The first (and only) time I sat down at a potter’s wheel my fingernails were painted a vermillion red. “Those won’t last very long,” is all my teacher said as my hands scrambled to centre the lump of wet clay enlarging before me. I’ve since learned that a manicure is wasted on a potter’s hands. Too much water, too much mud. I cut my nails short, and once in a while, I slap on some Egyptian Magic. That’s my manicure. I like my hands. They’re weathered from the sun and from washing dishes and bathing babies and dipping sponges in clay water. They’re weathered from planting marigolds in the summer (to keep away the squirrels) and forgetting to wear gloves in the winter. I like these photographs of makers’ hands by Marilyn Lamoreux. Drafting, drawing, painting, weaving. There’s toughness and tenderness in each image.