Shouting in the Dark by John Bramblitt

Author:John Bramblitt [BRAMBLITT, JOHN]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780762787388
Publisher: Lyons Press
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Ten Eyes

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Self-Portrait

I was like a kid in a candy store with my three new paints. I set them up on a small table in my den with the palette, brushes, and paper, my heart thumping with anticipation. I even borrowed an easel from my mom without really going into details about my plans. I had an old T-shirt as a designated paint rag so Ann wouldn’t have to take another bath, and I was ready to go. Except I wasn’t. Painting wasn’t really a jump-in-and-get-inspired-later kind of thing for me. Even before I lost my sight, I would think and plan before drawing, but now I absolutely had to. I had to conjure up mental maps in my mind’s eye and physical maps on paper before I could get to my beloved paints.

I decided to make a self-portrait. It wasn’t really a carefully considered decision, more a sense of knowing that this was what I wanted to do and that it felt right. I thought I would want to paint one of those images that had been floating around my brain for the last six months, so it came as a surprise to my rational self that I was set on painting my own face instead. It was also a surprise to discover that the underlying emotion to my painting endeavor was anger. Given my excitement about the prospect of painting and my newfound sense of purpose and direction, I thought I’d be painting on the wings of joy. But no. It seemed I was fueled by great wells of rage. The three colors that had thrilled me at the paint store now took on the negative slant of my mood. The complete opposites of black and white came to represent the dichotomy of my life, the stark contrast of my life before and after going blind. Red symbolized anger for me as well as fire, and as I painted, a phrase I had heard resonated deep within me—burned beyond all recognition. It made me feel raw, as if my old life had been completely burned away, and I painted, consumed by these emotions.

I worked on my self-portrait for days, eighteen hours a day, pouring myself into it. The process was a slow one, but there was a methodical sense of progression to it, and that I could live with. I continued to go to my classes and see my friends, but I was consumed by thoughts of painting all the time. I ached to get home to my air-conditioned den, to be alone so I could get to work, feel the oil paints, and make my vision on canvas grow.

For the past year, ever since I’d been diagnosed as legally blind, my Orientation and Mobility training had taught me how to adapt. Now I took those lessons and applied them directly to painting. All those hours I’d spent learning to visualize through touch, building images in my mind while trailing a wall or the back of a chair were helping me now.

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