Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Roberta White
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Roberta White
Madison Teaneck
Fairleigh Dickinson University Press
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The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American
National Standard for Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials
Z39.48-1984.
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For Bruce
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Contents
Acknowledgments
213
Notes
Bibliography
Index
242
250
255
13
33
64
85
109
132
152
174
195
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Acknowledgments
FOR THEIR ENCOURAGEMENT AND HELP, I WISH TO THANK CAROL BASTIAN,
Denise Marshall, Mickey Pearlman, Jami Powell, John Ward, and
Richard Bruce White.
*
*
*
Reprinted with permission of Scribner, an imprint of Simon &
Schuster Adult Publishing Group, excerpts from SPENDING by
Mary Gordon. Copyright 1998 by Mary Gordon.
Excerpts from The Serpentine Cave by Jill Paton Walsh.
Copyright 1997 by Jill Paton Walsh
Reprinted by permission of St. Martins Press, LLC
Excerpts from TO THE LIGHTHOUSE by Virginia Woolf, copyright
1927 by Harcourt, Inc. and renewed 1954 by Leonard Woolf, reprinted by permission of the publisher.
Parts of Chapter 6 appeared in different form in Margaret Atwood:
Reflections in a Convex Mirror in CANADIAN WOMEN WRITING, edited by Mickey Pearlman. Copyright 1993 by the University Press of Mississippi. Reprinted by permission of the publisher.
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Introduction
Unfinished Work: The Dialogue of the
Novelist and the Painter
Stupid girl, I imagined these men [Picasso, Matisse] saying to
me. . . . You can be one or the other, a woman who desires and
is desired or a painter. Choose.
Mary Gordon, Spending
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INTRODUCTION
house, who keeps hearing the voice of Mr. Tansley telling her that
women cant paint, or Monica Szabo in Mary Gordons Spending,
who inwardly questions the propriety of painting her spent lover
in the nude.
To view the fictional woman artist solely from a political perspective, however, is to minimize or ignore that she is also the projection
of a creative mind postulating the working out of an aesthetic
enterprise within the contingencies of a fictional setting. The term
aesthetic as used here broadly embraces the creative process, the
painting itself, the meaning or affect of the painting, and whatever
underlying ideas about art the novelist may present. The political
and aesthetic aspects of novels about women artists cannot be separated because they constitute a single story. They cannot be separated because the politicalthe social conditions under which the
woman artist works and against which she strugglespredictably will
have an effect upon the creative process, the thing made, its meaning or affect, and its reception. Conversely, aesthetic considerations
enter into the political aspects of the novel, since the artist is typically driven by a need to overcome obstacles particular to her gender in order to discover her vocation, give form to an inner vision,
and express herself through art. To confront and solve whatever
painterly problems may haunt and intrigue her, the woman artist
must find and claim a space in which to work, and that staking out
of a space is, however remotely, a political act. In fiction as in history,
woman artists working spaces enlarge through timeby uneven
stepsfrom a portfolio in a cupboard to a studio or atelier where
work may be completed and prepared for sale or exhibition. This
working space is the measure of the claim that she makes upon
the world.
This study traces the development of women artist figures in nineteenth- and twentieth-century novels in English, including British,
American, Irish, and Canadian writers. The single exception is the
Italian writer Anna Banti, whose Artemisia is available in an excellent
English translation by Shirley DArdia Caracciolo. The purpose of
this study is, first, to interpret the implied dialogue of the writers
with the artist figures they create so as to understand the writers
view of creativity in both its aesthetic and political dimensions and,
second, to explore certain remarkable continuities in the imagery
depicting women artists in the novels. Most notably, recurrent images present the artist as liminal and her work as unfinished. One
must hasten to add that these are not negative terms.The artists li-
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INTRODUCTION
her sketches to a very high artistic standard, even though she knows
better; her art can only be viewed as comical in the context of
Emma. Jane Eyre instinctively tries to break out of the mold of the
parlor painter and on occasion produces original work, although in
the end her art gets lost in the novels bizarre marriage plot. Courtship is presented as inimical to art, and vice versa, as though art and
ardor could not coexist. Frequently in these nineteenth-century novels commodification of the female image in the service of the marriage market subverts womens art: the woman at her easel attracts
the male gaze and in that moment is transformed from observer to
observed, from subject to object. That shift of attention occurs in
comic fashion in Emma when Mr. Elton adoringly watches Emma
paint Harriet Smith. It is not surprising, therefore, that in novels up
until To the Lighthouse, the art in the novel is inferior to the art of the
novel. Woolf s novel is pivotal in the genre, and she deeply influences the writers who follow her. In later works the artist struggles
earnestly to keep her grip on the paintbrush and her eye upon the
subject. In Margaret Atwoods Cats Eye and in The Serpentine Cave by
Jill Paton Walsh, the artist must learn to turn her gaze without shock
upon a vulnerably nude female model and not look away. Monica
Szabo in Mary Gordons Spending learns to gaze for hours with a
painterly eye upon the nude male body of B, her lover and model,
in full knowledge that she is breaking a taboo.
