They awaken my voyeuristic instinct. I use them to invent a story and imagine a character. How they grasp, brush against, and avoid what’s around them.

Their appearance too. Their movement. Hands weathered, rugged, hardened by working the land. With valleys carved by the machete. Fists that dream of clutching the chill of a beer. Calloused, wrinkled fingers, more eloquent than a sermon. Their precision, their rhythm, their adornments.

But we often forget them. Instead of eyes or mouths, I have taken a thousand photos of the hands of people I met in Equatorial Guinea with one excuse: the action they are performing. It is undoubtedly less intrusive, yet as intimate as a glance or a twitch of the lips.

If technology allowed it, I would add background scents: golden cocoa in a traditional drying shed, a freshly carved wooden gong, piled fruit. In the ears, a loop of Billy Withers’ “Grandma’s Hands”. A tender song that speaks precisely of the power and wisdom of these overlooked communicators.