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I did not know Danny when he lost the fingers on his right hand, he was only
6 years in age at the time. His father owned an Italian restaurant and one day
he gave Danny the job of operating a commercial grinder. Every dad wants to prosper a son
with his knowledge and skill, but that day ended badly for father M. Thereafter,
any diner who came to the restaurant had to eat with the idea of a child's amputations
floating behind the waiters like corks on fishing line. I could see the ghostly digits bobbing
on the white china plate that was set in front of me.
The absent fingers on his hand meant a different kind of Dannying. Simple tasks such as opening a package or placing a table were accomplished by working the fingers on his left hand while clubbing things with his right stump. He set about these activities with a fury and intensity we knew we shouldn't frustrate with our good intentions. It was as though he was reconnecting with the fingers he left behind, agitating their remnant cords in his mind. Things that connect up in the mind stay connected even after they become separated from the body, not only fingers and toes, but also subtler articulations like family and friends. I once went over to Danny's house to see if I could get him out on the lake for some fishing, but he had just put a batch of brownies in the oven. He did a quick mental calculation, reset the oven dial, and by the time we returned the brownies were done. My fingers are still attached, but even after all these years they become strangers whenever there is a dial to be turned. |
| 3/5/98 | oil on panel | 41 1/4"w X 35"h |
