to his right
cheek, he said softly, "No, brother. I cannot go to Nuremberg. It is too late
for me. Look ... look what four years in the mines have done to my hands! The
bones in every finger have been smashed at least once, and lately I have been
suffering from arthritis so badly in my right hand that I cannot even hold a
glass to return your toast, much less make delicate lines on parchment or canvas
with a pen or a brush. No, brother ... for me it is too late."
More than 450 years have passed. By now, Albrecht Durer's hundreds of masterful
portraits, pen and silver-point sketches, watercolours, charcoals, woodcuts, and
copper engravings hang in every great museum in the world, but the odds are
great that you, like most people, are familiar with only one of Albrecht Durer's
works. More than merely being familiar with it, you very well may have a
reproduction hanging in your home or office.
One day, to pay homage to Albert for all that he had sacrificed, Albrecht Durer
painstakingly drew his brother's abused hands with palms together and thin
fingers stretched skyward. He called his powerful drawing simply "Hands," but
the entire world almost immediately opened their hearts to his great masterpiece
and renamed his tribute of love "The Praying Hands."
The next time you see a copy of that touching creation, take a second look. Let
it be your reminder, if you still need one, that no one - no one - - ever makes
it alone!
Author unknown. If anyone has a proprietary interest in this story please
authenticate and I will be happy to credit, or remove, as the circumstances
dictate.
Send by Tim Cove
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