Learning to See

All truths are easy to understand once they are discovered;

            the point is to discover them. – Galileo Galilei

It is not so debatable to say that a lot of great artistic minds were born and enhanced in the giant “boot” shaped country that is Italy, enriching their art and perspectives by learning from each other and the majestic components of the Italian culture.  But it was their passion to learn to notice things in ways that were both realistic and that captured a fanaticism the common hand could not copy.  Their products took a considerable amount of talent . . . talent that I do not innately have.  But there is something to be said about studying drawing, writing, travel, and language outside of the realm of ones comfort zone that is particularly eye opening.  


I started a class called “The Sight-Size Tradition: Drawing and Portraiture” after studying Italian pretty exclusively for three weeks in hopes that the art course might get me at least a little bit farther in deciding the outcome of my educational career.  Instead of an immediate epiphany regarding my future, I was hit by the importance of really learning to stand back in order to see full perspective within reality.  In the first ten minutes of the first lesson we were instructed to firmly plant our feet at a distance from our papers, stick out our arms straight as arrows, and firmly grasp a piece of string with a small metal weight on the end.  This string, named the “plum line”, was our form of measurement, in both the vertical and horizontal and was the key to what we learned to be the “sigh-size”  method.  Sight-size can be described as “ subject and image (are) depicted to scale as seen from a given distance. When properly understood, sight-size is not a mere measuring technique, but a philosophy of seeing.”  It was emphasized and reiterated through the artistic ages that this definite distance is absolutely necessary in order to discover and perceive the truth.

We started  drawing a plaster cast of a woman and while she did not have either a head or arms, she stood with what seemed like great ease and nonchalance, rested her weight primarily against her right  leg, curving her shoulders away from her feminine hips for balance.  We called her Simon and drew her in what seemed to me a painstakingly slow fashion for six hours spanning across three days, first measuring out identifiable points on the body: the point of the waist, shoulders, curvature of the knees, etc. and then connecting them with what were supposed to be confident yet delicate lines.   This technique, I have learned, involves a great deal of standing back, pacing forwards, and inevitably erasing hours of previous drawing, working and straining the eyes.   As the eye continuously looks and the brain continuously interjects with what it thinks the body looks like, a small internal battle ensues, forcing your hand between lines you think vs. lines you see.  It is from this optical fatigue and subconscious struggle  that I learned one of the most important things of my trip so far: the power of looking in nontraditional ways.  We each were handed a medium sized mirror and told to stand back, and using our dominant eye, position our drawings along-side the model in order to see them both side by side in (hopefully) equal proportions, or sometimes even position the mirror in order to be shown an inverted image.  These unfamiliar perspectives can trick the eye into seeing something that can look completely new and that highlight previous errors in observation.  


Simon: unfinished after three days

Writing and Travel

There are many reasons as to why we write: to gain a certain liberation, for pleasure, to test ourselves, to embark on a voyage of self discovery (to see our truths, to see our lies), etc.  These curiously are also some of the identified reasons as to why we travel, as articulated by Eric Leed in his article The Ancients and the Moderns: From Suffering to Freedom.  And so looking at travel writing in particular is very interesting as far as gaining perspective.  First, a departure: we take a flight or train or boat, but we also depart from a previous mindset, we are entering the foreign, the unknown; in writing we sit or stand or lean, leaving behind a part of our world in order to focus on what we are trying to say and often we don’t know even know what that is.  

I have been writing for years, beginning with silly stories about turtles that have peanut butter fetishes and moving on to memoir writing, micro-fiction, and poetry, never really settling on one, I prefer to move around, explore new things.  This is my exact reaction to travel as well, honing in and stepping back, moving on and finding more and more out about both the world and my my own self.  In writing, I often had to remove myself from the obvious perspective, had to stand back and size myself  or others up: I often gained a notion of the truth, even if I didn’t want to see it.  Travel is also a way of physically stepping back, or moving away, of looking at things with a new perspective, and correcting errors of worldly perceptions.   


A Pigeon Friend in Siena


When I first stepped onto Italian soil, I came equipped only with the knowledge of how to say three things: “hello”, “I am hungry”, and “fuck off”. . . this certainly says something about the mindset I left the US with.  As stated before, during my first three weeks I endured intensive instruction in the Italian language, starting with common phrases and moving to verbs and simple conjugations.  At the end of that time I prided myself in having the vocabulary of a not so bright five year old child.   But I was proud of myself, able to contribute to dinner time discussions and able to maneuver Florence’s many markets.  It was only after I lost the glow of basic comprehension that I realized my limited vernacular was making a difference in my daily interactions.    My audio perspective was very narrow and similar to squinting at a fine piece of art and seeing only vague shapes and a noticeable frame; I longed to fill in the spaces of my diction, to accurately convey the authenticity of feeling in my speech.  But I only knew how to say: “pretty, very pretty”.  Language and efficient communication effect perspective more than I would have thought.  Sometimes I do not go to new places or do new things just because I do not know how to verbally navigate them here.  



Perhaps this post should have been titled something about discovery, as a lot of my words have dealt with that concept.  However I think discovery, especially in this day and age, absolutely necessitates new perspective; if we are looking for the truth and haven’t discovered it yet, it would be foolish to keep doing the same thing over and over hoping for a new outcome.  It is important to stand back, to depart from ourselves, and try to say things differently, even if it is with a few nonintellectual words, that we can create our own philosophy in order to truly learn to see. 


A cliche yet accurate description of Venice


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