By Touch

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By Touch
J. T. O'Connell

It has been said that instructors learn from their students just as the other way
around. This is true. Whenever the instructor takes an interest in the student, there is a
growth of knowledge experienced by both parties. Maybe the subject matter for the
teacher is different, but there is still a growth of understanding on some level.
Mode preferred to think that she learned everyday she taught and some she days
when she did not. It was the truth. She had not realized it until her fourth year of teaching
high school art. After receiving a Master of Arts in Teaching degree, she may have been
proud enough to regard high school level classes as merely too basic, too simple to
reciprocate the learning experience.
But when she began to take a closer look, Mode realized that the experience had
occurred, that she had benefited, not just from learning to adapt in instruction, but
developing her study of art as well. With that in mind, she had decided to adapt her
attitude ever so slightly. She was not just teaching art, she was actively watching it grow
and cultivating its modern style. Many things had changed since then but a constant
philosophy of intrigue had remained an integral pillar of her instruction.
Mode Spencer was in her early forties and had changed some aspects of her
appearance since her voluntary separation from her husband. She now wore a dark eye
liner, to highlight her brown eyes, and used a currant-deep red lipstick which darkened
her lips more than gave color to them. She used to tan regularly but her skin did not seem
pink without a tanning bed. She kept her brown-nearly-black hair just long enough to tie
back behind her head. Many things had changed in just the past two years.
Now, as she watched and encouraged her students, Mode was excited to see some
real talent. These were not high school students, though. She now ran her own private
studio and held classes several evenings out of the week. Mode was specialized, and
primarily taught sculpting, an intensely challenging form of art.
On occasion, someone would come along with tremendous talent; a natural ability
to use their hands in translation of what their minds created. Two keys to wonderful
artwork are the unique mind to create ideas and the physical aptitude to effectively
convey those ideas.
This class held just such a candidate. It was the fourth class Emily Larkin had
attended and Mode had, on each occasion, seen promise in her which could be developed
into such a genuine talent. It was too early to see if Emily had real genius. That rare level
of ability was never for a single teacher to declare. Besides, talent was enough for many
artists to create wonderful pieces.
Although Mode had only spoken a few times with Emily, she had already noted
some strange characteristics about the young woman. Her appearance was not odd. Emily
had a simple look of dirty blonde hair, a very soft blend of natural tones. She was only a
little shorter than any other woman; Mode believed she was about twenty-five. The
young girl wore far less makeup than Mode, only a little lip gloss. Emily’s emerald eyes
were striking, their bright color amplified by the glasses she wore.
But Mode had noticed Emily’s mannerisms. When first visiting Mode’s studio to
inquire about the classes, she had stared off into the distance as Mode spoke with her,
almost as though she was not paying any attention. Yet, they held up an active

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conversation, or active enough to explain the class schedule. Mode had noticed Emily
doing the same thing during her lecture in class; listening as though using her eyes only
needed to be engaged when an example of the lesson topic was being displayed.
Aside from that oddity Emily was adept at using her fingers to mold the clay into
a shape she deemed appropriate to her expression. She was very particular about the
details. While most aspiring artists were frustrated by realism, or driving toward some
exaggeration, Emily was easily reproducing subjects to visually exacting specifications.
She stood out in the class, and Mode noticed Emily spent a much greater amount of time
staring at the model than at what she was doing with her clay. That displayed a strong
attention to the detail of the figure and a confidence in her hands.
Emily’s fingers glided over the tan clay, pressing out the curved points of
cheekbones and smoothing the edges she had cut to create the basic shape of a human
head. But Mode watched all her students, and walked over to an older gentleman who
was having trouble forming the model's nose.
“You might try a softer touch instead of pressing so hard to form the shape. You
can work the clay into the right form with a series of movements and you’re more precise
that way.” Mode’s voice had always been soft and wispy, it helped her calm down
frustrated students.
The man grunted, “Uh, yeah, I just don’t want to spend the whole class redoing
this nose.” His hands lightened against the sculpture.
“If all you do is sculpt a nose and sculpt it well, it will be time valuably spent.”
She patted him on the back reassuringly. Sculpting in particular, was not a simple form of
art. No one could simply walk in off the street and press out a magnificent work. Even
the historical masters of art, Michelangelo, Rosso, Giambologna, and others, had to spent
enormous wealths of time in practice and in production of their greatest works. Patience
in consistency was perhaps the most important key to sculpting.
Mode looked back over toward Emily. The girl was finished forming the
cheekbones and her fingers were moving lightly over the clay, her eyes closed, feeling
the texture and the shape. Here and there her fingers pressed slightly, pushing in some
unseen impurity in the form. Her concentration was hypnotic, as if she and the clay were
all that existed and the rest of the room, the building, even the world had faded away
entirely.
The rest of Mode’s students, six others, were a good assortment of ability and
aim. Some preferred the calming affects that art offered. Her classes always encouraged
people to relax with soft classical music in the background. Some wished and worked to
improve their abilities.
But Emily was in a world of her own. She was adept, had clear ability, and
fantastic drive. Yet, as Mode watched Emily opening her eyes to see the figure, the
appreciation of accomplishment was not quite what it should be. Emily smiled, but
almost wryly at her clay, as Mode walked the few feet to her table.
Emily’s sculpture was an excellent facial recreation of the young man seated on a
stool. Mode was not sure what to suggest to Emily for improvement. Sure, there were
fingerprint smudges and the hair could use some work. Hair is difficult with clay,
especially when spiked. But the overall form was impressive. Mode let her excitement
show. “Emily, that’s magnificent! Fantastic piece!”

