The sight of a blind man and his dog standing in front of paintings causes people to stare. I hold my attention still, absorbing agglutinated browns and pinks. Sometimes I like moving among art objects I can’t see. Its the Dada-ist in me. I pick up associations and feelings without the burden of facts. Most people probably wouldn’t understand this. Sometimes I rent an audio tour. Sometimes I get a docent to accompany me. I’m not static when it comes to my choices. Meditating among inexact colors and shapes is however a contemplative relief for me.
Once I went to the Chicago Art Institute with Vidal who decided to lick his balls in front of the Mater Dolorosa or “Sorrowing Virgin” from the Workshop of Dieric Bouts (Netherlandish, c. 1410–1475)
I yanked gently on his leash but he was hard at work in his own Netherlandish place and short of strangling him there was nothing I could do.
Then, predictably, a woman walked up. “That’s unseemly,” she said. “Yes,” I said, “but our job is to outwit Hell with our bodies.” She went away.
When Vidal was done we went to the modern art section. I figured it would be safer there.
Planet of the Blind 