Love and First Sight(11)

“Like, can you re-create the sound of my voice using your own vocal cords?”

“Oh… I think I get it now.”

“Right, and that’s what’s so cool about art,” she says, speaking faster. “Van Gogh was an impressionist, so he wasn’t even trying to paint scenes that look like what a person would see with their eyes. Sorry, is this weird to talk about? Like, seeing and stuff? I don’t mean—”

“No, it’s fascinating, actually. Please continue.”

“All right, so a realist is an artist who paints an image that looks similar to what a good photographer could capture on film. That’s, like, if you could imitate the sound of my speech with near-perfect accuracy using your own voice. But an impressionist paints not what the scene actually is, but what it feels like.”

“It’s distorted?”

“No, not distorted. It’s… interpreted… represented in a different way. Like a metaphor. Like an impressionistic version of my voice might not sound like me at all, at least not in a literal sense. It might be a piece of music that when you hear it makes you think of my voice. You hear it and say, ‘Yes, that captures the essence of what Cecily sounds like.’”

I’m silent.

“Sorry, did I lose you?” she asks. “I know I kind of geek out about—”

“No, I just—wow, that’s a really good description. Thank you. No one has ever explained art to me like that before.”

“You’re welcome,” she says, more softly.

She removes the lens cap from her camera, and the shutter clicks a few times.

Trying to keep the conversation going, I ask, “So what sort of stuff did van Gogh paint?”

“Landscapes and plants, mostly.”

“Not people?”

“He painted people, but that’s not what he’s known for.”

“How come?”

She’s silent for a moment. “Maybe because what is considered beautiful in nature has remained constant throughout history, but the definition of human beauty changes every few years based on how the media defines the so-called perfect body.”

Just then a set of footsteps approaches and a voice interrupts us.

“Excuse me, sir, may I ask you a personal question?” he says.

“Yes, I’m blind,” I say.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“What gave it away? Do my socks not match or something?”

“Well, no…” he stammers.

“I’m kidding. I’ve got a cane and sunglasses. Of course I’m blind.”

“Listen,” he says. “I’m a security guard. The security guard, actually. I travel with this exhibit. I just wanted to say that if you’re interested, you are welcome to touch these paintings.”

I’m stunned. It’s not unusual these days for museums to allow the visually impaired to touch some artwork. But a van Gogh?

“For real?”

“Yes, sir. This is the personal collection of Edward Kramer. Mr. Kramer has a son with special needs, and he wants to be sure that people of all abilities can appreciate them. But you have to be really, really gentle. The paint is a century and a half old. Touch it as lightly as possible. And wash your hands first. Gets rid of the oil on your skin that can damage the paint.”

“Fair enough. Where’s the restroom?” I ask.

“I’ll show you,” says Cecily. “I want to make sure you go into the right one.”

The guard walks away.

“Wait,” I say, taken aback. “What was that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Were you making fun of blind people?”

“No, I would never—” She stops and sighs. “Yesterday, before journalism, you…”

“What?”

“You went into the girls’ bathroom.”

That hot feeling builds in my face. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“I wish I was,” she says.

“At least tell me you were the only one who saw.”

“Uh…”

“How many more?”

“It’s really not that big—”

“Two? Three?”

“Don’t worry about—”

“Ten?”

“Twenty. Okay, more like twenty-five,” she says. “Absolute max: thirty.”

“THIRTY?”

“It was basically the whole journalism class, with the exception of Mrs. Everbrook. Everyone felt really terrible about it, if that’s any consolation. And the doors are right beside each other, so you aren’t even the first person to make the mistake.”

“Well, you were the only one who told me,” I say. “You took the hit. Thanks. That couldn’t have been easy.”

“The truth has a price,” she says. “That’s what my mom always says.”

Her mom is right. It stings, knowing all those students were watching me make a fool of myself.

I go to the (correct) restroom and wash my hands. The first painting I touch is called Les Alyscamps.

“Let’s play a game,” I suggest. “I’ll touch it and try to guess what it’s a painting of.”