Love is Blind

1994

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The image is of a large cabinet whose purpose is mysterious. Thick nylon threads tie the interior space together and a torn and tattered filmy curtain hangs down from the top, obscuring the interior. There is a light inside. A red cord dangles from the top of the piece and, though experimentation, one discovers that the light can be raised and lowered within the cabinet but is never fully visible. From the bottom of the film curtain, you can see the curve of the bulb peeking out, but not the whole thing nor the filament source of the light. Crushed and twisted chain link fence litters the bottom of the cabinet.

On the shallow flat desk surface at the front of the cabinet sits a guest book and a pen. To the side is a Walkman tape player with a set of headphones attached. If you put on the headphones and press the “Play” button, you hear an endless loop of Etta James singing a portion of her bluesy “I’d Rather Be Blind” and the Car Talk comedians telling blind jokes.

Written on the clear face of the cabinet, we can read “Blind Brilliant” in either Roman letters or Braille.

Blind Brilliant

“Blind” is a word used everyday to describe a person or situation that is totally out of it. “Love is blind.” “It was blind luck.” “Let them rob you blind.” Oblivious, random, stupid. It is, of course, a matter of ignorance. Blindness means visual impairment. It is hard to deal with the daily misuse and misunderstanding of this word “blind.” As I piece together the world through impaired vision, I also have to stop and sort out this mistake and realize the speaker is not addressing blindness, but oblivion. Such a negative “spin!” This, combined with the fact that disabled people are still safe subjects for ridicule, makes me ghettoized. People have learned some sensitivity and learned not to say offensive things about groups of people. But it is still ok to share humor about the disabled. They are openly bashed. In light of this, I’m here to say “blind” means visual impairment, not oblivion, not stupidity.

© Alison Ulman 2001