Hammond moves like a man who has practiced the same small theatrical gestures for decades: a finger slightly raised to emphasize a point, a wrist flick to pour a sample. He favors close-cut, immaculate clothing that clings to his posture as if stitched to his spine. His skin bears the faint mottling of someone who works outdoors in seasonal bursts and then salts his face with perfumed powders; his hands are stained at the creases with tannin and soil. He wears a slim black cane with a silver vine motif—at first glance a fashion accessory, at second glance an obvious concealment. Contradictory to his prim bearing, his left boot is perpetually scuffed at the toe and bears a dried smear of red wine that he never bothers to fully clean.