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She smiled and closed her eyes, running her fingers over the work again. “Thanks,
it’s pretty good I guess.” Her voice was strong and confident, a little deeper than usual.
“You have a natural flair for art.” Mode noticed the young girl’s pale skin blush
slightly.
Emily reopened her eyes and glanced at Mode for a second. “Thanks.”

The class had wrapped up with Mode providing some additional notes that she
knew would help the students improve their approach to form and just as importantly,
some encouragement for the progress each individual showed. Sometimes these abilities
were as much mental as anything else. A defeated mind can seldom find initiative to
attempt much less produce anything of value.
As the students, young and old, took turns washing their hands, Mode wrote a
check for the model. Sitting immobile, back unsupported, on a stool for an hour can be a
daunting task. After he left, Mode began cleaning up some of the tools the students used
to carve away at the blocks of clay.
Some of the people were chatting with each other while they collected their
notebooks and backpacks. Emily handed her tools to Mode, “Ms. Spencer?”
“Call me Mode, Emily.” Everyone used her first name. “What’s up?” Mode took
the tools and dropped them into a Tupperware bin to await cleaning.
“Do you have some time when we can talk about something I want to try?” Emily
only carried an odd laptop computer that bore no common trademarks that Mode had
seen.
“Sure. I have a few things to take care of here but I could use a coffee. There’s a
place a few miles away that I like.”
“Okay, that sounds fine. Can I help out?” Emily set down her laptop on a table,
next to someone’s sculpture.
“It would speed things up, thank you.” Mode handed the container of implements
over to Emily. “If you could wash these up at the sink, and the others,” Mode pointed at
the remaining tools on the desks. “I just have to make a few notes and put away the
sculptures.” Students purchased the clay through her, but frequently some were not
satisfied enough with their work to keep it, so Mode would recycle the material.
Emily collected the rest of the tools and set to work washing the excess clay off.
After wrapping the clay up in plastic, Mode sat down at her desk. She kept a list of things
she observed to better help specific people, issues to address that were common, concepts
of form that occur to her which might help the individual students develop their abilities.
She had to note Emily’s talents. The young woman was stunningly talented. Her
hands were sure, thoroughly aware of each movement and manipulation of the sculpting
medium. Emily’s concentration on the shape of the sculpted face had been fascinating.
Mode was energized. She had seen such talent before, but very rarely. Her mind began to
wonder what project had piqued Emily’s interest. Whatever it was, Mode was sure it
would be a thrill to work on it with the young woman.

The evening air was still warm, in the high 70s; not nearly the fall which mid-to-
late September often presented. The thin maple trees lining the center of an island in the
middle of the street were already aglow with turning leaves. They lit up the evening in a
splendor of fiery reds, brilliant oranges and a patient spattering of unturned greens.

