The Bends by Anastasia Page

The Bends


The skin of my finger folds the same way as my mother and her mother before her.

I know this, in fact, I’m an expert on the folds of skin.

I’ve always been obsessed. 
With the way our bodies make their own shadows.

In regards to my Nana’s hands, I’ll remember them forever.

Her red nails delicately balancing 
a Benson and Hedges Ultra Light Menthol between two fingers.

How her fingers would bend to transport the red, white, and green neon stripe
to her matching red lipped mouth.

The skin folds and bends.
I see shadows.

I became an expert on every line of her hands--
Only when they stopped bending shadows and cigarettes.

Only when they were stiff and caused such controversy.

The tips of the forcibly straightened out bend.
Painted pink.

A vile pink.

Not her bend red that would usher her into the next life.
A bold bend crimson.

No, a vile pre-puberty pink loved by those without taste.

My bold red sharpened claw nails bend over the sidewalks of New York.
Creating shadows and shapes.

I can see the folds of my skin.
Soft, bending, like dough.

The dough of women, the bend of fingers.



Bio: Anastasia is a photographer and writer based in New York City. Her formative years were spent in California on the back of motorcycles, chasing sunsets through the desert, and being snuck into Salsa clubs. Her visual work is inspired by narratives while her narratives are inspired by personal documentation. ​
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