Blue Sun, Yellow Sky Read online

  For the most part I knew where everyday things like plates, utensils, toothbrush, combs, and clothing were, but I dreaded looking for anything I hadn’t used since going blind. I didn’t attempt to put on makeup and ate store-bought food for every meal. The only people I saw with any sort of consistency were Rusty and Tracy. Tracy came every day to work with Tig and me, and after two months of mapping out Venice Beach we’d covered a six-block radius around my apartment. This meant I could walk six blocks in any direction and not get lost. Progress was painstakingly slow.

  “What color is it?” I asked Michael, feeling the silk fabric of a tube top dress that ran the span of my arms, indicating it was full-length.

  “Midnight blue.”

  Going into the bathroom I took off my robe, stripped down to my undies, unzipped the dress and stepped into it before pulling it up. With effort Michael got it to zip. “Wow that’s tight.”

  “It’s elegant,” he said.

  “I’ve never really been a big fan of tube tops,” I said, feeling the lining with my fingers and praying that my next breath didn’t cause the seams to burst.

  “What about this one,” Michael said, putting a chiffon dress in my hands as he undid the tube top. I put on the new dress and he helped me with the belt. The dress hung heavy on my shoulders, had a deep structured V-neck, and where the dress stopped at my knees in front, it continued to my ankles in the back.

  “What color is it?” I asked.

  “Champagne gold and it looks amazing on you, Aubs,” Michael gushed.

  “It’s not too deep?” I asked. The V-neck plunge made my chest feel bare and I worried about a wardrobe malfunction.

  “You look like you belong on a red carpet,” he said.

  “Do you think it’ll match my walking stick?”

  “Funny,” he said. “Look, I gotta go finish setting some things up, but I’ll see you later, okay?”

  “Yeah, of course,” I said, putting my pajamas back on. He gave me a hug and kiss on the cheek and I heard the door close behind him.

  “C’mon, Tig. You hungry?” I asked, reaching down to where he sat nestled at my right ankle. Using my walking stick, I felt my way to the kitchen and poured Tig a bowl of dry food from a container placed on the far right side of the counter. After setting it down, I listened to make sure I’d given him the right stuff. His first couple days with me, I accidentally poured cereal in his bowl and he sniffed it but refused to eat. Good dog.

  Moving my fingers along the counter I made my way over to the coffee pot, which was timed to produce coffee every morning at 8:45 a.m. I poured myself a cup and sat at my kitchen table in silence.

  The sale of my parents’ house bought me time, but I didn’t want to squander their money doing nothing. I refused to believe I was meant to stop creating. In death, as they had in life, my parents protected me—they gave me the means to stretch my creative muscles and I’d be damned if my career ended here.

  So I painted. Using only black on large blank canvases, I painted with free flow. There was no structure or design, just carefree brushstrokes on an empty canvas. I hoped that by getting back to the basics I might tap into my inner child. If Picasso could develop cubism after a ten-year search for inspiration found in his youth, then I could come up with something too. I did my best to use blindness as a challenge—to see it as an obstacle meant to make me better. The struggle was having no idea what I was looking for and no guarantee that my efforts would amount to anything. I constantly reminded myself that Picasso was a classic example of someone who perfected a craft only to inspire a movement by breaking with convention, and I needed to do the same. Innovation was born of creativity and I was frantically searching for a place where the two might converge.

  In the span of a single week I painted sixty-seven pieces that were strewn about my apartment, and not one of them was worth the canvas it was painted on. A craft could be learned, but intuition and creative instinct were born from the artist. After the fiftieth painting or so, it became quite clear that my precise hand-eye coordination, which once came so naturally to me, was gone. I couldn’t conceptualize anything that I painted. Take distance, for example: unless I planned on never lifting my paintbrush, I found it impossible to pick up where I left off and even then I had no idea how far my brush had traveled from point A to point B. At one point, out of desperation, I even ditched the brush in favor of my fingers, hoping to find a connection with the fabric—anything to act as a launching point into something not only artistic but also original. When that didn’t work I launched the canvas across the room in anger.

