“The elegance and dramatic force of his imagery still have the power to invoke the ancient dictum, much discussed in his time, that ‘painting is a mute poetry, and poetry is a blind painting.’”
That’s the concluding line of the write-up on the wall as you enter the new Raphael exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, entitled: Raphael’s Sublime Poetry.
I wish the concluding line would be “No Photograhy Allowed.”
It would be a good idea if they would ban photography. Especially today, in the brand new Raphael exhibit where shutter bugs scuttle thoughtlessly everywhere.
As in most museums, everywhere there are benches for people to sit and contemplate various works, but rude people walk back and forth in front of these viewers. I try my best not to do that, respecting those absorbed in contemplation.
I see her from behind, sitting, staring at a series of Raphael’s drawings that are termed ‘cartoons.’ Long blondish-brown hair down her back over a black leather jacket. Blue jeans. It’s heartening that younger folks are just as much fascinated by art as the mass of older ones, the majority of the thronging crowd today.
The cartoons are all over the place, scattered among the paintings and sculptures to evidence Raphael’s extensive, fluid ideas of how faces, hands, and body postures should be rendered. I’ve noticed that several, in addition to Raphael’s rapid, multi-faceted charcoal sketches, that there are sonnets scribbled in the margins.
One of the cards I’ve read says that they are all love sonnets, in the style of Petrarch, addressed to some beautiful woman whom Raphael longs for. Unrequited love writing. Tell me about it.
As I round the bench, I stop short. The woman’s holding a cane, the type used by blind people. The last 24 years of my working life, I was a counselor for the KOKUA Program at UH Mānoa, the office serving students with disabilities.
This young woman, maybe in her mid-30s, is suddenly fascinating. I’ve had students who’ve used canes but retain a very restricted field of vision, as tight, in many cases, as a pinpoint. I wonder if this might be the case.
“Would you mind,” I whisper to her, “if I sit here?”
“No, not at all,” she says.
I sit, glance at the cartoons, and then look back at her.
Blind people don’t care very much for discussing blindness, so I hold back on bringing that up. And then she says, “Would you please, if it’s not a bother, to tell me what I’m looking at?”
Ah. I see. No sort of vision at all, probably. Or possibly extremely clouded. I tell her I’m going from left to right and apologize for missing anything, pointing out that the sketches are blurred by Raphael’s rapid drawing and redrawing of lines. Not to mention that the space of each drawing is crammed with details of specific parts of each work. I tell her the love sonnets are impossible to read, even if I had a magnifying glass. Another difficult part of describing each cartoon is that those people keep stepping in front of us, taking their gazillion photos I wonder if they’ll ever look at again.
When I’ve worked my way through, I ask her if she’d like me to read the cards of each one.
“No, that’s okay,” she says. “I don’t want to take up any more of your time. Thank you so much for your wonderful descriptions.”
I assure her it’s not a problem, and I’d be happy to read them to her.
“Can you see them from here?”
“No, but I can step up and photograph them. Then come back and read them.”
“You really wouldn’t mind?”
I step over and take a picture of each card. Sitting down, I tell her I’m reading from left to right again. The cards are much more succinct in their description of what each drawing represents in terms of Raphael’s composition ideas. I should have done this to start with.
“Oh my,” she says once I’ve gone through them, “you’ve really made my day. Thank you for taking so much time to help me see what’s here.”
I tell her it’s my pleasure to have done so.
Against my better instincts, I ask her how she came to choose this particular bench.
“I’m pretty good with my cane,” she says, “but in a crowd like this, I just ask people if they can help me move to the next bench. That way I can be sure I’ll have seen what I can.”
“But, ah, does someone sit by you to describe every piece?”
“Oh, no. No one. Except you.”
Of course, the next question I want to ask— I think most people would — is how she manages to enjoy each one. But I refrain.
“Are you ready to move to the next bench?” I ask.
“Oh, not today, I think so. At a certain point, don’t you find your brain get overloaded with what you’ve seen. I did about half of the exhibit today, so I’ll come back later to see the other half.”
She keeps using the word “see.” I’m burning to know what she means by that.
So, against everything I know about blindness being a blind person’s most hashed over so least favorite topic, I say, “I’m sorry to ask, but when you talk about seeing the works — I apologize in advance for being so obtuse — but what is it that you see.”
Chuckling, she says, “It’s a kind of energy. Each one gives off energy. That’s what I mean by ‘seeing’ them.”
I nod. It’s true. Every object has what I would describe as qi. I have it, a building has it, a rock, a tree. They all have qi. A human’s is infinitesimally small, compared to, say, the Empire State Building.
“Do you know the idea of qi?” I ask.
“Of what?”
“Qi. It’s a Chinese word. It’s spelled different ways. I spell it Q-I. C-H-I is another common spelling. There are other words for it. The one where I come from is mana. M-A-N-A. It’s the Hawaiian word for the same thing. It’s that kind of energy, I think you’re talking about. That’s very cool. I’ve never thought about that much, but what you’re saying makes so much sense to me. It’s how different artists, and more specifically, I’m thinking, how a particular work grabs you.”
“Right, right,” she says. “And for me, there’s a lesser or greater resonation with a work of art. It is a kind of response to that energy for me.”
I really haven’t thought of it that way, but she’s right. The energy is there, and the stronger each work’s resonating energy with you, the more you are then attracted to it. This makes perfect sense.
“That’s amazing,” I say. “You know, this is very interesting to me. I think I’m going to be looking at art that way from now on.”
Laughing, she says, “I envy you. You can see it AND feel it. I wish I had someone like you with me all the time. Someone who could describe each piece for me.”
“Well,” I say, “you know that many museums have those audio-type tours.”
She shakes her head. “Those are so random,” she says. “They confuse me more than help me.”
“Ah, I see. So, can I help you to the exit?”
She says that would be wonderful. I offer her my elbow and walk her downstairs and out.
“Goodbye,” she says. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate what you’ve done for me.”
I watch her use her cane to negotiate the sidewalk and disappear out of sight.
Huh. Someone to visit museums with. Someone to help her with descriptions. I should have asked for her number. The next time I’m back in New York, hey, there are many museums to visit. But.
Ah well. I’m only here for the day, my last one in New York this trip, and there’s another half of the Raphael exhibit for me to see and feel.
Lanning Lee 