Cathedral A MONA Moment By Ron Roth Director Museum of Nebraska Art

There is a short story by the late author Raymond Carver, Cathedral, about a blind man who pays a visit to the home of a former employee and her husband. In this story, the husband is the narrator, and he is clearly made uncomfortable by this blind man in his home. His debilitation is so complete, that in frustration, after dinner, he turns on the TV rather than carry on conversation.

It so happens that a program about Gothic Cathedrals is on the television, which sparks some halting conversation between the two of them. The blind visitor reflects he doesn't have a very clear idea what a cathedral looks like, and asks his host to describe what he is seeing on the television. His host tries to describe what he is seeing, but in the end, frustrated, says "You'll have to forgive me, but I can't tell you what a cathedral looks like. It just isn't in me to do it. I can't do any more than I've done."

Then something interesting happens. The blind man asks for a paper and pencil, something to draw with. Our host finds a brown, paper grocery bag and a pen. They go to a table, and together, they draw a cathedral. Our narrator says, "His fingers rode my fingers as my hand went over the paper. It was like nothing else in my life up to now."

This scene reminded me of something which happened recently in the museum I direct, the Museum of Nebraska Art in Kearney. For many people, museums are a kind of cathedral. When they come into museums' galleries, they speak more quietly. There is often a sense of awe, even reverence. People find spiritual refreshment in the atmosphere of the museum.

My own sense of spiritual refreshment was enlarged recently by something I saw in our museum which had to do with a blind man. It was the evening of a choral concert by a University of Nebraska at Kearney student choir being presented at the museum. One of the singers in the chorus is blind. Prior to the performance, with the assistance of one of the other singers, I watched him walk over to a life size sculpture in our East Gallery, a bronze sculpture of a Native American woman by Nebraska sculptor, Martha Pettigrew.

When he got to the sculpture, the blind student did something which made my heart leap: He touched the sculpture! Now we all know, don't we, that when we are in an art museum, we do not touch the art. My natural impulse was to walk over to our blind visitor, and courteously, but firmly, tell him not to touch the art.

But this is the scene which I saw. I saw the face of this young blind man light up with delight. I saw him, as Raymond Carver described in his story, "touch his fingers to every part of her face, her nose even her neck." I saw him move his hands lightly, delicately over the sculpture, the drapery of her skirt, the husks of corn in the bowl she holds in her arms.

For a moment I envied him and his sensitive hands feeling and understanding tactilely things about that sculpture that would always be beyond me. I felt like that awkward, uncomfortable host in Carver's story, not quite sure what to do, but secretly wishing that my fingers and hands could ride his, as he moved them over the sculpture.

Now please, promise me you won't tell anyone that the director of the Museum of Nebraska Art says it's OK to touch the art in the museum. It isn't. Except, of course, for this one person.