Images composed by AMILCAR MORETTI. First moments of Wednesday, June 3, 2020, the Year of the Plague. Buenos Aires.
![](https://www.moretticulturaeros.com.ar/wp-content/uploads/2020/06/amilcar-moretti.-junio-2020ed.-buenos-aires-3-DSC_4714.jpg)
La mano, ¿por qué no mi tema fotográfico? La mano en la amada. La caricia de quien me ama. Me calma, me levanta. La mano sobre la modelo de desnudo, otra. No, no es eso ahora. Otras manos. Me encuentro con ella y no puedo darle mi mano, ni ella apretar la mía. No puedo -no podemos- acariciarla, recorrernos. No podemos besarnos, bien profundo, lengua acariciando lengua. El Año de la Peste. O te morís o hacés el amor. Te morís, o como que te mueres. Y otra más, que hace muchos años me contó un joven oficial con respecto a la mano. Su barco de guerra fue atravesado por torpedos y se hunde en el mar, en la noche y agua heladas. El oficial joven quedó a cargo de uno de los botes de rescate. El suyo estaba repleto, 30, 40 o 50 hombres mojados y con frío. Alrededor del bote, en el agua congelada, flotan y gritan muchos marinos, apenas cuatro o cinco minutos cada uno, después se hunden, mueren, sus corazones hechos hielo. Varios de ellos intentan subir al bote de rescate, no caben, se desequilibra. Uno le estira el brazo al joven oficial y le pide que le dé una mano: el oficial lo apunta en la frente con su pistola y le ordena que se suelte, que se aleje, o dispara su arma. El desgraciado retira la mano. El joven oficial no lo mira, es de noche y están rodeados de agua helada.
AMILCAR MORETTI
![](https://www.moretticulturaeros.com.ar/wp-content/uploads/2020/06/amilcar-moretti.-junio-2020ed.-buenos-aires-2-DSC_4804.jpg)
Modelo: Roma
WRITTEN BY AMÍLCAR MORETTI, June 2020
The hand, why not my photographic subject? The hand on the beloved. The caress of who loves me. It calms me down, it lifts me up. The hand on the nude model, another. No, it’s not that now. Other hands. I meet her and I cannot give her my hand, nor can she squeeze mine. I cannot – we cannot – caress her, walk us. We can not kiss, very deep, tongue stroking tongue. The Year of the Plague. Either you look at yourself or you make love. You die, or you feel like you die. And another, that many years ago a young officer told me about the hand. His warship was crossed by torpedoes and sinks in the sea, in the night and icy water. The young officer was left in charge of one of the rescue boats. His was full, 30, 40 or 50 men wet and cold. Around the boat, in the frozen water, many sailors float and scream, just four or five minutes each, then they sink, die, their hearts frozen. Several of them try to get on the rescue boat, they do not fit, it becomes unbalanced. One stretches out the young officer’s arm and asks him to give him a hand: the officer points his forehead at him with his pistol and orders him to let go, move away, or shoot his weapon. The wretch withdraws his hand. The young officer does not look at him, it is night and they are surrounded by icy water.