Look, see

One of the reasons I love to travel is that being away gives me perspective. Not just distance from my problems and trivial woes, but literal, visual perspective. When I am somewhere else, I take the time to look, to see as much as I can. I take in the lines; note color (hue, vibrancy, tone); watch shadows to feel the textures. For a visual artist, this practice is critical.

After returning from my trips, I make a conscious effort to keep this practice alive, to maintain my "vacation eyes." On my commute to work, I try to appreciate the different scrollwork on building gates. I try to see random graffiti markings (not murals) as if they are gilt-framed paintings. I try to imagine the stories of delivery men rolling their dollies to and from their double-parked trucks. I look up and back, not just down and ahead. Inevitably, I fall back into my regular routines and I stop looking. How does one see things that are familiar with fresh eyes? Does it take rewiring? (An ex-boyfriend does research on synaptic plasticity and neural circuits of the visual cortex; perhaps he would have something to say about this, and how it might relate to our consciousness.)

Barbara Kruger, Untitled. (2004)

Looking is clearly invaluable to an artist, but it makes me wonder what kind of human being I would be if I kept my sights fresh and new. Would it make me more compassionate to my annoying coworker? Would it allow me to fall in love, in a new way, every day, with my partner? Would I be invigorated by all the discoveries that lay waiting for me, instead of being jaded by the inevitable fallibility of human nature?