I am not really blind. I
can still see the big E in eye exams, pretty much. If someone is
backlit I have to know them well to know who I’m looking at,
even close up. Some people inexplicably recover from my form of
optical neuropathy without explanation. Alan Levine knows this and
likes to check on how close he can get before I recognize him. Then
he paces off the distance. The problem is I don’t look at
people very much. If I do, and it is someone I know but don’t
recognize, their feelings get hurt when I don’t say hello.
Sometimes I try to get over this by saying hello to everyone. I
say hello to people scratching their head, waving to taxis, waving
to people behind me or giving me the finger. When I’m in my
head down mode Alan will get my attention, as he did in the Café
Parroquia the other morning by doing a little dance or walking funny.
Of course, this ruins the whole experiment as not many people do
that. So I always know it’s him.
A blind guy, who’s name I forget, once said “Blindness
is an inconvenience and nothing more.” As I am not actually
blind I don’t know if this is true. I do know that being partially
blind is inconvenient. As in pissing people off because you don’t
say hello to them, but it also has it’s entertaining side.
Some friends know I don’t know who they are when they say
hello and help me out. George Fields is my favorite. When he sees
me across the street or other side of the Jardín he raises
both arms in the air waving and in his deep baritone bellows “Keith,
George Fields!” Although this will on occasion unsettle a
couple bystanders, I appreciate it very much.
Other friends do a more moderate version of George’s salute.
Stopping by Buen Café in search of pumpkin pie, I ran into
Buen’s proprietor and friend Iris Rudolph, and discovering
there was indeed pumpkin pie, joined her. Patty O’Hanly, who
has been sitting quietly, backlit, on the other side of the table,
said, “Keith, it’s Patty.” In addition to the
back lit problem I had been in head down mode.
Once I walked by Carmen Delcel, who used to read her sexual memoirs
on NPR, and who is touchy, without speaking. I turned back to say
hello. “Keith, just what is the story with your eyes? I never
know what you see, and what you don’t?” she asked. “Carmen,
it’s all impressionistic,” I answered. She stared at
me, squinting, cocked her head, and said, “No wonder all the
girls love you.” Then, as she turned away, “And vice
versa I might add.”
As to my painting, my cup is definitely half full. Short wave BBC
said in a program on sight that some people, when they can’t
identify what they are looking at their mind fills in for them.
The brain just makes something up. It was a relief to hear this
as I was beginning to think my tenure in New York’s Lower
East Side and the Haight in the ‘60’s was beginning
to catch up with me.
Once, running towards a hot air balloon I crew for I stopped and
stared. “I wonder what he sees?” I heard a fellow crewmember
familiar with my optical eccentricities. What I saw was a woman
astride a large animal, the full purple skirt of her dress cascading
down the animal’s side, holding a pink parasol. On closer
inspection, this proved to be a pile of fertilizer with a large
purple tarp slung over it. Above the pile a pink plastic bag was
caught in a tree.
Another trio of parasols once appeared carried by three nuns carried
up the stairs of La Capia, the restaurant. In a couple seconds I
realized they were three Geraniums in a pot right in front of me,
the nuns three women in black on the other side of the courtyard.
Night is interesting, startling at times. Van Gough stars the size
of soft balls hang over incredible orange buildings. Car headlights
are suns blocking all around them in their glare.
Gigante is awful; the vibrating lights make me crazy, washing out
all shadows. By contrast I love my house. Small windows, north light,
soft deep chiaroscuro shadows, low morning sun in slides the small
front windows of the sala/school. Manta softens the light from the
skylight in the high ceiling. Big glass walls or windows in San
Miguel are harsh and boring, make me think of homes for aliens.
The big darks and lights, the shadows, no details, except up close,
are what I see. Good for an artist. When a new student can’t
see darks and lights I have them take their glasses off. When I
sometimes ask a new student to identify a dark color squeezed straight
from the tube it weirds them out sometimes that their teacher is,
in the dark ranges, color blind.
This limitation probably accounts for an article that spoke of my
“unique color sense.” “Bold and straight forward”
was another description of my palette. On the other hand it seems
I see color perspective and the prismatic flow of light easier than
most.
People sometimes ask me, my visual limitations taken into account,
how I paint. I answer truthfully, “I don’t know.”
I do know that when I take a strong magnifying glass and look at
my work I’m always surprised at what I see.
When Blind George was alive I used to watch him a lot. Some years
ago he had palled up with a very nice young guy. They hung together
a lot. At a party I threw I noticed them in front of a painting
of mine. The young guy was slowly running his finger over every
inch of the large painting, talking. George kept his hand near the
young guy and his finger listening. Later George came up to me and
said, “When I could see paintings yours were the kind I liked.”
Makes sense. |
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