Blindaversary

It seems like a lifetime ago.  At twenty-two years, I suppose it is a lifetime.  The anniversary almost slipped up on me this year.  But, this uncanny and often irritating ability I have to remember dates and even days of the week they happened—always pops up sooner or later.  This year, September 25^th falls on a Wednesday, just as it did in 1991.

The week before, I’d had a dye test where they photographed the blood vessels in back of my eye after a yellow dye was injected into a vein in one of my arms.  Then I nervously waited for them to call with the results.

They called me at work that Wednesday morning.  “You have diabetic retinopathy.  If you don’t have laser treatments right away you could lose all your vision.” 

Outside my office, my co-workers went about their business.  If someone’s world comes crashing down around them and nobody else hears it, did it really happen?  Apparently so. 

I needed air.  I needed space.  My office was closer to the back of the building.  The next thing I knew, I was standing in the alley, trying to catch my breath.  The intense Austin sun felt like it would cook me alive.

Home.  Just get home.  Now.

I found my way to the front parking lot, got in my truck, and drove to my apartment.

What am I going to do now? 

I had only been there a few months.  My health insurance wasn’t due to start until October 1^st.  Just a couple of months earlier, I discovered my kidneys were failing.  This news was like a hammer driving a nail all the way in.  Any pretense I had that maybe, just maybe I could stay in Austin and make it all work was gone.  After Tampa, Kansas City, and Dallas, I’d finally a place—the place—I wanted to stay.  It was so much like the quirky college town where I grew up but with big city amenities.  My paychecks were increasing.  After laying the groundwork, the accounts I’d opened were really starting to produce sales.  Life was on a steady upswing.  Well, except for failing kidneys.

My parents were anxiously waiting to find out the results of the test.  I called them and we made plans for them to drive to Austin the first weekend in October to help me pack up and move back in with them.  Life as I knew was coming to an end, but at least I wouldn't have to face it alone.  Still, as the oldest kid, I felt guilt at being a burden on them.

Since then, some of my worst nightmares came true.  Some amazing blessings rescued me.  I’ve had to pick myself up and go forward countless times.

When I want to torture myself, I try to imagine what life would have been like if my health hadn’t failed and I’d been able to stay in Austin.  I’ve been back twice—in 1996 and 2001.  Each time, it was so much bigger than before.  From what I hear, it’s much more expensive and resembles Dallas and Houston more than the place I remember.

There are two things I was good at then and, thanks to professional guidance and practice, am even better at now.  Writing and visual art.  There are some gifts that vision loss can dull, but never take completely away as long as there’s some vision left. 

In the months that followed me leaving my job, selling most of my things, and returning to Arkansas, I had plenty of time to sit around my parents’ house and ponder the future.  There was one thing I vowed to do over and over again: surpass the expectations of people who thought I wasn’t capable of much anymore.  I approached my new reality with the same tenacity I’d used to support myself in college and graduate in four years, even after changing majors and watching some of my friends give up. 

I run into trouble when I expect things to be as easy as they are for people who can see fine.  Sometimes it turns to resentment, which is as unproductive and unhealthy as guilt—another emotion that invades my mind when I remember the mistakes I made as a young diabetic in my teens and twenties.

On this day in 1991, the sense of fear and loss had me wondering if I would ever accomplish anything.  I assumed that my skills and abilities would be frozen where they were then, as a 27 year-old who had no idea what he really wanted to do with his life.

Back in 1991, it would have helped me to know that before I was halfway through my forties, it would be the most productive decade of my life (so far).

In 1991 it would have given me such relief to know that by the end of that decade, I would no longer be diabetic.

In 1991 I would have been overjoyed to know that ten years later, after eye hemorrhages, invasive procedures and procedures, I would create a large piece of art like this.  

 Visit Jim's web site JimFairbanks.net

Art Filtered Through My Eyes

It sounds like the setup of an off-color joke (of which I am a fan).  “A legally blind guy goes to an art museum and . . .”   

A couple of months ago, Alice Walton spent part of her Wal Mart fortune to open Crystal Bridges, a world-class art museum in Bentonville, just a few miles up the road from where I live.  She’s been collecting works by American artists for quite some time and went on a bit of a shopping spree in recent years when she decided Northwest Arkansas deserved an affordable (in this case FREE) place for common folk to be exposed to culture.  This irritated some of the snobs in big cities who said, “We can’t lose our fine art to Arkensaw.”

