Visual Memory
It only took one second—I am not exaggerating—to know that she had changed. Pam is someone I am getting to know; she is the partner of a good friend of mine, Ross. They've been together for about three years. I was the last to arrive that night and they knew I was arriving when I rang our host's doorbell. As soon as I saw Jean sitting there smiling, the words came spilling out of my mouth: "What have you done to your teeth?" I should have said, "Wow. Jean! What a beautiful smile. Has something changed?" But I didn't. I blurted out a certainty. It's what I do and it isn't polite by the standards of some. Even so, I think that she was pleased that I had noticed the very subtle dental reconstruction work she'd had done. "Not even my family noticed," she said and we talked about my perceptional strength. "This is not the first time this has happened," I said.
About ten years ago I went to visit my friend Steve in Seattle. When I got there, his father told me that Steve and his mother were out for a walk. Knowing where they liked to walk, I headed for the park and when they turned a curve and came into view walking towards me, we all waved and smiled. As soon as he smiled, the words spilled out: "What have you done to your teeth?" It was just like the recent event with Pam. He'd had a gap between his front teeth narrowed— not eliminated, just narrowed. It was not a huge change but I noticed it right away.
I have always enjoyed a social benefit with many friends because I notice when they get new clothes, change their hairstyles or colour or get a new car. I notice changes in interior design right away in their homes and offices, and I am forever straightening crooked hanging frames wherever I go. This capacity to notice change has always seemed to me to be an entirely unremarkable capacity—a genetic gift. The things I noticed with Steve and Pam were remarkably subtle, however, and I have become increasingly aware of my "gift" capacity and grateful for it.
In the decade between my incidents with Steve and Pam, I decided that I had very strong visual acuity, but my experience with Pam got me to thinking again about all this and I have shifted focus. I used to think that I simply had a very strong perceptual skill. (I remember in grade ten being unable to answer a question about Alexander the Great, but I absolutely knew that the answer was in a reference text in the library. I knew the book's title and that the answer was in the third sentence of the top paragraph under a photo of Alexander on a horse, in the right hand column of the two-column page. I also noted, as recorded in my diary, that the first paragraph was not the three lines of italic under the photo.) But it is not in the seeing, I now realize. It is memory—visual memory.
I often use a computer metaphor to explain our cognitive processes. Here's how I might explain the process of how we recognize people. It's as if, it seems to me, that when we meet someone, our brains receive incoming visual "data" (when I see Pam and Ross) with stored data about Ross and Pam that enables me to recognize both people—and that's as far as many, many people go. They use this particular skill at its base level. When this happens with me, I feel like I got a free "add on" with my software that, CSI-like, zeroes in my consciousness on changes between the stored data and new incoming data. It's as if my brain goes: "This is Pam and Ross. And by the way, Pam's dental data has changed." It all happens so fast that it seems to me that there is absolutely no thinking involved. The difference is "loud" to me. If my brain says, "This is Pam and Ross." It screams, "CHANGED DENTAL DATA!" When I get these "loud" messages, I always immediately blurt something out about the changes that I "see." I never ask if there has been some change, I am always sure of the changes I notice. I have no doubt whatsoever. And my growing understanding of my capacity to notice change couldn't have come at a better time in my life.
About five years ago I witnessed an accident involving a woman on a bicycle and the opening car door of a car that was parked on the side of the street. I stopped to be of assistance to her and the driver, offering my name as a witness, and over the past five years, I have spent a lot of time talking to lawyers and private investigators and writing and signing affidavits as my role in the legal proceedings related to the accident.
I have been asked to write my own affidavits and to make written comments on statement of claims by others involved in the dispute. In 2006, I was served a summons to appear in court and there was a flurry of activity regarding the upcoming trial. Asked again to respond to details of the incident, I wrote an essay expressing my frustration about being asked so very many questions because I can't remember what happened any more. "I stand by all that I have said and written in the past," I wrote, "but I do not remember anything firsthand now." I stated in my letter that I felt that I was no longer of value as a witness because I could not attest to anything of a specific nature. "And," I went on, "I cannot believe those actually involved in the accident can possibly remember what they claim to remember." Whereas my inability to remember any details was a disappointment to one side of the argument, however, it was of interest to the other.
The reality of being a witness is not what I expected. I offered my name when I did because that it how I was raised. It is what one does. Remember, one day you may need the help of a witness. So when friends ask if I would ever do it again, I always say, "If you are a witness to an accident, do everything possible to find another witness. Look around immediately and carefully for details of other witnesses who may or may not come forward."
I have worried about the implications of my testimony on a person I don't know but who is, perhaps, someone's daughter, sister, mother and wife. Her persistence in the suit suggests conviction in her cause given the length of time involved to date. But now I am at peace about my past and future testimony. My incident with Pam has given me the faith I need in my visual memory—and lack of it. For that, I am grateful. Far more valuable, however, is my certainty that this unconscious power of perception genetically predisposed me to a life in the visual arts—a life I love passionately.
ctyrell@shaw.ca
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