My teacher was holding a brush
but then I was holding a brush too—
we were standing together watching the canvas
out of the corners of which
a turbulent darkness surged; in the center
was ostensibly a portrait of a dog.
The dog had a kind of forced quality;
I could see that now. I have
never been much good with living things.
Brightness and darkness I do rather well with.
I was very young. Many things had happened
but nothing had happened
repeatedly, which makes a difference.
My teacher, who had spoken not a word, began to turn now
to the other students. Sorry as I felt for myself at that moment,
I felt sorrier for my teacher, who always wore the same clothes,
and had no life, or no apparent life,
only a keen sense of what was alive on canvas.
With my free hand, I touched his shoulder.
Why, sir, I asked, have you no comment on the work before us?
I have been blind for many years, he said,
though when I could see I had a subtle and discerning eye,
of which, I believe, there is ample evidence in my own work.
This is why I give you assignments, he said,
and why I question all of you so scrupulously.
As to my current predicament: when I judge from a student’s
despair and anger he has become an artist,
then I speak. Tell me, he added,
what do you think of your own work?
Not enough night, I answered. In the night I can see my own soul.
That is also my vision, he said.