Back in the fifteenth century, in a tiny village near Nuremberg, lived a family with eighteen children. In order merely to keep food on the table for this mob, the father, a goldsmith by profession, worked almost eighteen hours a day and any other paying chore he could find in the neighbourhood. Despite their seemingly hopeless condition, two of the elder children had a dream. They both wanted to pursue their talent for art, but they knew well that their father would never be financially able to send either of them 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 while he attended the academy. Then, when that brother who won the toss completed his studies, in four years, he would support the other brother at the academy, either with sales of his artwork or, if necessary, also by labouring in the mines. They tossed a coin on a Sunday morning after church. Albrecht won the toss and went off to Nuremberg.

So Albert, the other brother went down into the dangerous mines and, for the next four years, financed his brother, 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, 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 family held a festive dinner on their lawn 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 had enabled 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 support 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, he rose and wiped the tears from his cheeks. He glanced down the long table at the faces he loved, and then 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 a brush. No, brother... for me it is too late.”

One day, to pay homage to Albert for all that he had sacrificed, Albrecht Durer pai-nstakingly drew his brother’s abused hands with palms together and thin fingers stret-ched skyward. He called his po-werful 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.’