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Mode neglected to use her SUV’s air conditioning. She rolled down her window
instead. Beside her, Emily, followed suit and rolled down the passenger window,
breathing in deeply the fresh evening air. “Thanks for the ride, Mode.” Emily evidently
did not have a car, which was not entirely unheard of in Omaha.
“Sure. What’s this project you’re working on?” Mode put the SUV in gear and
pulled out onto the streets, busy despite the two and a half hours passed since typical rush
hour traffic times. Everyone wanted to be out in the warm air before the seasonal colds
rushed in.
“Well, I need to explain a few things first. It’s a strange idea and I’m sure it will
work, but you may need some convincing.”
Mode glanced at Emily. She had her eyes closed as she faced forward. “Okay, go
ahead.” Mode turned the SUV onto the appropriate street.
“First off, I was born without sight.”
“Hmm?” Mode was not sure she heard Emily correct over the noise of the breeze
coming in the windows.
“I was born without the ability to see. I had a congenital amaurosis when I was
born, which basically means my eyes couldn’t create functioning receptors. I couldn’t
see.” Emily made the dark statements in a nonchalant, matter-of-fact manner.
Mode was not sure what to say. “Wow, that’s tough. Did your eyes learn to…
adapt or something?” She glanced at Emily again. The woman’s eyes were still closed.
and her head was tilted down ever so slightly.
“No, there’s a gene therapy thing that doctors can do, but it wasn’t out of clinical
trials until a few years ago. I completed the treatment two years back.”
“So, you close your eyes a lot because they get tired?”
Emily shifted in her seat. “Nah, they’re fine. I’m still not used to seeing things in
motion from a vehicle though. It kinda makes me queasy. But that’s the reason I don’t
have a license. The DMV doesn’t really trust the treatment just yet. Legally, being born
blind is blind for life.”
Mode parallel parked her SUV next to Logan’s Café. “But…” She turned the
wheel and put the car into park. “you can see well enough, right?”
“With my glasses, sure, I can see just fine.”
The two ladies stepped out of the SUV, Mode watchful of the traffic on the street.
“Well, that’s good.” She hit the remote lock on her key fob. “Maybe at some point the
DMV will learn to test specially for it.” They walked into Logan’s.
“If the motion sickness goes away, I might want to learn to drive. But until then
I’d be unsafe at the wheel.” Emily looked around.
Mode had been to this coffee shop countless times in the past two years. She
wondered if she had a caffeine addiction, but always pushed the thought out of her mind.
The ambience of Logan’s was nice. An Ipod jukebox in one corner always had the latest
hits and a great assortment of the classics. It was always playing something pleasant and
calm. The floor was all black carpet, which the Logan’s employees kept free of stains.
Rather than tables and chairs, there were couches and coffee tables only partially ironic.
As well, the available books to buy were appropriately modern, an assortment of the
bestsellers and new prints of classics.
But what always made the biggest difference were the drinks. Cheaper and better
than Starbucks only added to the fact that there were plenty of drinks Starbucks did not