In instances where the artists space must be shared with the sort
of character Virginia Woolf calls the Angel in the House, a dialogue
occurs or is implied between the artist and the Angel, a virtuous,
selfless servant of her family, who represents a socially acceptable
idea of womanhood, as originally described in the poem by Coventry
Patmore. This dialogue is a subtext of nearly every work under consideration here, and often, although not always, it is a bitter one: the
two women, Angel and artist, cannot live in the same house, cannot
occupy the same space. In her essay Professions for Women,
Woolf describes the Angel as an enemy to her creativity: whenever
I felt the shadow of her wing or the radiance of her halo upon my
page, I took up the inkpot and flung it at her.5 She eventually seizes
the Angel by the throat and strangles her. In To the Lighthouse, however, Woolf moderates the relationship of the artist and the Angel.
The artist Lily Briscoe works on her painting as a houseguest of Mrs.
Ramsay, the domestic Angel, and she cannot complete her painting
successfully until after the Angel dies. At the same time, Lily loves
Mrs. Ramsay, mourns her deeply, and needs her spirit to help her
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INTRODUCTION
house, but rather against a patriarchy that forces women into that
decorous roleis an obstacle which the artist deals with one way or
another: by evading or sublimating it, concealing it, transcending it,
or perhaps turning it to aesthetic purposes, as in Bantis Artemisia,
where Artemisias painting of the heroic and bloody figure of Judith
slaying Holofernes arrests, shocks, and amuses the viewer, releasing
anger in the form of dark comedy.
In addition to interpreting the implied dialogue of the writer and
the fictional painter, this study traces some remarkably consistent
patterns of recurring imagery in the depiction of women artists and
their work. This imagery consists of variations on a theme that can
be called the liminal, the suspended, and the unfinished. In a series of
lectures published as Womens Lives: The View from the Threshold , Carolyn Heilbrun, focusing in particular on women writers of memoirs,
speaks of womens lives at the present time as characterized by a condition of liminality. Heilbrun defines this condition:
The word limin means threshold, and to be in a state of liminality
is to be poised upon uncertain ground, to be leaving one condition or
country or self and entering upon another. But the most salient sign of
liminality is its unsteadiness, its lack of clarity about exactly where one
belongs and what one should be doing, or wants to be doing.7
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Images of the seashore relate to the marginality of women in societythe possibility of exclusion from or unwillingness to participate
in the body politic, with the city and the coast as opposite poles. Although Heilbrun does not say so, liminality can also be seen, however, as one step beyond marginality, in that a woman crossing a
threshold may be said to venture out of the margins and begin to
enter into the mainstream of culture and art.
Imagery of seashore and sea can also symbolize other things than
the liminality of the creative woman in Heilbruns sense of the word.
The image of the artist as poised between two realms may suggest
broader symbolic possibilities of the sea as liberating the creative self
or, conversely, offering submersion in history and time, or even annihilation. One cannot generalize very broadly because the seashore
imagery takes on different metaphorical properties in individual
novels. In The Awakening, for example, Edna Pointellier, who drowns
in the Gulf of Mexico at the end of the novella, is surely a failed
liminal woman artist in Heilbruns sense of the liminal. But in To the
Lighthouse the sea takes on symbolism of time and impending chaos
(that fluidity out there), forces that are inimical to both the
painter and the domestic artist. Jennifer Johnston and Deirdre Madden invoke a special and very rich history of sea symbolism in Irish
literature and life; the sea is, among other things, the pathway of
invaders and colonists and yet also the mother of imagination and
myth. In The Serpentine Cave, Jill Paton Walsh bathes her entire novel
in images of the rugged coast and sea around Cornwall, like an embryonic fluid carrying the figure of a woman who emerges as a newborn painter on almost the last page. A defining event in Walshs
novel is a real, historical sea disaster in which an entire lifeboat crew
is wiped out, and the risks endured by the lifeguards are symbolically
paralleled to the risks that the protagonist Marian will take as an artist. The settings described by Phelps, Woolf, Madden, and Walsh also
contain conspicuous lighthouses, but the symbolic implications are
various. While sweeping generalizations must be avoided, the seashore imagery in these works is continually suggestive; it suggests,
among other things, a vital connection between womens art and the
natural world.