  Sliding off my stool, I moved to the couch and knocked my shin on the cardboard box Michael mentioned bringing in.

  “Jesus!” I yelled, kicking it.

  I wanted to kick some more things and scream at the top of my lungs, but I was afraid my neighbor might call the cops, so instead I grabbed a pillow and yelled into it. When my voice was hoarse and my body exhausted, I moved to the box on the floor. Inside, I found picture frames, a plastic Rubik’s cube, salt and pepper shakers, my mom’s abacus, a few Christmas ornaments, and my dad’s old Mamiyaflex camera. Almost all of our family photos, even the most recent ones, were taken with this camera. “Digital is the lazy man’s photography,” he’d say as he paid for the film to be processed. “There’s no art in automatic, right Aubs?” he’d smile.

  I moved my fingers along the frame, careful not to touch the lens. Made of steel, metal, and glass, the camera was fairly heavy.

  “Knock, knock. Hey, it’s Rust,” Rusty said, opening the door, which I had neglected to lock after Michael left.

  “What’s up?” I asked, unfazed by his brazen entrance. He stopped by every single day to check on me, albeit at different times. Sometimes his visits were brief and other times we’d stay up so late drinking and talking that he’d pass out on the couch.

  “What happened here?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure, you’ll have to tell me.”

  “It looks like a Goth thrift store tore through your apartment. You’ve been working on these for weeks. When are you going to add color?”

  “I was experimenting.” He didn’t say anything more, his lack of enthusiasm proof of what I intuitively knew: they were shit.

  “Aubs, do you remember that Dali that we saw in New York?”

  “The Persistence of Memory,” I recalled.

  “We spent hours discussing the philosophy of time—”

  “—and the faculties of the mind,” I finished. The famous image of melting clocks had been studied by the world over and there were many theories about the landscape representing immortality and the clocks representing time’s relativity.

  Rusty laughed, “It made us feel like time was malleable, insignificant even. It gave us a way to intellectually circumvent the grip that time seemed to have on life.”

  “Ahh to be young again,” I mused.

  “Not to be young again. That’s the point. It’s that you don’t have to have all the answers right now,” Rusty said.

  “What do you mean?”

  Rusty paused. “Come to my studio with me,” he said.

  “And do what?”

  “Practice, explore, test theories, whatever. I have a huge space and from the looks of it you’ve got tons of pigment being wasted as wall decor.”

  “Thanks, but I think I’ll pass,” I said.

  “Oh, come on. You can’t expect a new art form to emerge overnight. It took you twenty years to be the painter you are. If it takes you six months, a year, or even five to figure out your element, then so be it. Time is relative remember?”

  “You know what I think? I think Sharon just finished a Supreme Court clerkship and is moving on to a big firm. Bill and Lina just broke ground on a new sporting goods store, and Chad and Elise are getting married. Even John got his shit together with that Fry Heaven food truck. But me, I’m supposed to frolic around with art students relearning the basics so in six months I can wow everyone with my
blind rendition of a bowl of fruit? Time might’ve been relative for Dali, but from where I’m standing it’s pretty straightforward,” I snapped.

  “Your opening is going to be huge. I’m not bullshitting you when I say it’s your best work to date,” he countered.

  “Rust! I can’t see anymore!” I shouted. “Why is that so hard for you to understand? Without sight there is no connection, there is no more art, and no matter what I do it’s not coming back.”

  “You’re an artist. Your job is not to copy, but to create,” he said matter-of-factly. “So Monday, at 7:00 a.m. sharp, I’ll pick you up. We’ll work, have lunch, work some more, bitch about things, have dinner, and work again. Do not mess with my mojo by making me late, Johnson. I’m not like those laissez-faire people who wake up at noon and wait to be inspired.” Like Jeff, Rusty knew how to calm me. By keeping his tone even, he didn’t engage my dark moods.

