The recent gesture by Elon Musk during the celebrations for the inauguration of the 47th President of the United States—arm outstretched with an open hand facing the audience—is causing controversy, reigniting the debate on the ambiguity of symbols and their propagandistic power.

The image, widely shared on social media and published by several newspapers, evoked for many the Nazi salute, a gesture laden with a dark and tragic past.

Therefore, while Musk defends himself against any accusations of endorsing Fascism or Nazism, his gesture remains suspended, a moment that, perhaps unintentionally, offers us a deep reflection on the ambivalent nature of symbols and their evocative power.

It is precisely here that this gesture echoes countless other hands.

Hands that have become instruments of power and blessing, weapons and offerings, expressions of dominance and supplication. The hand of Michelangelo giving life to Adam, but also the hand that grips Brutus’ dagger to condemn Caesar to death. The hand that heals and wounds, that creates and destroys, embodying the dual nature of humanity, capable of the most sublime gesture and the most brutal violence. 

This same hand, bearer of such ambivalence, is found in prehistoric caves, imprinted on rock—evidence of a primordial need to communicate, to leave a trace of oneself in the world. This need transforms into prayer in ancient Egypt, where the hand rises up, hieratic and divine, to guide the pharaoh on his journey to eternity, a symbol of royal power and the connection with the divine. In Greek art, the hand becomes an expression of harmony and grace, celebrating the perfection of the human body and the balance between strength and fragility. Rome, with its pragmatism and attention to detail, explores its expressive power, making it a key element in portraying the personalities of its emperors. 

However, it is with the advent of Christianity that the hand, particularly the hand of Christ pierced by nails, takes on a new, deep meaning. It becomes a symbol of sacrifice and redemption, an offering of love for humanity. In Byzantine art, this ethereal hand stretches toward the spiritual dimension, acting as a bridge between humanity and the divine. The Renaissance, which exalts knowledge and places its trust in human abilities, brings the hand back to its earthly beauty, studying its anatomy with scientific rigor and celebrating its creative power. On the other hand, Caravaggio immerses it in a play of light and shadow that enhances its physicality, while Bernini, the sculptor of movement and emotion, gives it extraordinary vitality, as in The Rape of Proserpina. In modern art, the hand fragments and deforms, as if to erase its presence. 

Finally, in the digital age, the hand becomes pixels, binary code, an interface between human and machine, opening new questions about the future of communication and human identity.

An ambiguous gesture that compels us to reflect on the polysemic power of symbols and the responsibility that comes with it. The hand, like the word, can build and destroy, and its interpretation is subjective. 

Opening image: The Creation of Adam, detail, c. 1511