Four Ways of Seeing
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“When you can see in four ways, losing sharpness — and then the main circuit breaker — isn't necessarily a mistake.”
When I began writing this article, I simply wanted to plug in my computer.
There was a faint crackling sound. A spark appeared – and within a second, all the power in the apartment went out.
Silence. A black screen. Suddenly, nothing was visible at all.
My son was asleep in his room, deep in his own world. And I stood there, eyes wide, thinking: now what?
Even though I was wearing glasses that normally give me perfect sharpness, I couldn’t see a thing.
I had to find a flashlight, switch the main breaker back on in the hallway, locate the right switches in my flat, and find my way in the dark.
It felt almost too symbolic — to write about seeing and suddenly be forced into blindness.
Maybe the world sometimes insists on having the last word, when we try too hard to describe it.
There are many ways to look at the world. I know four of them very intimately.
This isn’t about philosophy or perception theories. These are simply the ways a pair of eyes can function — when they need help.
So I switch lenses, shadows, color tones instead of clarity. Every time I see differently. Every time the world shifts.
It's a gift. And a dysfunction.
Glasses – sharpness, a frame, and things in their place
Since childhood, the world has been blurry to me. I could only reach its shape through glass.
Glasses came early. First weak, then stronger, until they became a natural part of my face, identity, and memory. I remember the headaches that brought me to them.
Glasses are safe. Stable. Like a frame around a painting.
I see perfectly — letters, lines, folds of light. I use them when I want precision. When I paint. When I need control over the line and detail.
But every pair of glasses has limits. Seeing through glass is bounded — literally. Everything beyond the frame disappears. Peripheral vision vanishes. You see in a tunnel.
Later on, my vision welcomed cylindrical lenses. Astigmatism apparently decided that after my son was born, it was finally its time.
Those first days with new glasses were strange, skewed, and distorted. What we learned about perspective in art class no longer applied.
I saw flat tables as wavy rivers. Doors as portals into other dimensions. I kept bumping into things that were no longer where I thought they were. Even when I looked straight ahead, my glasses showed me… my own shoes.
But once my eyes adapted and my brain re-established order, I loved the clarity again.
Glasses are tools. They reveal details. The subtleties of light. Shapes. Outlines. Facial expressions. It’s a powerful world. Emotional. Rich in texture. Sometimes too sharp in what it uncovers.
And that’s why I’m grateful to have other ways to see.
Contact lenses – freedom and a little shock
I wore contact lenses for the first time at twenty. And my brain responded with a minor shock I’ll never forget.
Until then, I’d only ever seen the world through a frame. Suddenly, the world was everywhere. From every angle. Even where I wasn’t looking directly.
It was a strange kind of freedom — to be part of the space instead of separated from it.
Even though distant shadows of letters still sometimes blur slightly, it feels like I’m inside the scene, not just observing it.
The lost lens and the fear of brain travel
One day, a lens vanished. I never found it. Not on the floor. Not in my eye. Not on my eyelid. Not in my clothes. Just gone.
And somewhere inside me still lingers the irrational thought: what if it started traveling toward my brain?
Whenever I get a headache, I say: “That’s the runaway lens. It’s still on the move.”
To this day, I comfort myself with the idea that it quietly dropped to the floor, dried up, and disintegrated into dust. Reality is probably much more boring. I hope.
Sunglasses – optical law and a bit of privacy
Despite the occasional disappearing lens, contacts give me something else — sunglasses.
My favorite combination: contacts = base, sunglasses = shade.
It’s not about fashion. It’s not about style. Sunglasses are curtains. A chance to be — without being seen. To hide.
And since I have multiple pairs, once I wear them, surely no one can see me.
This beautifully illogical logic was embedded in my mind by a scene from a Czech film “Jak dostat tatínka do polepšovny” by Marie Poledňáková:
"It's the law of optics, darling," says the dad to the mom, believing their son isn’t watching. "If I can't see Vašek, he can’t see me."
I hear that line in my head every time I put them on. Even in winter.
My eyes are sensitive. They like privacy. And sometimes the world is simply too brightly sharp. I need shadow.
Without glasses. Without lenses. Just me and the colors.
And then there's the option to remove everything. Glasses, contacts — all set aside.
I have six diopters. When I take everything off — the world dissolves.
Only colors remain. Tree leaves melt. Signs disappear. People become faceless figures. Just lines, dots, smudges. Expressions vanish. Eyes. Gestures. Hands.
I can’t even read the largest letter on an eye chart. I can’t see faces. I can’t tell where I’m going.
And yet — there’s a strange calm in it.
As if the world returns to abstraction. Like a painting that’s not yet finished. It’s just the underpainting. A glaze.
Value. Tone.
Without sharpness, I’m not overwhelmed by detail. I’m not flooded by signals, stares, sharp messages.
The world becomes a painting in its early phase. It isn’t finished. And that’s why it breathes.
I pause. I watch without needing to identify anything. I exist in a space where there’s only scent, light, and color — without the responsibility of naming things.
The liberating sensation of seeing — by not seeing.
Some people see with perfect clarity. Some, like me, only with help. And some may not see at all — yet still perceive with incredible accuracy.
Because vision isn’t just a function of the eyes. It’s also the ability to stop — and look differently.
When I close my eyes, I don’t stop seeing.
When I take off my glasses or lenses, my eyes may not see correctly — but they see truthfully. Without illusion. Just as things are.
And maybe that’s why I love the moments when the world loses its sharpness. When no one sees me — and I don’t have to distinguish anything.
I just exist. In a world that is only tone. Scent. Touch. Silence.
© Tereza Sklovská | Different Worlds by Sklovská
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