I recently had surgery to remove a cataract from my right eye. Over the previous year, that eye had grown increasingly blurry until using it was like looking through a lens coated with Vaseline. My left eye was still close to 100% functional, which was fortunate, but also made it difficult to read, especially at night, as the two were no longer working together. Therefore, despite some nervousness—the thought of someone plying a scalpel on my eye was daunting to say the least—I scheduled the operation.

The surgery in fact went quite well. It was painless and quick, about 30 minutes, and the only difficult part was going without food or coffee all day. During the first post-op hour or so, I didn't see much improvement as the eye was still recovering, but on the way home, I noticed that things seemed clearer and brighter, though since it was dusk, the change wasn't dramatic.

It wasn't until I arrived home that I first experienced the impact of how much improvement had been made. Upon walking into the lobby of my apartment building, I felt as if I had walked on stage. The room was filled with a brightness I hadn't perceived in many years, and the hallway leading to my unit was dazzling. By the following morning, this new clarity was fully realized: For the next several days, I was amazed over and over by how bright the world was, how blue the sky and how white the clouds. It was literally like being given new eyes.

Several days later, I was meeting my writing coach with whom I am working to expand some of my non-fiction into a book. I described the surgery and its aftermath. Knowing of my passion for art and familiar with some of my writing about it, she suggested I visit a museum and write about what it was like to view familiar works with my improved vision. I thought this an excellent idea, so I went to the Phillips Collection in D.C. and revisited their current exhibition, "Breaking It Down: Conversations From the Vault." This show comprises entirely works from the collection displayed in such a way as to spark conversations between and among them. In some ways, it was a mini-retrospective of the museum as I had first encountered it when I was newly arrived in Washington and it consisted of the original Phillips house and a slight extension. Artworks that showed affinities with each other or which arose from the same movements were grouped together in a manner that was quite revelatory and provoked much thought about origins and historical import. For example, as soon as one entered, one faced a staircase, around which were grouped three paintings, a Matisse, a Dufy, and a Diebenkorn. The Matisse and Diebenkorn in particular spoke to and illuminated each other. I wasn't too familiar with Richard Diebenkorn at the time and seeing his picture alongside Matisse's was a revelation and the beginning of a strong life-long admiration for his work.

One of the first works I encountered was this classic Mondrian.

Piet Mondrian, Composition No. 3

I like Mondrian's work, but it's mostly an intellectual pleasure, devoid of the emotional impact that my very favorite artists deliver. Nevertheless, with my freshened vision, these simple primary colors appeared rich and the sharpness of the contrast between the colors and the white background was striking.

In the same room as the Mondrian, I found two of the three paintings that I had stood in awe of those many years before in the stairway. 

Henri Matisse, Studio, Quai St-Michel

Richard Diebenkorn, Interior with View of the Ocean

Though the Matisse displays no especially bright colors, its dark richness became apparent, especially in the brightly lit gallery, while the Diebenkorn—showing the clear influence of Matisse—dazzled with its bright airiness. It shone out much brighter than in the dim stairway where it resided in my early days of visiting, something that would have been noticeable even before my surgery.

Richard Diebenkorn, Ocean Park No. 38

This nearby work, from the acclaimed Ocean Park series that depicts sunny California landscapes abstracted to color and line, rocked me back on my heels with its brilliant colors—one could almost feel the warmth of the sun.

I moved to an adjacent gallery and found myself confronting an array of works by Paul Klee, an artist I love greatly, in both an emotional and aesthetic sense. Back in the 80s when I lived in the Mount Pleasant neighborhood of D.C. and worked nights, I would often leave for work a couple of hours early and stop into the Phillips just to visit one or two galleries that contained favorite paintings. (The museum offered free admission back then.) My most favorite was a couple of rooms that held Klee and his contemporary, Wassily Kandinsky. So I was thrilled to pass along in front of almost every piece in the Collection's Klee unit. It goes without saying that once again, these works had the effect of appearing to me in the fullness of their color and images as if for the first time. One in particular, though, really hit different.

Paul Klee, Tree Nursery

In addition to lovely layers of color, the incisions representing trees stood sharp and clear. Klee incised all of them into the surface before adding color and I was stunned by the delicacy and precision of each tiny tree.

Renée Stout, What I saw in the parallel universe (photo by the author)

Renée Stout was a new discovery for me, the latest of many I've made over the years at the Phillips. In the case of this image, it wasn't so much the color or imagery, but the clarity of the letters making up the text overlaying the images that really stood out on this repeat viewing. I have always been fascinated by art that mixes images and text and Stout has created a masterwork of the genre.

Stout's painting has been juxtaposed to a fine Sean Scully (another remarkable artist I first encountered at the museum).

Sean Scully, Day

Scully's abstract works display an affinity with such modernists as Mondrian and Mark Rothko, but the earthy tones—richer and more vibrant to my newly clear eyes—reflect his travels in Mexico. I was wowed the first time I saw Scully's work and even more so on this encounter.

This exhibition contains a plethora of amazing artworks from the permanent collection, many not seen in years, including pieces by Sam Gilliam ( a D.C. native and local hero). Georges Braque, Arthur Dove, Georgia O'Keefe, Joel Meyerowitz, and numerous others. It runs through January 19, 2025, and I strongly recommend that if you are in or near the D.C. area you go see it at least once.

It wasn't only works in the show, however, that I saw through new eyes. Long-time loves also shone out freshly and powerfully. For example, Joan Mitchell

Joan Mitchell, August, Rue Daguerre

Or Paul Cézanne.

Paul Cézanne, Mont Sainte-Victoire

And Bonnard.

Pierre Bonnard, The Terrace

Even that old war horse Renoir's Luncheon of the Boating Party looked fresh and sparkling.

Of course, I cannot visit the Phillips without entering the Rothko Room, usually my final stop before refreshing myself in the café.

https://www.phillipscollection.org/curation/rothko-room

I must confess that I approached it this time with some trepidation. The emotional, even spiritual power of these works is the most intense experience of art that I know. I feared being overwhelmed. I entered slowly, then stopped, almost gasping. The paintings virtually glowed, shimmering, giving off auras of indescribable radiance. Transcendent is a most overused word these days, but it's the only one I can think of to describe the impact of these four remarkable paintings. I drank and breathed them in, individually and as a whole.

I walked out of the museum in an emotional state I have no words for. Even the sunlight of the day seemed a little duller after the visual feast I had just consumed. I made my way to a nearby coffeeshop (the Phillips' being too crowded) and made some notes and thought deeply for a long time about what I had experienced.

I must thank Dr. Gregory Gertner, my eye surgeon, for his skill in giving me restored vision in my right eye. Also, much gratitude to my amazing writing coach Randon Billings Noble for encouraging me to write this essay.