  I let out a sigh. “Do you really start at 7:00 a.m.?”

  “Sharp.” Rusty shoved me lightly in jest.

  “You’re ridiculous,” I said. I didn’t see the point in going, but I saw even less of a point in arguing about it.

  “I have no freaking clue how to operate this thing, Aubs,” Rusty said as he fiddled with the camera. Rusty’s workspace, an open loft with large windows overlooking Venice Beach, was always immaculate. And because he kept furniture to a minimum, our voices echoed and bounced off the walls. “Why can’t you just use a digital camera like the rest of the world,” he complained.

  “You can’t do what I want to do with a digital camera,” I said. Click. Something swiveled and I heard the tiny screech of a hinge turn.

  “So that’s how you open it,” Rusty said. “Oh, good God, you’re going to have to manually wind film into this thing.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be encouraging?” I asked.

  “Hang on a sec,” Rusty said, standing up. I heard a beep and the faint sound of his phone ring before he said, “Hey man, what’s up?” Pause. “Oh cool.” Pause. “Yeah man, of course. Well I kinda need a favor.” Pause. “Uh huh. Cool. Yeah. Bye.”

  “Who was that?” I asked.

  “Patrick. His studio is just downstairs so he—” Buzz. “—is already here.”

  Rusty shuffled across the room, opened the door, and said hello. I heard patting, and two kisses, then they made their way back to where I was sitting. I sat up straight and tensed. “Patrick, this is my friend, Aubrey,” Rusty said.

  “Hi,” I replied, reaching my hand out and waiting for him to shake it. It took him a moment and I imagined he shot Rusty a questioning look, but he didn’t ask the obvious question of “Are you blind?”

  “So you’re the famous Aubrey,” he said. “Oh man, this is a beauty.”

  “Thanks,” I said, knowing the compliment was meant for the camera, but jokingly acknowledging it as a compliment for myself. Both he and Rusty laughed. I remained tense. I was worried he would laugh at the idea of me being a blind photographer.

  “I seriously hope this is why you called me,” he said.

  “It is,” Rusty said, and all of a sudden I became shy. It was one thing for Rusty to watch me fumble with a camera and a whole other for a stranger to scrutinize my efforts.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “I don’t know…maybe this was a bad idea,” I said.

  “Why?” Patrick asked. There was a sincerity in tone that made me certain his question was genuine and not just a rhetorical gesture of kindness.

  “I don’t really even know where to begin,” I replied. “All I know is I want to be able to use it without assistance.”

  “Okay,” he said, sitting down beside me. “Let’s start with you telling me what you know about photography.”

  “She’s a painter,” Rusty said.

  “Right,” Patrick replied. “Well, that makes things a little easier.”

  “How so?” I asked.

  “For starters, I don’t need to teach you about composition. But,” he said, taking the camera from my hands, “there is still a lot to learn. Tell you what, why don’t you meet me in my studio in twenty minutes?”

  “Sure,” I hesitated. “I know how ridiculous my request is, so I honestly won’t be insulted if you have better things to do.”

  “Tomorrow I have a shipment coming in, but today I’ve got nothing. So I’m all yours.”

  He left and I listened for movement before asking, “Are you sleeping with him?”

  “We’re dating, thank you very much,” Rusty said.

  “Based on his overzealous willingness to help me I’d say you’ve been dating two months?”

  “Three.”

  “Three?! How come you never mentioned him?”

  “With everything you’re going through it didn’t seem appropriate to flaunt a new relationship.”

  “Don’t be crazy. If he makes you happy then of course I’m happy for you,” I smiled.

  “Thanks.”

  “Besides, you produce your best work in the midst of heartbreak so this’ll give me time to get my shit together,” I smiled.

  Rusty and I often joked about sabotaging each other’s careers, but Rusty had been careful not to take any potentially hurtful jabs at me since my return from Brazil. That I could finally poke fun and laugh at myself again meant time was doing its job and I was healing.

