When the World Starts to Blur
In the attic with my bifocals and things - © Michael Warth
I was eight years old when I got my first pair of glasses. I didn’t feel smart or special. I felt exposed and vulnerable. Like I was being marked as different before I even had a chance to fit in. Kids notice things like that—big lenses, awkward frames—and they never let you forget it.
I hated those glasses. But they gave me something unexpected: clarity. The world snapped into focus, and for the first time, I saw it. The chalkboard wasn’t a big blurry blob at the front of the class anymore. That may have been the start of everything.
Now, I’m fifty-two. Bifocals came in at forty-six, and with them, a slow erosion of ease at the easel. I might even paint differently now. Edges aren’t as sharp. Light plays tricks. My neck strains to find that one sweet spot in the glasses or I simply move in close and look over the top of the frame like an old man reading a newspaper. Some days, I fight the canvas. Other days, I just let go and feel my way through.
An ophthalmologist once told me LASIK might not be right for me—it could reduce contrast. The risk is minimal, he said. But for a painter, “minimal” is enormous. It’s the thread between soft and sharp, warm and cool. It’s where the soul of a painting lives.
But here’s the thing: when I take my glasses off, something amazing happens. The world blurs. Shapes flatten. Values stand out. The noise of detail fades, and what’s left is form. It’s what we teach young painters—squint to simplify. I don’t squint anymore. I just remove my glasses. And in that blur, I sometimes find a better truth.
How I see the world without my glasses - © Michael Warth
Of course, it isn’t romantic all the time. The neck pain from tilting my head and looking up through the bottom lens, the frustration of constantly adjusting, the fear of not catching a subtle shift—it wears on me. But I’ve come to see it as part of the work. The physical reminders that the body changes, and the artist adapts.
This isn’t a new story. Hemingway struggled with failing eyesight, typing with enlarged font to chase the words. Monet, nearly blind from cataracts, gave us luminous, atmospheric paintings that feel more than they show. Degas shifted from oil to pastel and sculpture when his vision faltered, chasing the tactile over the optical.
There’s a moment in every painting where seeing stops and feeling begins. When the brush doesn’t follow sight—it follows memory, rhythm, scent, even sound. The aroma of linseed oil, the soft clink of the brush in turpentine, the warmth of the lamp on the palette—these things guide me when my eyes can’t.
I don’t paint to replicate. At least not in the way a camera freezes time. I paint to remember. To inhabit. To translate a world I don’t always see clearly, but feel completely. Sure, my work is representational and some would say realistic, but I strive to make my art match a feeling and a vision.
Epictetus said, “It’s not what happens to you, but how you react to it that matters.” I didn’t choose to lose my sharpness. But I’ve chosen how I respond. I lean into it. I let it teach me something new.
So here’s my question to you: how has your vision—literal or otherwise—shaped your work? How have you adapted? What’s changed in the way you see? Drop a comment. Share your story. Let’s talk about it. Maybe the blur isn’t the end. Maybe it’s the beginning of something deeper.