Others were bothered by the Wal Mart connection.  Don’t worry.  This isn’t a political, class warfare rant.  Though I must say, I love the irony of the Wal Mart fortune buying the portrait of George Washington that appears on the dollar bill.  I’ll never look at my money quite the same way after yesterday.  The fact that it’s in one of the poorest states in the nation makes it that much sweeter.

From the time I was old enough to hold a crayon in my hand it was obvious I had a gift and interest in art.  I wasn’t a jock or particularly good-looking, but I could draw better than the other kids.  Adults told me to treasure that gift.  Later, like most adults, I had to pay bills, which left no time for creativity.  But I majored in Advertising in college, so I was able to take art classes for that.

In the months before and in the year after my kidneys failed, I once again had the time for art.  To my surprise, the skill came back like it had only been a few weeks instead of several years.  Even with reduced eyesight, I could still do it.  In 2001 I was living in Little Rock and took some classes at the Arkansas Arts Center.  My ability actually improved.

Now my vision is worse than it was then, but I still like to look at great art, valuable or not, so I was happy for the opportunity to see it without having to leave hillbilly country to do it.  With all this fine art in our midst, people are going to have to recalculate the relationship between hillbillies and art.

I took my cane and was glad I did.  There were some sculptures in pedestals, small items in glass cases, and some big, fragile pieces of modern art assembled on platforms about a foot off the ground.  It would have been embarrassing, and possibly expensive, to have stumbled onto one of them.  Maybe I could have passed it off as performance art, but I didn’t want to take the chance.  I’m sure I must have confused some of the other visitors who thought I was totally blind.  Anyone who watched long enough would have seen me squint and bend or lean closer for a better look.  I wore a pair of small binoculars around my neck, which I sometimes used to see smaller details.

One nice thing about Crystal Bridges is that people can walk right up to the art as long as they’re eighteen inches from it.  Most of the time, that was close enough for me.  Paintings with only dark colors were problematic.  Those with bold contrasts between light and dark were my favorites. 

As for the lighting, it was pretty good throughout most of the museum.  I’m a big fan of natural light in most situations, but on this sunny day, it was too much glare in rooms that relied heavily on it.  No one else seemed to have a problem, though.  Maybe the next time I go (and there will be a next time) it will be an overcast day and it will make a difference.

The museum’s architecture is part of the experience, but I was out of luck there.  The architect’s scale model was in one area, so I got an idea of how interesting it looks from the outside.  It was in one of the areas where glare bothered me most.  From what I’ve been told and heard on the news, it blends in with the Ozark terrain and makes use of the natural beauty of its surroundings.  It’s fine art, Ozark Mountain style.  That’s how we expect—make that demand--things to be done in this neck of the woods.  You can make improvements on what’s here, but you’d better honor what’s already here. 

With the help of someone reading the small cards to the right of each piece, and the overhead menu at the restaurant, my day at Crystal Bridges was complete.  Sure, my eyes got tired and I realized how out of shape my legs are after walking for over four hours, but I was still able to enjoy it.  As long as I have enough vision to distinguish between light and dark, I’ll do everything I can to look at what artists have created.

That means you don’t have any excuse not to.

A legally blind guy went to an art museum and . . . he was very grateful for the experience.

Mister Magoo Goes to Philadelphia Pt. 2

World Café Live is a restaurant and live music venue in the same building as an NPR station.  It’s an interesting way to showcase talent and combines two of my favorite things: eating and live music.  I ordered a sandwich with a side of eggplant fries.  They were good and tasted kind of like sweet potato fries.  Now I’m wondering how many other vegetables would taste good cut into thin strips and fried like that.

The first band was Zydeco-A-Go-Go.  Alan happened across an authentic Zydeco bar in LaFayette, Louisiana last summer while on vacation—one of those places tourists don’t usually know about.  I like anything Cajun.  Laissez les bon temps roullez!

Next, a blues band named The Dukes of Destiny took the stage.  The harmonica is my favorite blues instrument and they had a great harmonica player.  The lead singer sounded like a big black girl, which is never a bad thing when it comes to blues.  Alan informed me she was white.  It took a while, but I finally could see he was right.

It was interesting to see a blues band up North.  I know it’s popular in Chicago, but it was born in the South.  It occured to me that jazz, zydeco, country, gospel, and rock-n-roll were also invented in the South.  We’ve exported more culture to the rest of the country than they care to think about.  You’re welcome, y’all.

During a break, the harmonica player came around with a clipboard to get e-mail addresses.  I bought a couple of CDs from him.  The zydeco band and blues band each did another set before we left around midnight. 

