Charlotte Matthews: Draw With Your Eyes Closed

On Fridays, we drew animals with our eyes closed. Mrs. Plath said it could be anything we wanted. So, there we were: 25 six-year-olds bent over manila paper, crayons in stubby fingers, evoking the unseen world, the contents of our imaginations. On the eight-track was jazz: Charlie Parker or Billie Holiday.

Once it was time to share what we’d created, Mrs. Plath let us title them. Some were easy. “That’s a horse eating,” a few of us would belt out, and it became Horse Grazing. But others were trickier: Minnows Hiding or Sea Otters Sleeping. And they were even holding hands like they do in real life. One I recall was Giraffes Right before Naptime. Their eyelashes were astonishing, large and thick, living creatures all on their own. 

Looking back, I see this whole endeavor as revolutionary. Lying on our bellies on the carpet or staying put at our desks, not one of us fidgeted, not one complaint. After that, she pinned our masterpieces on the corkboard, a new animal exhibit each week. When Henry Greenwalt composed a great horned owl with perfect tuffs on top, Mrs. Plath said they were formidable birds. And so that’s what we discussed for the rest of the day: the attributes of the great horned owl. She described comb-like feathers, which allow them to fly in silence. That’s why they are such capable hunters, able to swoop in on their prey unnoticed.

Decades later, my six-year-old drawings nothing more than a vivid memory, I am at the grocery store, distracted by the radishes: daikon, pink lady, black. I don’t even like radishes. But my friend Nicole once painted a bunch, and they were so bright and lifelike I couldn’t stop seeing them. No way could I paint them myself. No task seemed more improbable. Instead, I write, creating worlds I cannot see for unknown readers to pin on their corkboards.

Radishes are members of the mustard family, Brassicaceae. Which is a great word and makes me remember how my mother would quiz me on Latin declensions as she taught me to set a table. How exacting she was: position a service plate –one you’ll never eat from– at each place. Then, a salad plate and a soup bowl are placed in the center of each setting. Next, set the bread plate to the left with the butter knife on it, handle facing right. One day, she even brought out a ruler and measured.

But the thing is, she never entertained, never hosted. Not once can I recall her having anyone over for dinner. Not even tea or coffee. She spent her days avoiding what she felt, reading or mending books at the library, running the occasional errand, taking the dog to the vet, or a check to the bank. Proper table setting was her version of silent drawing.

The Portuguese have no word for loneliness. The closest is saudade, a kind of melancholy. But no word can encapsulate how it feels to have a barrier between yourself and the world. I am eight, and winter light bathes the grain of the walnut table. My mother and I set two salad forks on the crisply ironed napkins. And we are happy for this one parcel of time.

Copyright 2025 Charlotte Matthews

Charlotte Matthew’s published works include a memoir, Comes with Furniture and People, a novel, The Collapsible Mannequin, and three poetry collections: Still Enough to Be Dreaming, Green Stars and Whistle What Can’t Be Said. She is Associate Professor at The University of Virginia.