In addition to the term liminal, describing the condition of the
artists depicted, two other terms, suspended and unfinished, prove useful in analyzing novels about women artists. Suspension can refer to
both the emotional state of the artisther affective response to
being on the edge or the margin, her sense of the risk of artand
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voke it, but it can never bring its visual presence before us in the way
pictures do.9 David Lodge goes so far as to state as a general rule
that where one kind of aesthetic presentation is embedded in another, the reality of the embedded form is weaker than that of the
framing form.10 It should not be inferred from Lodges statement,
however, that ekphrastic passages in a novel necessarily constitute a
less immediate form of discourse than the narrative portions of the
work. It is not the case that a more elusive or fugitive aesthetic object
is necessarily weaker in terms of its tidal pull upon the rest of the
novel. In my view, the province of an ekphrastic discourse in fiction
cannot be determined theoretically; its degree of dominance depends upon the individual literary work. In one instance an ekphrastic passage might seem vague and inconsequential, a mere illusion
of an illusion; in another instance it might powerfully create the impression of an arrested moment of visual perception.
Passages of ekphrasis are central to the study of novels about visual artists because the reader needs to believe in, if not see, the
painting within the novel. In instances where the ekphrastic passage
provides something more than a mere filling in of visual detail to
satisfy the demands of the narrative, the reader will experience an
abrupt shift in the flow of the novels discourse. If the ekphrastic
passage is presented as privileged, revelatory, or climactic within the
narrative, the shift from one sort of language to another will signal
an evocation of a silent, purely visual world of art.
In Margaret Atwoods Cats Eye, for example, or A. S. Byatts story
Art Work, ekphrasis illuminates the imagination of the artist and
justifies the claims made for her creative powers by carrying the
reader from the world the artist lives in to the one that she makes.
This crossing of the border from narrative to ekphrasis and back
again, simulating a shift from fiction to painting, can be a crucial
transition that lies at the heart of many works of fiction about artists.
The artist is affirmed as authentic if the writer can authenticate her
work by means of descriptions that break away from the time-bound
sequences of narrative into a replication of the seeming timelessness
of visual art. In earlier novels, the ekphrasis often seems perfunctory
or uninventive; the painters status is also tentative. Later, as fictional
artists gain more independence, ekphrasis assumes a larger role in
the novels, at once authenticating and completing the portrait of
the artist. These are instances where purely aesthetic considerations
parallel and reflect the artists degree of autonomy; aesthetic and
political considerations are united.
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INTRODUCTION
Several different ways can be observed in which an ekphrastic passage acts upon the whole text of the novel. It might simply ornament
or supplement the narrative; it might symbolize the events of the
novel; it might complement those events; or it might even appear to
deconstruct them. An example of a work of fiction where the ekphrastic passages merely supplement the narrative is The Awakening,
where Edna Pointelliers described paintings seem ordinary and
rather stiff in comparison to the vital and vividly pictorial narrative
surrounding them; the embedded paintings help make the point
that Ednas heart is not really in her art. Jennifer Johnstons The Railway Station Man is an example of a novel where ekphrastic passages
epitomize the events of the novel in a symbolic way: Helens serial
paintings of a young man gradually disappearing on a beach recapitulate the plot of the novel, which has to do with the fatal violence
suffered by men in Irelands political clashes. In Margaret Atwoods
Cats Eye, the descriptions of Elaines autobiographical paintings
complement her telling of her life story in that they fill in the silences: the ekphrastic passages say things that Elaine cannot say
so well in the rest of her narrative, and thus they threaten at times
to take dominion over the rest of the novel. This literary effect is not
new; W. J. T. Mitchell points out instances in poetry where ekphrasis
becomes dominant, as in Wallace Stevenss Anecdote of the Jar
orthe example that theorists of ekphrastic representation always
come back tothe description of the shield of Achilles in Homers
Iliad. Mitchell believes that the shield, in representing Homers universe and depicting workaday events, signifies an even larger world
than that of the story in The Iliad.
