Close

I am 11, standing in a sweaty group of 5th graders at art gallery in my hometown on a field trip.

We are loud. Too full of energy for the white-walled twisting galleries. My teacher is shushing us through clenched teeth, embarrassed by our lack of manners. My heavy winter coat is tied around my waist and my feet are heavy with the weight of my moon boots. It’s one of those early Spring days where it starts cold and then warms up. All of my classmates are dressed in some version of a heavy winter coat and boots too. The museum is warm. Our little bodies are generating too much heat for such a small space. The scent of salty-sweet prepubescent sweat fills my nose. In an effort to get away from the smell, I round the corner before everyone else, and on the wall opposite is a portrait of a man in black and white and large as the entire wall.

I am transfixed. The look on his face isn’t decipherable. Is he bored? Annoyed? I can’t tell. I am somewhat of an expert in facial expressions. My house isn’t a peaceful one, and my safety depends on reading people. It bothers me I can’t tell what he is thinking. I step closer trying to understand his face. As I approach, the class catches up with me, and the teacher points out a different painting on an adjacent wall. I can’t turn away from this face until I understand it. Since no one is paying attention to me, I get close enough to the painting to touch but—but I don’t. The face is made up of little blobs which are layered over one another to create lines, depth, and shadow. I look closer, and as I do I exclaim, “They’re fingerprints!”

The teacher looks at me, surprised by my outburst. The class turns to the portrait as my teacher says, “Huh. Weird.”

The class filters slowly into the next gallery, indifferent to my discovery.

A painting made with nothing but ink and fingers, as big as a wall.

Magic.

The artist was Chuck Close. The print, “Phil/Fingerprint c.1981”