Personal Impressionism

After a restless, uncomfortable night of disturbed sleep, and after a breakfast of coffee and a bagel in a favorite eatery, I decided that a solitary stroll on the campus of Indiana University might bring a centering peace that would sustain me during the day ahead. It has been a long, hot summer, and early mornings are the only time of day that brings relief from the heat wave.

For some reason, I can’t say exactly why, I decided to walk around without my eyeglasses, perhaps simply because I needed to see the world in a different way, a way less troubled by the details of existence, of reality. What I discovered was a form of personal Impressionism.

Shapes, though recognizable, took on new dimensions. As positive space became less distinct, negative space asserted itself: fragments of blue sky among the leaves and branches of trees, shadows punctuated by sunlit stones or shrubs. I found myself reaching out to touch the rough bark of trees and to feel the texture of leaves. Instead of seeing individual flowers, I saw masses of color and visual texture. I stopped, literally, to smell the roses on a primrose bush.

Those of us who wear corrective lenses are fortunate to be able to tap this personal Impressionism at will. As visual acuity differs among individuals, I suppose we all create a singular view, as distinct from one another as the works of Renoir are from, say, those of Monet. And yet, there also are commonalities in that our less than perfect vision renders something less than perfect reality: an impression. And because it is an impression, it enables us to see reality in a different—and in my case, refreshing—way.

It was with a sense of peace and renewal that I walked back to my car. There, I put my glasses back on. After all, safe driving requires attention to reality. But my remembrance of the images of my personal Impressionism lingered agreeably.