Behind the I: The Sacred Arches     

The first note I played on the piano was green although it did not occur to me to tell anyone for twenty-five years. Even then, it was not my idea to bring up the subject because I did not know that it was a subject. The first time I heard the word synesthesia I was in a laundromat where I believed I was alone, perhaps explaining why I was dancing with abandon to the percussion of the dryer when to my mortification, I turned around and saw a woman had been watching me for some time. “I believe you may be synesthetic," she pronounced. She was a graduate student in Psychology who had read about synesthesia that week in school. "I may be what?” I asked. Something she said must have resonated, because I recall the exact moment when I understood what she meant. I can see the moment in its entirety even now, as I type these words:
   

I had never said that aloud or told anyone that I see everything I hear. Yet, I had never forgotten it. Rather, I had never brought it to a level of consciousness where I translate body experience into words. Excited, I decided to do a little research. I did not get very far. When I found Synesthesia listed in a medical dictionary between Seizures and Syphilis, I quickly lost my enthusiasm and forgot about synesthesia for another twenty years. Then in 1999, I picked up a New York Times and read an interview with Carol Steen, a synesthete and artist in New York City. She put into words what I had known but had never said to anyone, not even to myself. The article included her e-mail address. I sent a message with the header: "I hear with my eyes." She answered right away. “Welcome to the club, you’re in great company."

I wanted to believe her but felt as though I had just come out of a closet that, until that day, I had not even known existed. I have been learning about synesthesia ever since. One of my earliest discoveries was that I have been using my synesthesia to create artwork for years without giving my process a name. I taught myself to take pictures by shooting whenever I experience a synesthetic reaction to what I see: if I experience a sensation of texture, motion or taste, I take the picture. If the reflection elicits the sound of cello, I shoot the picture. I photograph reflections on moving water. It works like this: I watch the surface of the sea until I experience one of my synesthetic responses. When I do, I trust it to be a reliable signal that tells me it is the right time to take the picture, so I click the shutter. Within the creative process, I think of my synesthetic responses as vital messengers that arrive faster than thought to deliver one urgent message which I always heed:  beauty is lurking.