Ever since the stroke she’s been unable to see pictures in her head. When she tries to visualize something, she can't. She can see everything outside her head just fine. Inside her head: nothing.
The stroke that paralyzed half of her body, it seems, has also paralyzed her ability to visualize images, to imagine, leaving her with a kind of acquired imagination blindness. In the two years since her stroke she’s seen only one image. Out of the blue, the memory of a graduation decades earlier popped into her head, briefly, and she was able to picture it before it went dark again. It’s like a bulb up there has blown its fuse.
When your eyes are open, and you're looking at something -- a clear blue sky, for example -- you can simultaneously visualize a second image inside your head. You can look up at the sky and bring the image of a childhood memory to mind -- a memorable Christmas, a favorite teddy bear. You can perform some simple arithmetic. You can look at the sky and recall a dream from the night before. You can visualize the furniture in your living room.
When she looks up at a clear blue sky, she sees only sky. She can call no images to mind. When her eyes are open, she sees whatever her eyes are seeing, nothing more, nothing less. When her eyes are closed, she sees the back of her eyelids, nothing more, nothing less.
To compensate for this impairment, she uses her hands to probe the space in front of her as she speaks. Like a blind person probing darkness with a cane, her hands carve air into shapes which echo the visual aspects of her story. Her hands, because they're out in front of her where she can see them, sculpt a prosthetic imagination, if you will, one she isn't blind to, one that’s outside her head. She visualizes with her hands, pantomiming, and this helps her move the story forward. She paints pictures all around her in the air and on the table because she can't see inside her own head anymore.
The stroke that paralyzed half of her body, it seems, has also paralyzed her ability to visualize images, to imagine, leaving her with a kind of acquired imagination blindness. In the two years since her stroke she’s seen only one image. Out of the blue, the memory of a graduation decades earlier popped into her head, briefly, and she was able to picture it before it went dark again. It’s like a bulb up there has blown its fuse.
When your eyes are open, and you're looking at something -- a clear blue sky, for example -- you can simultaneously visualize a second image inside your head. You can look up at the sky and bring the image of a childhood memory to mind -- a memorable Christmas, a favorite teddy bear. You can perform some simple arithmetic. You can look at the sky and recall a dream from the night before. You can visualize the furniture in your living room.
When she looks up at a clear blue sky, she sees only sky. She can call no images to mind. When her eyes are open, she sees whatever her eyes are seeing, nothing more, nothing less. When her eyes are closed, she sees the back of her eyelids, nothing more, nothing less.
To compensate for this impairment, she uses her hands to probe the space in front of her as she speaks. Like a blind person probing darkness with a cane, her hands carve air into shapes which echo the visual aspects of her story. Her hands, because they're out in front of her where she can see them, sculpt a prosthetic imagination, if you will, one she isn't blind to, one that’s outside her head. She visualizes with her hands, pantomiming, and this helps her move the story forward. She paints pictures all around her in the air and on the table because she can't see inside her own head anymore.