The Last Hands

1Eight years ago, I walked into a tiny shoe-repair shop to have the heel of my boot fixed. The owner, a man in his eighties named Shlomo, worked at a wooden bench surrounded by tools that looked older than he was. As he hammered tiny nails into the leather, he told me that he had learned the trade from his father, and that when he retired, the shop would close for good. "Nobody wants to learn this anymore," he said, without bitterness. "People throw shoes away now." I asked if I could photograph him at work. That afternoon changed the direction of my career.

2Until then, I had earned my living photographing weddings and advertisements. I enjoyed the work, but I rarely felt that my pictures mattered. In Shlomo's shop, I realised that I was witnessing something that would soon vanish: not only a profession, but a whole body of knowledge stored in a person's hands. I decided to spend my free time documenting traditional crafts before they disappeared completely.

3Since then, I have photographed more than forty craftspeople. I have spent days with a bookbinder who sews pages together with linen thread, a woman who still weaves baskets from palm leaves the way her grandmother taught her, and a clock repairer whose fingers can feel a problem before his eyes can see it. I always ask permission to stay for a full working day, not just an hour. People behave naturally only after they forget the camera is there, and the most meaningful moments usually come late in the day.

4Not every visit is easy. Some craftspeople are suspicious at first, worried that I want to make them look old-fashioned or sad. I explain that my aim is the opposite: I want viewers to see skill and pride, not just loss. When they see the finished photographs, many of them are moved. The basket weaver hung one of my prints in her living room, next to a photo of her grandmother at the same work.

5Last year, a small museum exhibited sixty of my photographs. What surprised me most was the reaction of young visitors. Several of them asked where they could learn bookbinding or basket weaving. Shlomo's shop closed three years ago, but his tools now belong to a young woman who saw his portrait at the exhibition and contacted his family. Perhaps, I sometimes think, a photograph does not only remember the past. Sometimes it can help the past continue.