A more radical relation of the embedded work of art to the novel
as a whole occurs when the work of art threatens to unravel, or deconstruct, the work of the narrative. Mitchell points out that there
are moments when the ekphrastic image becomes like a sort of unapproachable and unpresentable black hole in the verbal structure, entirely absent from it, but shaping and affecting it in
fundamental ways.11 Presumably this effect will occur when the ekphrastic image calls attention to its own mysteriousness, its alien existence as a totally imaginary visual phenomenon within a world of
words. Such is the case in To the Lighthouse, where the progress of
Lilys painting, which the reader never gets to see, becomes the
focus of the final section of the novel and threatens to overtake it in
the sense that the unseen painting contains and consumes all of the
aesthetic interest and creative force that the novelists narrative
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voice can muster. The pangs of giving birth to the painting threaten
to obliterate the world for Lily and for the narrative itself. Thus, it is
possible for an embedded work of art and the ekphrastic discourse
that describes it to be occluded but at the same time dominant in
the text. The very inaccessibility of the work may contribute to its
dominance, as in To the Lighthouse, which exemplifies the black hole
effect. There is a similar effect in Carol Shieldss Happenstance. Although all embedded paintings are mysterious or obscure to some
extent, the author may or may not choose to exploit that fact to create moments in the novel in which the reader is invited to ponder
the mystery of words construed as pictures. Authors who choose to
do so include Virginia Woolf, Jennifer Johnston, Margaret Atwood,
A. S. Byatt, and Carol Shields.
Although the embedded works of the fictional painters are unseen, they exhibit some remarkably similar traits that can be represented by a hypothesis: the unseen paintings of these fictional
painters present a consistent set of aesthetic choices and interests.
These choices and interests can be grouped under a general principle that that which is shown as fragmented, unfinished, or suspended in
space or time is truer to the experience of creative women than that which is
shown as whole, finished, or firmly anchored. The idea of the unfinished
pervades these works in so many instances and in such a variety of
ways as to suggest a principle of mimesis. A great many of the works
of art depicted in these novels are themselves unfinished or else they
imply incompleteness in some way. The idea of the unfinished work
is represented by numerous images of suspension, fragmentation,
or seriality in the work of the painters and by resistance to distinct
closure on the part of the novelists, constituting a kind of aesthetic
of the unfinished. In earlier novels, such as Jane Eyre, this sort of aesthetic choice is a perhaps simply a reflection of the painters sense
of incompletion as an artist. In novels written in the twentieth century, this aesthetic of the unfinished is a conscious choice made by
both male and female writers. There is nothing particularly gendered about an emphasis on the unfinished nature of the work, but
such images occur with great frequency in the fictional women artists and perhaps in actual women artists as well. For example, Linda
Nochlin, in her chapter Some Women Realists in Women, Art, and
Power, identifies the diffident cut-off views as synecdoches pointing
to a larger whole as characteristic of a variety of contemporary
women painters.12
This notion of art as tentative, suspended, or incompletea char-
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INTRODUCTION
though Woolf was radically to alter some of her own aesthetic notions after To the Lighthouse and The Waves, the aesthetic ideas she
embraced in the 1920s prove to be widely influential well after the
modernist period. Although the influence of Virginia Woolf is not
the focus of this study, that influence is a strand woven inextricably
into the subject.
In order to lay claim to certain common features of the female kunstlerroman and to argue for the uniqueness of that subgenre, it is useful to survey some representative novels about visual artists written
by male writers to see if they have any of the same characteristics
as those written by women. For example, one may well ask whether
portrayal of the artist as liminal in Heilbruns sense of the word carries over to male writers. In fact, a sampling of some twentieth-century British novels reveals that male writers, too, show art as risky
and incompatible with anything like traditional family life, and they
portray the artist as radically isolated and living on the edge or borders of civilization. A difference, however, is that the fictional male
artist commits a more violent wrenching away from a society of
which he is, by birthright, a part. The woman artists isolation is different in that, in most cases, she does not choose it, having been
excluded by her gender from the centers of power and authority.