Sunday we visited the Philadelphia Museum of Art.  It’s a big place and we saw only a small part of it.  My favorite part was the medieval armor.  It would have made me claustrophobic to wear that stuff.  Alan was good about reading the information to me next to pieces I wanted to know more about.  Lucky for me, I could get pretty close to most of the paintings and see the detail.  I’m glad I can still see well enough to do that.

There were some impressive old stained glass works, colonial furniture, and old Japanese, Chinese, and Korean art.  It had been too long, I realized, since I’d had a culture fix.

Stained glass at Philadelphia Museum of Art

On the way out, I had my “Rocky pose” photo made on the steps.  If you don’t know what I’m talking about, ask someone or rent the movie.

On Monday, we took a walk in Valley Green at Wissahickon Park where Alan rides his bike.  There’s an old inn from the 1850s still in operation.  The hills made it seem like it wasn’t in the middle of a big city.

My time in Philly was drawing to a close, but there was still one thing I had to do before leaving: try an authentic Philly Cheese Steak sandwich.  I love a good Philly.  It’s my default order when I go to a restaurant with a long list of sandwiches on the menu and nothing jumps out at me.

We went to Pat‘s King of Steaks, which is a well-known Philly place.  Up to this point, everyone I encountered had been very polite to me.  Alan said it must be because of my disability, because that’s not how everyone there acts.  At Pat‘s, there was an impatient, East Coast, big-city kinda guy working at the window who barked at people to order and keep moving.  Finally!  I got treated just like a local and, for once, I enjoyed being served attitude with my food.  It was all outdoor seating, which would have been great if it had been about ten degrees warmer.  The cheese on our sandwiches wasn’t even melted.  I told Alan he needed to try a Philly in Arkansas, where it’s served on a buttered, toasted bun.  In this part of the country we find a way to make everything more fattening and better tasting.

After eating, we drove around the working-class Italian neighborhood near Pat’s.  Alan pointed out where a Mafioso was gunned down several years ago.  Then it was time to go to the airport.

The same guy who escorted me when I arrived took me to security on my return.  On the plane between Philadelphia and O’Hare, I thought about how I need to get out more.  In some ways, I had dreaded the trip, thinking it would tire me out, that flying with my vision as it is now would be stressful.  But, I had gotten a healthy dose of the city—the kind of life I’ve missed since having to leave Austin in 1991 when my vision and kidneys started failing.  It was good to be reminded that I’m not as cut-off from the world as I think I am.  I’ll probably never have the fast-paced urban life I had in Dallas, when all I had to do was show up at the airport, flash my airline ID, and hop on a plane.  But, there are still plenty of things to experience, places to see, and people willing to assist me with all of it.

At O’Hare, I got to ride on one of those motorized carts.  The driver had to beep the horn at distracted people in the concourse, oblivious to us behind them.  That would be a fun job—a nice combination of people-watching and power.  Then I was on a much smaller jet back to XNA.  I overheard the familiar accent of Northwest Arkansas.  Shortly after landing, I found out this part of the state had been shaken by an earthquake centered near Oklahoma City.

It was a well-timed vacation in more ways than one.

A Legally Blind Guy Drew THAT

From the time I could hold a crayon, it was obvious I was a gifted artist.  I could spend hours drawing my favorite cartoon characters and scenes from my imagination.  In grade school, I was the class artist and took private lessons in junior high.  By high school, my interests had become more social as well as earning money.  Art was placed on a back burner.

I majored in advertising in college so my creativity was exercised from time to time.  There were art class electives for me to choose from and graphics classes to fulfill my degree requirement.  After graduation, art took a long hiatus.

Fast forward several years to 2001 when I was living in a funky loft apartment in downtown Little Rock.  The Arkansas Arts Center was within walking distance and I decided to see what I could do—in spite of vision loss which had left my acuity at 20/200.  I could see most things just fine, just without a crisp edge.  I decided a pastels class might be best for me.  It’s a “forgiving” medium, meaning it’s easy to fix mistakes.

This would be a good time to mention my color blindness.  I’d always had a touch of it, but it grew worse in the early 1990s when my vision started its downhill slide.  Now it’s very hard for me to tall apart dark shades.  This class was going to be interesting for me, entertaining for my classmates.

The teacher, Dominique, was very patient with me.  In spite of my vision, my skill was right where it had been when I was a kid.  With guidance and practice, it improved to a higher level than it had ever been.  Nine years earlier, with my eyes covered in bandages after surgeries to remove hemorrhages, I never would have imagined I’d be doing this.