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carry. Logan’s selection was more like a mix-drink bar without the alcohol than a
standard coffee shop.
Mode ordered her usual after work coffee, Chai Tea with orange. Emily took a
few moments perusing the extensive menu to decide but settled on a fruit smoothie. The
drinks we prepared within a minute.
"C’mon, we’ll sit outside while the weather is still nice enough for it.” Mode led
Emily through a side door onto a patio. Logan’s was on a corner and a hill. The roadway
and sidewalk fell away from the patio further toward the back of the shop. The two
picked a table and sat down in homely deck chairs. Evening had faded into night and the
city lights were aglow.
“Okay, so you just recently gained your sight. That must have been amazing.”
Mode sipped her cup.
“Yeah, it was overwhelming. Imagine being able to feel every single thread that
touches your skin, individually. That’s how I describe it when people ask.”
“Right, because you went without for so long.”
“Twenty-three years. Yeah, it completely shifted my entire world.” Emily sloshed
her straw around the smoothie. “I used to get headaches and my eyes would get tired but
most of that has passed.”
Mode smiled. That would explain her mannerism. Emily would not be used to
looking at people to listen to them or looking at what her hands were doing. The matter of
seeing lips forming the sounds could distract from hearing the sounds themselves.
“But, let me explain a little more about myself.” She sat forward and made a
concerted effort to look Mode in the eye. The older woman appreciated it. “When I was
in my senior year of high school, my house had a gas leak which,” her voice trembled
slightly. “caught fire and burned the house to the ground. My dad died.” Emily turned her
head away but did not wipe her eyes.
“Was your mother alright?” Mode bit her lip in compassion.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot to mention. She died in a car wreck before my first
birthday.”
“I’m so sorry. That’s just awful.” Mode wanted to console the young girl but was
not sure she was familiar enough to be that dear a friend. It was obvious that was not
what Emily wanted, regardless. She was resilient and strong, even if still sensitive to her
father’s passing.
“Yeah, it was tough. Dad and I were really close.” Emily used a spoon to eat
some of her pinkish fruit smoothie. “And all of our stuff was destroyed in the fire. So, all
of the pictures of me and Dad were destroyed as well. Even the ones he kept in his truck
were burned up because it was in the garage. So, I’ve never actually… like, seen my
father.”
“Aren’t there family photos and friends things like that?”
“Dad didn’t have much in the way of family, and most of his friends he never
saw. He was a bricklayer and pretty much split his time between that and me.” She
paused for a moment, in deep thought. “It’s rough when you’re raising a blind kid alone.”
Mode listened closely, ignoring even her tea.
Emily went on, “You know sometimes, I think, if only he didn’t have to work so
hard to get me so many audio books and CDs, that maybe his back wouldn’t have had so

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many problems. He probably would’ve gone to work that day.” A tear crept down her
face. This time Emily wiped her eyes with a napkin.
Mode reached across the table and placed as motherly a hand as she should
muster on Emily’s forearm. “It sounds like he loved you very much.”
Emily sniffed and smiled, “He did. He was everything to me.” She blew her nose
into the napkin and spoke again. “So, this project-“
“You want to sculpt your dad’s face from memory?” Mode voiced her realization.
“Yes, I have a big tactile library of him.” Emily folded the napkin and put her
smoothie on top of it. “But I’m sure to need help, which is why I took your class.”
“Of course. I’d love to help you with this.” Mode smiled and took another sip
from her tea. “Free of charge.”
“Well, I’d like to pay for your troubles-“
Mode interrupted her with a kind tone. “Free of charge. I’d be honored.”
Emily nodded. “Thanks, I can’t tell you what this means to me.”
“To be perfectly honest, you have an incredible gift. I would like to help you any
way I can and this project should give you a fair bit of training to hone your skills. It’s
not like sculpting something you see everyday.”
“No, but I do remember him everyday.”

Thursday evening had been dominated by continued warmth but the climate
finally caught up with the season by Saturday. Mode drove to her studio, True Form
Sculpting Studio, in a jacket this morning.
Saturdays were nicer than weekdays. She always held classes on the evenings and
weekends for two reasons. Her studio was a rented and renovated back side of a high end
engine repair shop. They worked on primarily super-cars and kept up quite a racket,
muffled slightly by the insulation Mode had filled into the drywall when she
reconstructed the leased space. The specialty engine shop was closed on Saturdays which
worked out fine, since most of Mode’s students were only available to take her classes
during evenings and weekends.
Her side of the block opened to a slightly less busy street and fewer parking
spaces, but she managed. The classes usually were between five and ten people anyway.
The owner of the mechanics shop also included the upstairs loft in Mode’s rent, which
she had converted into a nicely spacious office. After hanging up her purse on a coat
rack, she set her coffee on her desk and sat for a moment sniffing its aroma; all the
sensation she needed so far this morning.
Something was bothering her. Mode had spent the past few weeks happily
entrenched in her own art and her teaching. That was good. A nice sense of
accomplishment accompanied her interest and her profession. Still, she had neglected
human contact more so than normal.
No matter, Mode thought. Today would be very different from normal. She had
not given a one-on-one lesson in quite some time. Mode finished off her coffee, it was
nearly lukewarm, and dropped the cardboard cup into a wastebasket. Emily would be
here soon to get started on this project. It was almost 9:30. Then at 12:30, Mode had a
class she was offering. It would very likely be college age students showing up. Parents
had sports for their kids around that time on a Saturday.