These novels by men tend to perpetuate the nineteenth-century
idea of the artist as a passionate and rebellious Romantic figure, and
in most instances the artists work is closely bound up with his virility. A distinct type of male artist figure emerges that could be called
the artist as Rogue Satyr, an ostensibly heroic character not to be
found in novels by women. This figure of the isolated, Dionysian artist who breaks the civilized rules of human behavior raises moral
questions about the relative importance of ends and means in art as
well as aesthetic questions about the nature of the artistic enterprise.
In W. Somerset Maughams The Moon and Sixpence, the artist David
Charles Strickland, whose life is based on that of Gauguin, lives
down and out in Paris and then works his way on shipboard to Tahiti, where he eventually dies a blind leper after completing several
masterpieces. In Joyce Carys highly comic The Horses Mouth and the
other novels of his trilogy, sixty-eight-year-old Gulley Jimson, a derelict and totally antisocial jailbird, paints in a ruined boatshed on the
banks of the Thames until he loses even that space to squatters. In
John Fowless novella The Ebony Tower, the aging modernist Henry
Breasley lives with two art students, his mistresses, in a woodland re-
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Gulleys plan for his painting of the Fall shows that his imagination,
inspired by William Blake, can envision art that is grand, bold, humanistic, and yet primordial:
Adam like a rock walking, and Eve like a mountain bringing forth, with
sweat like fiery lava, and the trees shall stand like souls pent up in metal;
cut bronze and silver and gold. With leaves like emerald and jade, cut
and engraved with everlasting patterns sharp as jewels, as crystals, and
the sun like a fall of solid fire, turned on a lathe.16
This sort of testosterone-driven bluster about a woman as meat, mattress, and baggage reads like a parody, especially coming from the
toothless mouth of a frail little old man half the size of either
woman. And Cary gives Sara Mondays point of view in Herself Surprised, where she admits that she lost some of her self-respect after
going back to a man who beat her. Yet the reader must wonder why
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violence against women has to enter into the myth of the artistic genius at all.
This question and its various implications are debated in D. H.
Lawrences Women in Love. Toward the end of the novel Lawrence
introduces a repulsive character, the gnomelike sculptor Herr
Loerke, who enters into an argument with the artist Gudrun and her
sister Ursula about a statuette he made of a girl on a horse. The
horse is rigid and powerful, the girl very young and vulnerable, and
Loerke readily admits that he beat the seventeen-year-old art student
who posed for the piece harder than I have ever beat anything in
my life. I had to, I had to. It was the only way I got the work done.19
To justify his indifference to the suffering he inflicted upon the girl,
Loerke invokes the principle of art for arts sake and insists that his
work exists not in the relative world of human actions but the absolute world of art.20 Although Gudrun admires the power of the
statue and has a morbid fascination with the corruption she sees in
Loerke, Lawrences implied concept of art is unambiguously humanistic. Lawrence believes that works of art do not exist apart from
life but rather are the deepest expressions of life, appealing directly
to the unconscious and helping the viewer to attain full selfhood.
Because the fine arts have this kind of psychological value, the artist
is not acquitted of responsibility for his or her own psychological
and moral integrity.
A somewhat similar debate drives the plot of John Fowless The
Ebony Tower. Seventy-eight-year-old artist Henry Breasley, a smirking
old satyr in carpet slippers, has long ago attained critical acclaim
for his representational modernist works, grand paintings that express powerful human emotions and contain echoes of the great
masters.21 Nightly drunk, Henry still fights the old battles with the
abstractionists, whom he calls names like Pick-arsehole and Jackson Bollock. Henry is verbally abusive to his young mistresses, but
otherwise treats them rather generously, especially Diana, who is his
pupil, assistant, muse, nurse, and caretaker. Like Lawrence, Fowles
offers sympathetic portraits of the young women artists. David Williams, a young modestly successful Op artist, comes to interview
Henry, an adventure he regards as a knightly ordeal, since Henry is
bound to taunt him for his abstract work. When David, who is conventionally married, fails to rise (or fall) to the temptation to fall in
love with Diana and, incidentally, rescue her from the burdens of
caring for Henry, he ultimately sees his failure of will as also a failure
of imagination and emotional power within himself and his art. His
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1
Opening the Portfolio: Jane Austen,
Charlotte Bronte , Anne Bronte , and
Elizabeth Stuart Phelps
I never saw a man so terribly excited. He precipitated himself
towards me. I snatched up my palette-knife and held it against
him. This startled him: he stood and gazed at me in astonishment; I dare say I looked as fierce and resolute as he.
