I was inspired to write this story when I received one day, a sculpture of the “Praying Hands” that had been made by my dear friend Alfred.
In a tiny village near Nuremberg, in the fifteenth century, lived a family with eighteen children. The father, Albrecht Durer the elder, a goldsmith by profession and head of the household, worked over eighteen hours a day at his trade to support this large family. Despite their seemingly hopeless condition, two of the 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 whilst he attended the academy. Then, when that brother who had won the toss completed his studies, in four years time would then support the other brother at the Academy.
They tossed a coin on the Sunday morning after church. Albrecht Durer won the toss and went off to Nuremberg. His brother Albert went down into the dangerous mines and, for the next four years-financed Albrecht, 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 were, 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 to celebrate Albrecht’s triumphant homecoming. After a long and memorable meal, punctuated with music and laughter, Albrecht rose from his honoured position at the head of the table to drink a toast to his beloved brother for the years of sacrifice that that had enable Albrecht to fulfil 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 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 silver-point sketches, watercolours, 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.”
So, that wonderful sculptured copy of “The Praying Hands” made and presented to me by Alfred is displayed in the sanctuary, as a reminder. That no one - no one - ever makes it alone!
