Number 22

Memoirs of an English Wolf

I sat in the corner of the studio and began to draw. I used oil pastels because they would smudge and I could scratch them. The colours could smear into each other. I could attempt to create a facsimile of the world my eye saw. Drawing could become a testament to the form and colours of blindness.

Before the year was out I would be having a transplant which – hopefully – would restore my sight. Drawing this different vision was pretty important to me, although I had long since given up the dream of following a career as a visual artist. This sight was not, in itself a disability. It was an ability unique to me. I had a vision impossible to be shared with others. That is the thing with much that is known as blindness: it is anything but the inability to see. Sure, I couldn’t even…

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