Anne Bronte , The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
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The protagonists forays into the world of art are curbed by the
stringent literary as well as social dictum that women are destined
for marriage. The ambivalence about this dictum felt by women writersartistically gifted themselves but beholden to the literary conventions of the timemanifests itself in recurrent themes of
doubleness, duplicity, riddles, mysteries, and misunderstandings.
This doubleness is inherent in the culture, as Rachel Blau DuPlessis
writes: [u]sing the female artist as a literary motif dramatizes and
heightens the already-present contradiction in bourgeois ideology
between the ideals of striving, improvement, and visible public
works, and the feminine version of that formula: passivity, accomplishments, and invisible private acts.1 In a culture in which becoming an artist is perceived as incompatible with a narrowly
construed and pervasive idea of femininity, womens art would seem
like an inherent contradiction.
Jane Austen and Charlotte Bronte both depict protagonists who
are amateur painters. The triumph of Eros over art is treated with
high comedy in the first volume of Austens Emma, in the episodes
involving Emmas attempt to paint a likeness of Harriet Smith. Jane
Eyre, in contrast, offers a somber glimpse into Janes inner self by
means of her watercolors, which she shows to Rochester in a quietly
intense moment when his potential to become her lover, rather than
her master, is subtly suggested. Two lesser novels, The Tenant of Wildfell Hall and Elizabeth Stuart Phelpss The Story of Avis, are of interest
because the protagonists attempt to establish themselves as professional painters, at least for a time, yet in both of these novels, courtship and marriagein particular, the demands of meneventually
overwhelm artistic inspiration and put an end to the painters career.
In real life, many women succeeded in launching careers as professional artists during the nineteenth century. Laura R. Prieto notes
that by the end of the century women had become the majority of
art students in America and a large percentage of exhibitors.2
Whitney Chadwick points out that even as the number of women
art students increased, the demand that women artists restrict their
activities to what was perceived as naturally feminine intensified during the second half of the century.3 For example, women were
urged to restrict their painting to pastels, portraits, and pictures of
flowers. By writing about failed careers, Anne Bronte and Phelps
dramatize the obstacles that all such women artists faced.
All of the novels discussed in this chapter depict protagonists who
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are motherless. In the case of Emma and Jane Eyre the absence of a
mother primarily helps to drive the plot and shape character: Emma
and Jane are obliged to pursue their own destinies as best they can
without maternal guidance, inventing themselves in the face of social situations they do not fully understand. In Phelpss The Story of
Avis, the absence of a mother in Aviss life leaves a void but also
allows a certain latitude and freedom in which the embryonic artist
can dream of a career while at the same time remaining extraordinarily naive about the stresses that marriage will bring into her life.
The embedded works of art in these novels seldom offer much stimulus to the readers imagination; only the paintings in Jane Eyre are
of genuine interest. Thus, a discussion of fictional women painters
in nineteenth-century novels necessarily emphasizes political considerations over aesthetic values, for the fictional woman artist is
portrayed tentatively. Hedged in as she is by ambivalence and misunderstanding, her art is embryonic, unfinished in several senses of the
word. Of greater interest is what the novelists reveal about their own
understanding of womens creativity when they present scenes of
painters painting or showing their work to others. In these nineteenth-century novels, the story of the fictional women painter is
one of many tentative awakenings to the possibilities of art.
