I look into the eyes of my lover. At nineteen I am shy. A Dutch child is a candle burning twice as bright, fair-haired and blushing skin. For the glow I paid a painful adolescence, blemishing my complexion, twisting my body’s frame into tallness and structure, finally a man. Kristine is a dark-haired beauty. We ask the same questions. We love the same books. Smarter, bolder, she made the first move, rubbing my leg beneath the desk. Our on first date, wrapped in each other’s bodies, I look deep and long into Kristine’s eyes. She looks back. I can brave the world.
A deep gaze in the eyes of a stranger is rare, troubling, and precious.
A few seconds of eye contact anyone will give. A smile, nice to meet you. We craft a mask. It is a remarkable device, engineered from decades of tears and betrayal, an interface to an uncertain world. The mask affords a minute to read the other. What do you want? What do you have? We risk long looks with strangers only from a distance. A fellow studies me in his boss chair. A store clerk greets me eagerly for a sale. A young woman smiles easily because I am fifty and gray like her sweet father.
If the eyes are the mirror of the soul is there a deeper body of knowledge? Beneath the skin is just another surface, fascia, a network of tissue, fibrous and pliant, connecting and separating muscles and organs. Beneath the surface fascia there is just more tissue, ligaments and tendons and joints, connecting the muscles and bones. Surface plied upon surface. Beauty is skin deep, they say; a mountain face is only another skin, another layer of rock, and it is sublime.
Look into the eyes of a dog, a monkey, or a dolphin. Soul does not insist on language. Machines have faces. Look into a digital eye. In aesthetics there is a term, uncanny valley. The more human a thing looks the more endearing it is. But when we see a replica that appears almost, but not exactly like a human, we shudder with revulsion. Worse, look into a mirror. In a minute you will see a stranger. You, old and deformed. A lion or a monster. Is there nothing special to be found? Are we all but animals or machines?
The face is in the light, nude to the world. I am like you; do not hurt me. Some can hold a poker face, others will flicker with doubt. It is the by the flicker that we know them. The eyes cannot hide a child’s laugh, a lover’s desire, or a widow’s grief. We know our lover by the face, the blemishes and pockets, the retreats and reveals from the mask, the rings beneath the eyes, the turns of light and shadow. The eyes are the soul, cradled in the face of knowledge.