  Trumping whatever jealousy I might have harbored for Rusty’s ever-booming career was a strong desire for normalcy. I wanted to move past the hushed tones and awkward silences that invariably followed the accidental use of words like ‘see’ and ‘look.’ I was blind, but I refused to be defined by it.

  In Patrick’s studio, our voices echoed, either because he had even less furniture than Rusty, which I doubted, or his space was substantially larger. From the door, I walked forty-three paces before reaching the couch and, based on the direction of Patrick’s voice, I knew he was sitting across from me. As a way of protecting myself, and others, I typically did a 360-degree feel of any new surroundings. The couch was stiff with an equally stiff tweed sham, which I accidentally sat on. In front of me at arm’s length was a glass coffee table with cold steel legs.

  “If you have any valuable lamps or anything you may want to put them away,” I warned him.

  He laughed. “I think you’ll be fine.”

  My Mamiyaflex was traded for a pinhole camera, which was basically a Quaker Oaks Oatmeal container wrapped in black paper. As far as I could tell, the idea was pretty basic: Point the hole at an object, open the cover for fifteen to thirty seconds, then close it.

  With me, he focused more on accuracy than creativity, stressing that everything within my frame be intentional. And for better or worse, he held me to the same standards as his seeing apprentices. Every inch of my frame was mapped out beforehand and the photo was taken over and over again until it looked exactly as I described. Only after I mastered framing with the pinhole camera did he gave me back the Mamiyaflex. Guiding my fingers around it to each of the twenty-nine knobs, buttons, screws, and latches, he explained how each component affected the image. Photography, I discovered, was analytical and required an intermediate level of mathematical proficiency. No wonder my dad preferred analog to digital.

  With Patrick’s help, I practiced loading and unloading dummy rolls of film in daylight so he could correct any mistakes I made. Once I was able to load a spool of film on my own, we started taking photos. We modified a light meter to include braille markings so I could calculate my exposure time and aperture. When he set me up for my first solo shoot in Rusty’s studio, he gave me a corner of the room and told me to explore what I wanted within my frame. I moved about carefully, though most of the space seemed empty. When I came upon a podium, I felt along the top until my fingers touched a wicker basket filled with fruit.

  “Very funny, Patrick,” I said.

  “What?” Patrick asked, feigning innocence.

  As I learned about f-stops, focus, and processing, I found that pho
tography mimicked my new life. Every step involved counting, structure, and memorizing. Slight adjustments affected the outcome of the image greatly, and before creativity was ever part of the process, I had to understand these functionalities. Learning to operate without sight was one thing; actually living a full life despite RP was another.

  In Patrick’s darkroom, I learned about the different solutions the film and prints needed to pass through. “A lot of it has to do with the timing,” he explained. “If you take it out too soon or leave it in longer than necessary, it’ll make the image lighter or darker.” Using the roll of film containing my images of the basket of fruit, we practiced developing the same image with different timings. And, as with the framing of my shot, he had me describe the difference in sharpness, contrast, and brightness to see if I was right.

  When it became clear that helping me was more than just an afternoon tutorial, I offered to pay him for his time and the use of his space. He surprised me by asking for a 1% commission on the net profits instead of an upfront fee. A good faith gesture in the form of an investment. I agreed, humbled by his support.

  For the next seven weeks, I was Danielson and Patrick was Miyagi. Working twelve to fourteen hours a day kept my mind busy, but the framed postcard of Jeff and me in Kemeh, which I knew sat next to my alarm clock, made him my first and last thoughts of the day. I could have thrown it away, but I knew that wouldn’t help. He had called several more times, asking me simply to call him back, but I still couldn’t being myself to return the call. Jeff wanted to be friends, and to a certain degree I did too. I missed him, but my feelings toward him had shifted and I didn’t think I could sustain a platonic relationship. I was also, most definitely, not ready to meet Veronica.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Innovation

  “I’M not going to call him,” I said, clutching my phone tight in my hand.

  “Fine, then give me your phone and I’ll call him,” Michael reasoned.