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Show 17 "Your eyes are shut," the adolescent driver-voice told him. "Why is that?" "I'm going blind. --And to Boston. Are you heading south toward . . .?" "I'm going to Manchester. Do you have to keep them shut like that? It seems weird." "They're light-sensitive." "Oh." "Manchester's great." "I've never seen a blind man hitch-hiking before." Standing on the side of Route 93 near Manchester,* his tumb cold in the windy air, Hunt imagined and planned his next painting. He would call it "Sight." It would be visionary, he thought. Alive with light! There would be spaces, painted as in multiple exposure, planed in oil, over each other: halls, lunch counters, ponds, doorways, snowscapes, alleys, lanes of sky, treebranch matrices, bedroom corners, attics, zones of ocean channel and searock. spaces under stairs. All illuminated. With a figure! With a central figure -- somewhere back but in the middle -- reaching out, his hands multiple. Like the spaces. Like the light! "Sight!" "Sight #1." And he would do a whole series of them. Like Cezanne and Mt. St. Victoire. And Anne would love them. "Hey, Mister! Hey, you want a ride or not?" |