The Mysterious Art Museum

Chapter 87 (1) - The Mysterious Art Museum

In the previous literature, I had read this passage.

It was an article on the theme of the difference in imagination between congenitally blind and acquired blind people.

It said that the imagination of the acquired blind relies on memory.

To be precise, it assembles what it sees for the first time in its mind based on the memories seen before losing sight.

However, the congenitally blind have never seen anything since birth.

Since they have no memories to rely on, they imagine as they have learned, but sometimes misunderstand, imagining something completely different.

For example, if I asked my brother what an elephant looks like.

He would describe it as a very large animal with a long trunk, gray body, large ears, and the largest mammal after the whale. All this understanding comes from education.

How big is a large trunk, what does it feel like when ears flutter? My brother doesn't know. He just speaks from what he's memorized.

What would the elephant assembled in my brother's mind look like?

He might imagine a gray elephant with ears and a trunk slightly larger than a human, or one with a trunk as abnormally long as a giraffe's neck, or even with wing-like ears like Dumbo from the cartoons.

I quietly looked at my brother with his eyes closed.

In fact, my brother can open his eyes.

But they lack focus and the color of the pupils is different from normal people.

Ever since a neighborhood friend said my brother's eyes were scary when we were young, he has always kept his eyes closed.

"Brother."

"Yeah."

"Is school fun?"

"Um, well. It's okay. Since we're all together, we understand each other."

""

That's a lie.

I heard from mom. My brother really dislikes going to the blind school.

In my opinion, as an ordinary person, I thought people in the same situation would understand and care for each other, but in reality, they are people who find it hard to live without someone's help.

So, they don't have the luxury to care for others, they understand each other, but can't look after one another.

My brother says that when he goes to school, it feels like someone is constantly reminding him of the hell he lives in.

He doesn't want to hear or face the reality he keeps whispering about.

But my kind brother never told me such stories.

"What do you learn at school?"

"We learn everything, Korean, math, English, social studies, science, physical education, and art."

Art?

Do blind people learn art?

"Do you do art?"

"Yeah."

"How?"

My brother smiles, playing with his hands.

"Have you heard of the phrase 'blind men touching an elephant'?"

""

I dislike this proverb. I know the meaning, but I've never used it.

"Yeah, I know."

"In our art class, we mainly use clay. We touch and feel something, then create it."

Ah, it's not about drawing pictures.

"It's like sculpture."

"Yes, and we draw pictures too."

"Pictures?"

"Yeah, isn't it amazing?"

""

It is amazing. But I don't want to say it. My brother adds an explanation.

"There are people who donate their talents. They create masterpieces with plastic, giving light and shadow. Then we touch them and imagine what the painting is like. We don't know the colors, but we can understand the shape. Based on that, we draw pictures."

I see. There are really good people in the world. My brother said with a slightly self-mocking smile.

"Do you remember when we were twelve? When we first went to the War Memorial of Korea in Yongsan."

""

I remember.

It wasn't long after we moved to Namyangju following our father's death when mom took us to the museum.

At the time, my brother was older but still young like me. While explaining a painting related to the Korean War, he touched the painting out of curiosity.

And then we were chased out by the caretaker.

Visitors who dare touch the paintings are unacceptable, he said.

I remember.

Im so grateful to those who made touchable paintings. It allows me to imagine the art. Ever since we were kicked out of the museum, I thought art was irrelevant to my life, and it was where I felt most inferior.

I see.

My brother stretches and laughs.

I wish there were more touchable paintings. Ah, now I'm sleepy.

Yeah, go to bed, bro.

As my brother stretches lazily and gets up, I help him, but he refuses, saying,

I know my way around the house, dont worry and rest. You must be tired.

Okay.

My brother slowly heads to his room.

I watch his retreating figure, recalling his last words.

I wish there were more touchable paintings.

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