Dominique taught a figure drawing class the next session.  I had taken a class previously in college, but that was before 500 hours of anatomy and physiology class in massage therapy school.  I wondered what it would be like to draw people after knowing what muscles look like under the skin.  And because I had worked on so many different body types, I knew what they felt like, which would make it easier get the texture right.  One of the things I love about working in charcoal and pastel is using my fingertips to soften and blend the edges of an image.

My hunch was correct.  This came easy for me.  My limited vision didn’t slow me down at all.  As you may have guessed, the models were young, attractive, and nude.  No, I wasn’t there for a cheap thrill.  Art lessons aren’t the cheapest way to get a thrill in the age of the internet.  Needless to say, I did endure some teasing from my friends, though they were impressed when I showed them my work.

Fast forward again to September, 2010.  Since 2003, my vision has hovered around 20/400, so I haven’t been doing much art.  That doesn’t mean I wasn’t interested.  I had a feeling that in spite of, or maybe even because of, my current vision I could create some interesting works contrasting light and dark.  I heard about an open figure drawing session at The Fayetteville Underground, an artists workspace in an old bank building downtown.

With old art supplies in hand and almost no self-confidence, I went to check it out.  I had called the number provided in the NPR announcement and had spoken to a nice gentleman about model fees, times, stuff like that.  I mentioned I’m visually impaired.  It’s always a good idea to let someone know ahead of time in any new situation—especially if a nude model is involved.

The room had glass walls and door, so draperies hung just inside to make it private.  I went in, pushed through the curtains and saw about ten or twelve artists at work.  When I tried to follow their gaze to get some idea how close to the model I might set up, I saw . . . no model.  At the Arkansas Arts Center the model was usually in the center of the room, so that’s where I looked.  Tentatively, I walked between the easels, trying not to get in anyone’s way or clumsily knock something over.  I suddenly felt very self-conscious, probably even more so than the unclothed model—wherever he or she might be.

This was a bad idea.  You can’t do this.  What made you think you could do this?  Face it, you don’t see well enough anymore.  Get out of here.  This isn’t for you.

I started groping for the break in the curtains so I could get out of there.  It was obvious I needed help, which someone offered to do.

“I can’t see well,” I muttered in a tiny voice, keeping my head down.  I felt like a fly working its way to the slightly opened car window.  Once I escaped, the others would remember me as the blind guy who wandered in that time, if they thought of me at all.

“Yes, I spoke to you on the phone,” he said.  Then he helped me find a place.  There was a man seated lower than everyone else.  He was clothed but I thought he must be the model, but he didn’t have light shining on him.  He was in the dark.

“I don’t know if there’s enough light,” I said, pointing at the ceiling above.

“Maybe you should look over here,” he said, indicating someone behind me who stood on a platform about two feet from me.  The model’s back was facing me.  All I saw was lean, pink flesh and I felt very embarrassed.

OK.  I’m here.  I’ve located the model.  I’ve found a place to set up.  Breathe.  Relax.  Draw.

Because I needed to be rather close, I was near the stage, at one end of the horseshoe-shaped array of artists setup around the room.  The model’s arms were raised and I couldn’t see a face or other features determining the gender.  Something about the raised arms suggested femininity and I started to draw.  It was rough at first, but it was coming back to me.  Maybe I would get through the evening without feeling stupid.

The model changed to a different pose.  And HE turned out not to be feminine at all, but an athletic young man who could come up with artistically interesting poses, most of which were lost on me due to my vantage point off to the side.  If it was a pose I just couldn’t draw, I took the opportunity to walk around the room and look at everyone else’s work.  It encouraged me to find that my drawing didn’t compare unfavorably to theirs.  Maybe I could still do this after all.

So I went back in October.  This time there were two models—one male and one female.  It was hard for me to draw both in a single pose.  It was, after all, only my second time back after several years.  So I usually drew one or the other.  This time, I used white pastel on black paper.  It’s easier for me to draw light onto dark, probably because my vision is slow to adjust to abrupt changes in light.  Whenever I enter a dark room, the lightest or shiniest objects take shape first, followed by the next brightest.  My world literally comes out of the dark.

Here’s a photo of the piece I’m proudest of from that night.  She only held the pose for 20 minutes.  At the end of the session, other artists were surprised to find out I’m legally blind.  I LOVE that feeling!  It’s one thing for people to be impressed by my accomplishments when they think I can see as well as they do.  When they find out that I can’t, they look at me in a while new way.