We’re in Paris in the early 1970s, among 20-somethings who, in the long hangover of May ‘68, frequent the cafes and bars of the Left Bank planning films that rarely get made, talking about books that don’t get written. Most of their talent is expended on clever puns and late-night monologues. It’s in this milieu that a young man conceives of a grisly art project. If he can find a surgeon willing to perform the operation, he is going to have his right hand amputated and placed on display. He plans to set aside a room in his apartment that will contain only one object: his severed hand preserved in formaldehyde with a plaque reading “My Hand, 1940-1972.” His hope is that people will come to view this exhibit, but until now he hasn’t been able to find a cooperative doctor.