There’s a tax term, known as Morton’s Fork, which refers to a choice with two equally unpleasant outcomes; the choice between a rock and a hard place, the devil and the deep blue sea, death and taxes. The classic Morton’s Fork question asks would you rather be deaf, or blind? For the artist the answer is simple. To be robbed of sight, to lay down your paintbrush, to find the Tate and National Gallery barred would be a monstrous injustice. There are 152,000 people in the UK for whom this is no theoretical question and the Tate have devised an extraordinary new programme to make their collections accessible to the blind and partially sighted.
The scheme is the brainchild of the irrepressible Marcus Dickey Horley, Curator of Access Projects at Tate. In his hands all the gallery rules are broken: dogs are welcomed into the Tate’s hallowed halls and he exhorts ‘Do touch the art.’ His Touch Tours combine visual descriptions with the tactile handling of sculpture and installation work. A tour such as this stretches the guide’s powers of description as he conjures the frenetic slashes and spatters of Pollock’s paint or the pellucid clouds of a Monet for a blind audience. Marcus brims with adjectives, anecdotes, and analogies: Monet, who himself suffered from cataracts, is remembered for leaving his wife languishing in police custody so that he might paint undisturbed and the rhythms of Pollock’s Summertime are likened to Jazz riffs. To illustrate the size of a monumental canvas Marcus will ‘Halloo’ from either end so that distance can be measured by ear and in the case of Louise Bourgeois’ Maman a walk beneath its spindly legs conveys its arachnophobic breadth. The Tate have also re-created the distinctive brushstrokes of the great masters on small canvases so that raised impastos or silkily blended oils can be made visible through the fingertips.
The current Turbine Hall installation, Dominique Gonzalez- Foerster’s TH 2050, provides rich fodder for Marcus’ Touch Tours. The premise is elaborate: the year is 2050, it rains incessantly in London and this unremitting stream of rain water has caused urban sculptures to grow. To curb this growth, sculptures such as Bourgeois’ Maman have been moved inside the Turbine Hall. The installation plays sinister games with the senses: rain water drips from the ceiling leaving treacherous puddles on the concrete floor, the ceaseless drumming of the rain reverberates from loudspeakers and the sculptures are approached through a tangle of plastic butchers’ curtains. David Johnson, an early acolyte of Marcus’ scheme who lost his sight during his Art A-Level, is keenly aware of these sensory tricks as Marcus leads him through the Turbine Hall. He stops to feel the concrete scar of the Hall’s floor through which Doris Salcedo’s crack used to tear and to test the slippery puddles where the 2058 rain has seeped through. He is a gingerly explorer of this strange landscape of sculptures grown like triffids and rows of bunk beds which house refugees from the deluge. He pauses to feel the chill iron of the bunk beds, to pace the regimented rows, and to press his ear to a wireless playing songs from a happier age. Some of Marcus’ sketches prompt recollections from David’s school days. Running his hands over a swollen Henry Moore, David is full of recollections of Reclining Figures seen in childhood.
An exhibition on the fourth floor of Tate Modern by Brazilian artist Cildo Meireles also engages with blind viewers. Blind Mirror is a work of sticky, malleable mastic which encourages the visitor to prod and probe and manipulate the waxy surface while Through is a labyrinth of glass panels which crack and splinter disconcertingly underfoot. David is sanguine about detractors who dismiss Marcus’ initiatives and who argue that the nature of art demands that it be seen. His evident delight in Marcus’ tour is resounding proof that art is more than mere looking. While others race through the galleries, ticking their mental list of art-to-see-before-you-die, David and Marcus take time and care. The indefatigable Marcus is taking on new challenges, leading tours for Deaf-blind visitors and training new guides in the art of deft story-telling and breathless descriptions. A truly eye-opening experience.
The scheme is the brainchild of the irrepressible Marcus Dickey Horley, Curator of Access Projects at Tate. In his hands all the gallery rules are broken: dogs are welcomed into the Tate’s hallowed halls and he exhorts ‘Do touch the art.’ His Touch Tours combine visual descriptions with the tactile handling of sculpture and installation work. A tour such as this stretches the guide’s powers of description as he conjures the frenetic slashes and spatters of Pollock’s paint or the pellucid clouds of a Monet for a blind audience. Marcus brims with adjectives, anecdotes, and analogies: Monet, who himself suffered from cataracts, is remembered for leaving his wife languishing in police custody so that he might paint undisturbed and the rhythms of Pollock’s Summertime are likened to Jazz riffs. To illustrate the size of a monumental canvas Marcus will ‘Halloo’ from either end so that distance can be measured by ear and in the case of Louise Bourgeois’ Maman a walk beneath its spindly legs conveys its arachnophobic breadth. The Tate have also re-created the distinctive brushstrokes of the great masters on small canvases so that raised impastos or silkily blended oils can be made visible through the fingertips.
The current Turbine Hall installation, Dominique Gonzalez- Foerster’s TH 2050, provides rich fodder for Marcus’ Touch Tours. The premise is elaborate: the year is 2050, it rains incessantly in London and this unremitting stream of rain water has caused urban sculptures to grow. To curb this growth, sculptures such as Bourgeois’ Maman have been moved inside the Turbine Hall. The installation plays sinister games with the senses: rain water drips from the ceiling leaving treacherous puddles on the concrete floor, the ceaseless drumming of the rain reverberates from loudspeakers and the sculptures are approached through a tangle of plastic butchers’ curtains. David Johnson, an early acolyte of Marcus’ scheme who lost his sight during his Art A-Level, is keenly aware of these sensory tricks as Marcus leads him through the Turbine Hall. He stops to feel the concrete scar of the Hall’s floor through which Doris Salcedo’s crack used to tear and to test the slippery puddles where the 2058 rain has seeped through. He is a gingerly explorer of this strange landscape of sculptures grown like triffids and rows of bunk beds which house refugees from the deluge. He pauses to feel the chill iron of the bunk beds, to pace the regimented rows, and to press his ear to a wireless playing songs from a happier age. Some of Marcus’ sketches prompt recollections from David’s school days. Running his hands over a swollen Henry Moore, David is full of recollections of Reclining Figures seen in childhood.
An exhibition on the fourth floor of Tate Modern by Brazilian artist Cildo Meireles also engages with blind viewers. Blind Mirror is a work of sticky, malleable mastic which encourages the visitor to prod and probe and manipulate the waxy surface while Through is a labyrinth of glass panels which crack and splinter disconcertingly underfoot. David is sanguine about detractors who dismiss Marcus’ initiatives and who argue that the nature of art demands that it be seen. His evident delight in Marcus’ tour is resounding proof that art is more than mere looking. While others race through the galleries, ticking their mental list of art-to-see-before-you-die, David and Marcus take time and care. The indefatigable Marcus is taking on new challenges, leading tours for Deaf-blind visitors and training new guides in the art of deft story-telling and breathless descriptions. A truly eye-opening experience.
This article first appeared in Varsity
