Picasso was told he should break his right hand, so that he would be forced to rely more on his eyes, not on his hands. An extreme idea, but you get the point. If you don’t
look
, you can’t
do.
”
Earlier in the year Ms. Wiles had shown us pictures of some of Picasso’s work. Comparing his early paintings to his later stuff, it had been a little hard not to think that Ms.Wiles was crazy. In those early pictures Picasso not only saw well, but it seemed to me that in a way he saw better than he had later, when he was so acclaimed, when he took to drawing blue cubes, to stacking facial features vertically. His early portraits were alive with realism, with accuracy. I loved them.
And yes, as Ms. Wiles pointed out while showing us slides, Picasso’s
Guernica
screams the agony of war—but that was emotional truth on the canvas, not physical.
I said that to Ms. Wiles privately. That was the first time we’d ever talked alone; I’d crept up after class, unable to resist. “Ms. Wiles? I don’t really get what you were talking about.”
She’d smiled at me. “Frances, is it? What didn’t you get?”
“Just … about seeing. What’s wrong with Picasso’s early stuff? I mean, I get what you say about
Guernica.
I really do. But I’d say that
Guernica
was done with the heart, not the eyes.” She’d listened so attentively that, despite myself, I found I was growing more and more passionate. “I mean, if we’re going to talk about body organs. Art …” I stumbled a little, trying to explain my thoughts. “Art should be done with hands and heart, not hands and eyes. That’s what
Guernica
is. Because nobody else could see what Picasso saw. Right?”
“Well,” Ms. Wiles said, “until he showed us all how to look.” And as she smiled at me, I had a glimmer not only of what she meant, but, more importantly, of the pleasure of being able to discuss such things, seriously, with an adult who also cared about them.
I bit my lip. “Oh,” I said tentatively.
“Let me show you some other artists’ stuff,” Ms. Wiles said. “There are slides in the photography room that might make all this more clear—do you have time, or do you have to get to another class?”
I had had another class, but I hadn’t cared. “Oh, yes,” I’d said eagerly. “I have time.”
Now, as she talked, I built up the clay base of my sculpture, then slowly walked around the plaster model trying to
see
it. What you looked at straight on wasn’t what you saw when you tilted your head to the side. The shapes flowed into each other and then into something else … but it was all part of a whole. It all came together.
I went back to my own femur. I smoothed its long central line. I tried to shape the bumps of its connecting joints. I looked up at the model; down at my work. Up, down. Up, down. My hands moved.
You don’t watch your hands while you work. You watch the model. Your hands work on their own. And it’s best if you don’t think too much about what you’re doing. My mind drifted.
Seeing clearly. I thought I understood a little better now. In life I’d seen Daniel my way. I’d thought he’d been happy, but he had been unhappy enough to kill himself. If I’d looked better, I might have seen—
Guernica
in his face? Maybe?
Was that what Ms. Wiles had been driving at about Picasso? If you think you already know what you’re lookingat, then you can’t possibly see that something else is really there?
I worked on my femur. I felt its shape beneath my palms. I looked at the model, not at my clay.
Ms. Wiles came up behind me, and I felt myself tighten. Under her eyes I worked the clay. I smoothed out the central bone line again. Reshaped the joint that gaped open on top. Then I stepped back and looked.
Somehow my poor femur had gone all wrong.
“Frances?” said Ms. Wiles gently.
I turned.
Her voice had dropped to a level low enough that only I could hear it. “You’re angry at me?”
I shrugged.
“Please
look
, you can’t
do.
”
Earlier in the year Ms. Wiles had shown us pictures of some of Picasso’s work. Comparing his early paintings to his later stuff, it had been a little hard not to think that Ms.Wiles was crazy. In those early pictures Picasso not only saw well, but it seemed to me that in a way he saw better than he had later, when he was so acclaimed, when he took to drawing blue cubes, to stacking facial features vertically. His early portraits were alive with realism, with accuracy. I loved them.
And yes, as Ms. Wiles pointed out while showing us slides, Picasso’s
Guernica
screams the agony of war—but that was emotional truth on the canvas, not physical.
I said that to Ms. Wiles privately. That was the first time we’d ever talked alone; I’d crept up after class, unable to resist. “Ms. Wiles? I don’t really get what you were talking about.”
She’d smiled at me. “Frances, is it? What didn’t you get?”
“Just … about seeing. What’s wrong with Picasso’s early stuff? I mean, I get what you say about
Guernica.
I really do. But I’d say that
Guernica
was done with the heart, not the eyes.” She’d listened so attentively that, despite myself, I found I was growing more and more passionate. “I mean, if we’re going to talk about body organs. Art …” I stumbled a little, trying to explain my thoughts. “Art should be done with hands and heart, not hands and eyes. That’s what
Guernica
is. Because nobody else could see what Picasso saw. Right?”
“Well,” Ms. Wiles said, “until he showed us all how to look.” And as she smiled at me, I had a glimmer not only of what she meant, but, more importantly, of the pleasure of being able to discuss such things, seriously, with an adult who also cared about them.
I bit my lip. “Oh,” I said tentatively.
“Let me show you some other artists’ stuff,” Ms. Wiles said. “There are slides in the photography room that might make all this more clear—do you have time, or do you have to get to another class?”
I had had another class, but I hadn’t cared. “Oh, yes,” I’d said eagerly. “I have time.”
Now, as she talked, I built up the clay base of my sculpture, then slowly walked around the plaster model trying to
see
it. What you looked at straight on wasn’t what you saw when you tilted your head to the side. The shapes flowed into each other and then into something else … but it was all part of a whole. It all came together.
I went back to my own femur. I smoothed its long central line. I tried to shape the bumps of its connecting joints. I looked up at the model; down at my work. Up, down. Up, down. My hands moved.
You don’t watch your hands while you work. You watch the model. Your hands work on their own. And it’s best if you don’t think too much about what you’re doing. My mind drifted.
Seeing clearly. I thought I understood a little better now. In life I’d seen Daniel my way. I’d thought he’d been happy, but he had been unhappy enough to kill himself. If I’d looked better, I might have seen—
Guernica
in his face? Maybe?
Was that what Ms. Wiles had been driving at about Picasso? If you think you already know what you’re lookingat, then you can’t possibly see that something else is really there?
I worked on my femur. I felt its shape beneath my palms. I looked at the model, not at my clay.
Ms. Wiles came up behind me, and I felt myself tighten. Under her eyes I worked the clay. I smoothed out the central bone line again. Reshaped the joint that gaped open on top. Then I stepped back and looked.
Somehow my poor femur had gone all wrong.
“Frances?” said Ms. Wiles gently.
I turned.
Her voice had dropped to a level low enough that only I could hear it. “You’re angry at me?”
I shrugged.
“Please
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