The Face of Milly

Some subjects can come near to blindness without changing their ‘world’: they can be seen colliding with objects everywhere, but they are not aware of no longer being open to visual qualities, and the structure of their conduct remains unmodified.

(Merleau-Ponty, Phenomenology of Perception)

You went blind at the age of 6. Slowly, a cloud appeared in the crystalline lens of each of your eyes. At first, the silvery blue sheen that speckled your eye was vague and only visible in certain lights. You could see movements, but you were unsure of the precise origin and nature of those movements. For a while, it was possible for you to walk amongst us unaided by your powerful nostrils. Fearing a loss of contact with you, I would hold my finger in the air, move it from left to right, and measure how much of the movement you could detect with your eyes.

Over time, the cloud grew larger and those movements soon transformed into shadows that cast the world in a blackened haze. We watched it happen as helpless witnesses. We saw frequently that you would stumble nervously in the sunlight. When you knocked your head on rocks and edges, I felt the organs of my body contort themselves in agony. Increasingly, you would make your way in the world by sniffing the corners of each wall you would pass. In the midst of sprawling crowds, you came to a standstill, and I would often pick you up, cover you in my black scarf and guide you to a less densely populated part of our shared world. There, I would see that you had the freedom to roam unobstructed by rapidly moving objects and creatures both taller and larger than you. You had lost your sight, and now, an intense film of blue covered your eyes, masking the brown eyes behind the cataracts.

When the eyes withdrew from your face, where was your vision of the world? Did the world of those that love you simultaneously vanish alongside your eyesight, now consigned to a memory, the affective tone of which no human being can experience from the outside? Prior to your blindness, we saw one another from time to time through touching foreheads, feeling the heat in each other’s bodies. Back then, the eye contact would be full of expression and the focal point of our communication. Often, I might give you a particular look to indicate that now was the time to be fed or walked. Our glances would exchange and a common language would be established in a non-verbal gesture. Today, the same look remains on your face, but there are no eyes to initiate the reflex. And yet: your speech has remained inscribed in your face. True, the visible realm is no longer your priority, and in your blindness, you journey through the world upon different senses. But your face sees through the blindness. In its obscurity, your face continues to call to those around you, to summon their presence. Your face assumes an authority upon human life in spite of its blindness. Know that the silent call is heard.