2004 - Vol. 1, Issue 4

In the galleries, looking at French landscapes, we seem briefly on familiar ground. Observers would spot us as ex-lovers, old friends, by the way we touch comfortably, a hand against the other's shoulder, a brush of lips against the other's ear to share a whispered insight about beauty's sunny charm. They wouldn't guess how the ground is shifting, even though the Corots with their tiny peasants and oblivious bathers warn of change and human insignificance.

Before, at lunch in the museum restaurant, she told me that she has the beginnings of Alzheimer's, forgetting that she'd already told me on the telephone. That was during her second call, the one to admit with forced matter-of-factness that she couldn't remember how to get to my house and to ask again for directions she had lost. "The doctor says that I have seven years," she added, then concentrated on chewing a piece of bread. A crumb stayed on her chin. I turned away toward the courtyard below, a square of lemony grass surrounded by high walls and sparsely peopled by old statues. Their faces weatherworn and indistinct held a look of stoic resignation. I fretted my white napkin and wished that I could be resigned to change and human insignificance.

To say that Brenda Schertz is busy is to say that ice is cold. Working at the University of Southern Maine (USM) as an American Sign Language instructor and a guest lecturer on Deaf Art is just a taste of what keeps Brenda active. Brenda is also the lead organizer of the National Conference of Interpreter Trainers Convention this September at Gallaudet and a board member of the Baxter Compensation Authority. But Brenda's passion, and the topic of our conversation below, is her work in promoting Deaf Art and in making other types of art accessible to Deaf people. I caught up with Brenda on a hectic weekday afternoon in March, and, between her meetings and appointments, we had a lively chat via Internet instant message on what Deaf Art is, how Brenda became a leader in this field, and what she is planning for the future.

I was ten years old
when I saw the Venus de Milo
posing on clean gray tile.
Shutter clicks were going off
like car alarms.
And I was ashamed of her stone.
Of the air where her arms
were destined to be.
I wondered why she had no scars.
If she hated the eyes —
their rabid dogs, their
pigeon-dropping cloying orbs.
I wanted to give her my clothes.
Pass her a bottle of glue.