Why is my visual literacy so poor? Why do I not trust myself to understand and respond to the beautiful colours, lines and textures before me? I am afraid of getting it *wrong*, somehow believing that with words, I will get it right. I look for example, at a picture of a man holding a large chalice. To me he is sombre, perhaps sad or depressed. Exhausted, or grieving even. I can't cope. I reach for the explanation. "Reverence", the book tells me. Really? I look back at the picture and behold! So it is. I can see it clearly now. The word changed everything.
Learning to look is like trying to walk on shifting sand. I can't let go of the idea that there is just one "right" way to do this, and what if I get it wrong? It is a bizarre notion, but hard to shake. I am too used to the crutch of words; I am struggling with ambiguity. Or perhaps I am struggling with having my illusions removed, so that I am forced to see how rarely we communicate in just the same language. I feel discomfort, and at the same time, glee. Suddenly I am five years old again, sitting at a desk that is all mine, with paper and paints provided. There is no right. Understanding is irrelevant. There is only colour and form and possibility.