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“Hello?” Emily’s voice called out, lightly bouncing off the walls. Mode turned
and looked down over the loft balcony at the studio floor. Emily had come in and was
looking around for signs of life.
“Good morning, Emily. Give me just a second.” Mode replied. She retrieved her
cell phone from her purse and slipped it into her pocket. The stairs down to the first floor
were creaky, but she somewhat appreciated that. It was nice character. The groans of
sturdy oak reminded her of her grandparents’ rural farmhouse.
“Hi.” Emily greeted Mode. “It doesn’t take as long to get here in the mornings as
much as the nights.”
“Oh, that’s okay. I’m ready to get started if you are.” Mode smiled. She had
always been a morning person, something she had not sacrificed since leaving the high
school teaching profession.
Emily nodded and set down her backpack. Mode noticed that the younger woman
was dressed differently than normal. She had primarily attended classes dressed in darker
colors, browns, blues, and blacks. But today she simply wore light blue jeans and a long-
sleeve, grey t-shirt. She kept her hair back with a simple pony tail. Pretty hair so often
was a nuisance, when left alone.
“Okay, for starters, I thought this project would be easier if you had some basic
shapes from which you could choose.” Mode led Emily to the back of the room, toward a
table. On the table were four clay busts, under plastic bags. Mode took the bags off as she
explained the differences to Emily. “This one is a longer face, a bit taller than average.
This one is more round.” Each of the busts had angular cuts delineating basic shapes,
where the cheekbones and jaw lines should be, with substantial clay excesses where the
nose would eventually be formed. “This one has a thin face and this last one is just about
the average of the rest.”
“Hmm, yeah, that makes a lot of sense.” Emily looked at each figure, absent of its
details, and concentrated. Mode watched unable to assist with the choice. Emily opened
her right hand and placed it against one of the faces, her skin barely touching the surface.
Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment as if settling into a default operation.
Mode could almost observe Emily’s nervous system shutting down optical
processes and relying on the tactile sensations that had been the primary source of
description for the majority of Emily’s life.
“Not this one.” Emily betrayed no lack of confidence in her voice. Mode knew the
younger woman must be very strong, given the situations of her life. “This one is too big.
There’s too much mass. It's too round.”
“Okay, try this one.” Mode dragged two stainless steel trays across the table to
switch busts in front of Emily. The young girl did not raise her eyelids even for a peek,
perfectly comfortable without visual input.
The round face was out. Mode waited for Emily to decide on the next structure.
Mode had no reference by which to judge which would most closely resemble the man
they would try to sculpt. Emily had mentioned that her father was a bricklayer but that
did not necessarily indicate any baseline features useful in a bust. Calloused hands and
strong arms were all she could imagine were typified by that profession.
“This one is pretty close but his jaw was a lot more prominent.” Emily pointed at
the thin-faced structure.
“About like the jaw on this one?” Mode placed Emily’s hand on the average bust.

