Commentary: When my fingers stopped cooperating, I had to rethink making art

My hands were such good sports for so many decades that I didn't even know they were unhappy until they quit working. At first I was affronted by their betrayal. But in spite of my indignation, the chopsticks rattled to the floor, the coffee cup smashed. Sleeping in any position but corpse-at-a-viewing woke me with sizzling pain.

I feel a little sheepish, remembering all I'd demanded of my hands. Filling sketch pads and walls with intricate drawings, gripping a hair-thin pen,