I see...

Here I was in the middle of a gallery, kneeling on the floor with my eyes closed, caressing an arte povera bronze sculpture. Still, no security guard materialised to interrupt my fondling the art. That’s because I had relinquished my sight for a few minutes in order to experience part of a Touch Tour, one of these special guided visits that most public museums organise for visually impaired visitors.

I’d had a good look at the big lumpy sphere before touching it and the kindly curator of Access and Special Events had explained its origins and its significance to me, pointing out that visitors especially liked to kick this piece. Although this tale of hardship was quite touching, the protuberance inspired no sympathy, but the feeling of its cool, hard surface under my gloved hands was quite pleasant on this warm day. By giving it a little tap I could feel that it was hollow, hence a lot lighter than it looked, yet still immovable – even with a good kick. The fact was that touching this artwork, even through cotton gloves, was a great deal more pleasant than looking at it.

When I opened my eyes about a dozen people had gathered around to watch the unusual scene. Most were probably waiting for the police to drag me away, kicking and screaming, from the artwork I was hugging but a few just wanted to know what on earth I was doing and why I was allowed to break the rules of the institution. I left the kindly curator to deal with the angry mob as I had to go to another gallery for a similar tour with a group.

When I got to the museum, five partially sighted elderly ladies were patiently waiting for me. They had been kind enough to accept me in their group and wanted to know all about my research, asking questions (Aren’t you a little old to be a student dear?) and volunteering valuable information (I have a son who’s single and he has done studies too) even as the guide was explaining the rules of the tour. After spending about fifteen minutes removing all jewellery and donning attractive latex surgical gloves, we set out to touch our first artwork: a life sized male nude.

The ladies didn’t seem too taken with the history of this handsome bronze archer, but when the time came to touch, their interest was renewed. They somehow mostly avoided the naughty bits and concentrated on the height and the posture, commenting either on the material (Oh! It’s cold!) or on the form (He looks just like my son who’s single and who has done studies), but when the last participant approached the sculpture, she looked so frail next to this epitome of virility that I somehow feared she would be crushed. Yet, she felt her way around the torso, then moved the tips of her fingers gingerly down both arms and as she wrapped her arms around the sculpture she let out a high pitched exclamation: Oh! He has such a nice bum! Maybe she couldn’t rely on sight anymore be she could still clearly appreciate the aesthetic value of the piece.

As the ladies cackled I could only reach one conclusion: art is much more pleasurable when it can be touched.