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“Yeah, that’s closer.” Emily drifted her fingers over the other indistinct features,
using both hands to sense and compare with her memory. “Actually, this one is closer
than the last one, but it’s still heavier than my dad was.” Emily dropped her hands and
opened her eyes. She stared for a moment at the bust, biting her lower lip.
“Try the last one also.” Mode pointed at the long-faced bust. “Just to be sure the
one you select is the most similar.”
Emily nodded and placed her hands on the featureless clay. Without even closing
her eyes, she could immediately feel the differences. She wrinkled her nose and shook
her head. “Nah, this is too stretched.” She nodded toward the average face. “It’s that
one.”
“That’s pretty much what I expected.” Mode replied. Most adult faces were
within a range of characteristics, which she had grown accustomed to approximating in
the basic forms. She prepared them for her walk-in classes instead of demanding that
inexperienced people try to start with a simple block of clay. Most simply wanted a few
lessons for fun and that meant the finishing details more than anything else.
Mode moved the three excluded forms off to the side and set the steel tray holding
the average face on a stand for Emily to work on. “So, I gave this some thought yesterday
and I think it might be best if you try to do most of the sculpting of the form today. We
can get the details filled in later, but what is going to make it the most accurate to your
father’s image is to have the facial structure as exact as possible.”
“Right. So, mostly just fingers today? Not many tools?” Emily sat on a stool
before the clay and peered at it intently. “I guess I should start and see what happens?”
“Whenever you like. I can’t offer much insight on the look, but I can help you
understand how to modify the form to fit what you have in mind.” Mode watched as
Emily’s hands glided over the clay, leaving streaks of the tan material on her fingers.
The young girl smoothed out the chiseled edge of the cheekbones and pressed
them deeper into the face, diminishing their prominence. In three places on the figure, the
features were simply missing. The eyes were mere planes, slightly deeper than the face,
made all the more so noticeable by the excessive mountain of clay which would be used
to form the nose. Beneath that protrusion there was no semblance of a mouth. The clay
was cut into several planes which formed the turn of the jaw, almost straight up the rest
of the face. A great deal of effort would go into properly establishing the lips.
But Mode had also considered something which Emily, for all her talent, would
not be able to work on with any ease. “What sort of hair did he have, Emily?”
“Kinda shaggy actually, but he always wore a baseball cap and so it sort of stuck
out the back. He almost always had a cap on.” She continued smoothing the edges, her
eyes shut gently in fond remembrance.
Mode began a sketch of Emily’s description, which she would later use to form
the hair herself. “About how long?”
“Just enough to cover his neck. It was a little curly too, it wasn’t frayed or
anything.”
“Okay.” Mode sketched a few curly strands coming from underneath the ball cap.
Making sure to use a softer tone, she asked. “How did your parents meet?”
Emily did not hesitate or falter. “In high school, where they grew up, over in
Glenwood. Dad asked her out at prom and they were together until my mother died.”
“At prom?”

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“Yeah, he was too nervous to ask her to go with him to the prom before one of his
friends did, so he asked her out at the prom.”
“That’s a cute story.”
“He liked telling it. So, they got married right after my mother got her nursing
degree, and then they had me.” Emily continued smoothing the cut lines and pressing in
the face. Every now and then she would close her eyes and work by touch alone. The face
was already looking more human, now lacking the straight lines which are atypical of
human biology.
“How did your mother die?” Mode set down her pencil and watched Emily work.
“It was a car wreck in the winter. I don’t remember her at all, except maybe just
her voice, but I can’t be sure whether I remember that or just make it up.”
Mode nodded. “Yes, I understand how that may be tough to discern.” She was
making a conscious effort to guard her statements from anything which may hurt the
young woman, but the truth was the entire project was about the pain of losing a parent.
How many years had passed since Emily’s father had died? Six? Seven?
Emily went on. “But dad was there for me. Even though he worked, he always
found time to take care of me.”
“What sort of baseball hat did your father wear?”
She smiled, “Kansas City Royals. We were both fans. We used to listen to the
games on the radio, when I was younger.”
Mode wrote Kansas City R on the sketch of the cap as she chuckled. “I don’t
know anything about baseball.”
“It’s nice. When I went to high school we sorta stopped listening to the games. I
was hanging out with more friends and he was working more.” Emily turned to Mode. “I
can’t tell you what it means to me, that you’re helping me do this.”
“I’m glad I can help.”

The rest of the ‘lesson’ went by efficiently. Mode managed to help Emily finish a
form that Emily felt represented her father's bone structure very closely. The details
would have to wait for another time, however, because Mode needed to prepare for the
12:30 class she was giving.
Yet, she found herself perpetually distracted by some lingering subconscious
agitation. Mode was not sure if she could place the source, perhaps she did not want to.
But it was becoming annoying to stare off into space, deep in consideration over a topic
she refused to allow to surface in her mind. There was something bothering her and she
was not sure whether she cared to address it.
Mode knew what was bothering her but was not sure why it had suddenly become
so prevalent in her mind. Emily's relationship with her father had clearly been deep,
strong with his devotion to her well-being and reciprocated by her appreciation. Mode
imagined that knowing someone only by voice, scent, or touch, someone so dear and so
exclusive, must naturally be an intimate relationship.
Maybe, Mode thought, I'm just distracted by the uniqueness of it all, the
fascination with helping Emily reveal her own father to herself. There was enormous
emotional reward to both women, even Mode. She could not imagine a more splendid
charity than to assist the younger girl.

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