tHE PRAYING HANDs

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 neighborhood. 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
laboring 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
honored 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, watercolors, 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.”
Mora: 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!