Bruce Conner Hands

As a young art student in Denver, I discovered Bruce Conner’s compelling, obsessive work and he soon became an iconic figure to me. I moved to San Francisco, completed my MFA, and was working at a frame shop when he dropped off several engraving collages to be framed. He arrived with his cool elegant demeanor, wearing his signature hat and white cotton gloves. He was unexpectedly engaging and funny, putting my nerves at ease. When I moved to Glen Park, he and his wife, Jean, lived two blocks away, and we all became friends. He'd often take walks in the neighborhood and use my front steps as a resting place. If I happened to come home at that time, he would look as if he was expecting me, which gave me great pleasure. 

In 2006, at the frame shop, he asked if I would photograph his hands. I arrived at his home and studio with my 4x5 film camera and tripod. We cleared off the kitchen table, the same one where he'd gathered salons to sit around watching obscure films and ancient cartoons. I loved being in his audience. It was on this table where we set up. He was the most willing sitter and participant. He let me move his hands the way I felt was right. He didn't complain, even when for one picture I had the camera nearly wedged against his face. One of the images (the vertical image) features a black hole. We had both been enamored and fascinated by it. The week he died, I'd been in the middle of making a photographic series on weep holes. There is one image in the series that reminded me of this very hole.
I gave him the images, and we never spoke of them again.