A Blind Man Sees It

Zestful Blog Post #209

A friend of mine blew my mind the other day, and I want to see if yours gets similarly blown.

Back when Marcia and I lived in California, we sold our condo in the East Bay en route to moving north to the woods of Washington. We were fretting over an imperfection in the kitchen floor when our real estate agent said dismissively, “It would take a blind man to see it!” We felt better, and that funny locution entered our lexicon.

After we got settled in our little house in the big woods, I happened to make friends with a guy who is a super talented trombonist (regional symphonic soloist level), a piano tuner, and a typewriter repair specialist. His name is Jay, and he was born without eyes. Here’s how Jay figures it: Evidently, the Depression hit God as well and he hadn’t the wherewithal to update his supply. So, he asked my soul if it would be okay if he gave me good hearing, curiosity, and a love of the ridiculous. My soul must have agreed, so here I am. Actually, SHE probably made that bargain. A HE would simply have said, “ah well, get over it.” Only Jay can make you laugh talking about being without eyeballs. He wears cool sunglasses.

From his youngest days, Jay figured out work-arounds to do what he wanted. For instance, after he learned to ride a two-wheeler(!), he mastered navigating his neighborhood by echolocation. He got an education, worked real jobs, fell in love, married, the whole deal. I knew his lovely wife, who, sadly, is no longer with us.

Some time in the aughts, Jay and I played Leroy Anderson’s symphonic novelty piece “The Typewriter” as a duet in the local symphony, using two typewriters from his extensive collection. That’s a story in itself, but I’m trying to stay on track here. Now he lives in Georgia and I live in Florida. He’s still playing the trombone, and he’s also gotten into change ringing (coordinated bell-tower team music). He’s still fixing and reconditioning typewriters, using his senses of touch, hearing, and—yes, I’ve witnessed it—even smell.

I got in touch with him recently to ask about a typewriter for another performance of the Anderson piece, coming up next concert season for the South Shore Symphony Orchestra (Tampa Bay area) with yours truly as soloist. He said he had a machine for me, a 1926 Underwood 4 that should sound great. He sent me this photo:

[Photo by Jay Williams]

As a side note, he told me he’s exploring the possibility of becoming a photographer. [Mind blown.] He snapped the picture with a digital camera, figured out how to transfer the file to his computer, and sent it to me as an email attachment. He said his stepson is a professional photographer who gifted him with the camera. He knows the photo is blurry, and realized he needs to hold the camera steadier. Having worked as a news photographer, I gave him a couple of tips on that. Next he sent this photo, of another, recently acquired, machine, a Yost #1 from 1887:

[Photo by Jay Williams]

Jay intends to make more photographs, and he and his son are thinking they could put together a gallery of the pictures. I thought about it, and I’m like, my God, yeah. A sightless person faces something he’s interacting with, using his other senses, and captures an image he’ll never experience. The image will be something other than ‘what it’s supposed to be.’ But it will be something. I can’t describe how profoundly that first photo struck me. Layer upon layer of implications. I learned on line that blind photography is a thing—at least there are a few people doing it. Some of them are partially sighted, and some of them have their images manipulated by sighted people.

Jay, I know you’ll read this (because, software). If you do go forward with photography, I hope you’ll also write about the images you make: the things you were sensing and feeling at the moment of the snap. Wouldn't that be cool?

What is in this story for writers, artists, creative people of all sorts? Simply that there are no limits. Never say, “Yeah, yeah, but,” again. No need to. Look beyond, and keep looking.

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5 Good Reasons to Make Up Stuff

The summer I was 15, I was fortunate to go to the National Music Camp at Interlochen, Michigan, for intensive instruction and performance. (I played clarinet.) Because I knew no one there, I felt a sense of newness and freedom. I must have blossomed somehow and become more outgoing and interesting, because one night after lights out in my 12-girl cabin, one girl said, "Elizabeth, tell us the story of your life."

#1: It's fun.

On the spur of that moment, lying on my back and talking into the dark, I began telling my new friends about my early childhood in Iceland, including many convincing details such as the local species of ant that built large hills on the plains us children had to cross every day to get to school.

#2: It gets you into a creative state.

In winter, I recounted, the hills froze hard, and if you didn't watch out, you'd fall over them, which I frequently did. (That got a sympathetic laugh.)

['The view from my bedroom window in Iceland.' photo by ES]

#3: It entertains and challenges your listeners.

I don't remember a tenth of the stuff I made up that and subsequent nights, but it enchanted my camp-mates, at least until one of the faster girls started talking about sex. I never did reveal that I'd lived in Michigan my whole life; I wonder if any of those girls remember my crazy tales.

#4: It's good exercise for your storytelling muscles.

Since then I've done countless similar things, most recently explaining to a roomful of patients at the physical therapy office that my arm was in a sling because it had gotten torn off in a terrible car wreck, but the doctors had reattached it in a grueling 17-hour operation. (In reality I'd had outpatient arthroscopic shoulder surgery.)

#5: It's a test of guts.

The thing is, I never just volunteer such information; I wait until somebody asks or gives me a wide opening. In most cases I tell them I'm kidding after a while. But I get a charge out of my quickening heartbeat as I brazenly launch into some dramatic story. Makes my day a little spicier.

Have you told outlandish tales to strangers / friends / enemies?

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Don't Feed the Lunkheads

Every artist strives to produce amazing, fabulous, original work.

No authentic artist, however, strives to produce perfect work.

Why not? Two reasons:

One, the very act of striving for perfection hampers free expression. I mean, that's true by definition: since perfection is impossible on this earth—given how molecules sort of squish around all over the place and all, even those of precise instruments such as laser beams and Stradivarius violins—it follows that striving for the impossible is futile. And futile effort cannot result in free, fullhearted creativity, no way.

On some level our heartbrain knows this. If we consciously try for perfection—that is, the impossible—our heartbrain will quietly but forcefully go to war against that. Result: anxiety, doubt, fear, and crappy work.

Two, an audience who can tell junk from real art will intuitively reject any product of a perfectionistic artist. Another term for perfectionist is control freak. The product of such a person will be brightly polished and free from cosmetic mistakes. As such, it will be pretty and it will fool lunkheads who will probably buy it. And it will have no soul.

Do not feed the lunkheads.

Go after the audience you want—that is, an audience who will appreciate you and will stick with you—by forgetting perfection and going at it headlong, reckless, and grinning like a maniac.

End note:

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