In the past few days, I’ve been less than a gimlet-eyed art critic, having had the first installment of cataract and glaucoma surgery in mid January. For two weeks, I had laser vision in one, new-and-improved eye and minimal distance vision in the other, old-and-beclouded eye. With a touch of double vision, I’ve laid low. Once my right eye was fixed, I felt I’d been seeing the world as if it were an over-varnished Old Master painting, as if everything had a ultra-thin layer of mud spread over it. The world looked like a Reynolds portrait that needed a good cleaning.
Things could be worse, I know, but when it started to look like a late Inness, which is another term for “inscrutable,” I knew my eyes needed to be fixed.
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