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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