Although they are novelists of vividly contrasting, nearly opposite literary sensibilities and aesthetic commitments, Jane Austen and
Charlotte Bronte depict womens art in similar ways. Both use embedded amateur artwork to shed light on their characters and
themes. Especially illuminating are the parallel moments in Emma
and Jane Eyre when the protagonists open their portfolios and, in revealing their art, reveal themselves as well: Emma Woodhouse shows
her portfolio to Mr. Elton and Harriet Smith; Jane Eyre shows hers
to Rochester. Both Austen and Bronte also implicitly criticize the superficial values of the marriage market by means of what can be
called the portrait of the false rival: Emma paints a portrait of
Harriet Smith, and Jane paints a portrait of two false rivals,
Blanche Ingram and Rosamond Oliver. As Anne Higonnet notes in
Secluded Vision: Images of Feminine Experience in NineteenthCentury Europe, this sort of womens art was ephemeral: most of
these pictures that survive now molder in drawers, attics, or flea
markets.4
The sort of artistic activity encouraged by nineteenth-century etiquette books, while allowing women some outlet for their creative
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aspirations, was essentially a dead end rather than a first step toward
serious artistic development. Linda Nochlin points out that it is exactly the insistence upon a modest, proficient, self-demeaning level
of amateurism as a suitable accomplishment for the well-broughtup young woman, who would naturally want to direct her major attention to the welfare of othersfamily and husbandthat militated, and still militates, against any real accomplishment on the
part of women.5 The lack of prestige granted to such amateur art
made it difficult for a woman to cross over into the ranks of professionals. In her study of women artists in nineteenth-century literature, Deborah Barker even argues that the female amateur artist
. . . functioned in the art world to limit womens recognition as artists, regardless of their ability, because their work was associated with
private, domestic activities.6 In the nineteenth century and even
later, Barker stresses, the prevailing belief was that genius and
high art were Romantic and masculine.
Both Austen and Bronte take the amateur art works seriously
enough, however, to use them as markers of their protagonists
growth toward adulthood. In the hands of literary artists as highly
accomplished as Austen and Bronte , the embedded work of amateur art bears an ironic relationship to the art of their novels. In the
case of Austen, the irony is comic; in the case of Bronte it borders
on tragic, for Jane Eyre does show promise of genuine but thwarted
artistic aspiration. Whereas many of Emmas paintings are unfinished, Janes are finished but they reveal fragmentation of body and
mind.
As protagonists, Emma Woodhouse and Jane Eyre begin their stories in almost diametrically opposite circumstances, and the novels
proceed from opposite premises. As Austens first sentence famously
declares, Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a
comfortable home and happy disposition, seemed to unite some of
the best blessings of existence.7 Jane Eyre describes herself as
poor, obscure, plain, and little; she has nothing to lose, no real
home, and only a rebel disposition to sustain her.8 Jane learns to
sketch at Lowood Institution; Emma has been taught by the former
Miss Taylor, who has the same social standing as Jane Eyre, although
out of affection the family politely refers to Miss Taylor as a friend
rather than a governess. Emma begins with everything and Jane with
nothing.
Both novels portray a young woman on the brink of adulthood,
struggling for autonomy: Emma is twenty years old, and the most
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crucial events of Jane Eyre occur when Jane is nineteen and twenty.
In both novels the viewing of the protagonists portfolio serves as a
measure of the protagonists mind. The scene of Emmas portfolio is
described with Austens characteristic wit; the art in Janes portfolio
reveals Bronte s gothic imagination and her fragile but intense feminist aspirations.
Emmas work is humorously amateurish. Her paintings of landscapes and flowers hang at Hartfield, and some figure-pieces are
on display in Mrs. Westons drawing room, but her work is framed
and hung only because her friends and family all dote upon her
(27). Similarly, Mr. Eltons framing of Emmas painting of Harriet
Smith constitutes an amatory, not an aesthetic, statement. Austens
ironies are thickly layered at the moment when Emma displays her
portfolio to Mr. Elton and Harriet Smith: Her many beginnings
were displayed. Miniatures, half-lengths, whole-lengths, pencil,
crayon, and water-colours had all been tried in turn (28). Her best
paintings are unfinished because of her laziness and dilettantism, as
she is well aware. She makes plausible excuses for the unfinished
work: exact likenesses are difficult to do, and the five little nieces
and nephews will not sit still for their portraits. But the truth is that
Emma lacks industry and patience, as Mr. Knightley frequently
points out. Emma is also quite willing, however, to have others of
lesser taste think of her as a better painter than she is, although she
sees the dishonesty of the pleasure she takes in their praise. An additional irony is that her work is better than many might have done
with so little labor as she would ever submit to (28). Emma secretly
acknowledges the gap in standards between serious artistic endeavor
and drawing-room amateurism, and she is willing to take advantage
of the lower standard while being aware of the higher one and of
her own shortcomings. The reader observes Emmas conscious duplicity as the author probes Emmas mind with the searchlight of
her own wit. The perfection of Austens prose styleits finish and
polishcontrasts to the imperfection of Emmas work. This perfection is witnessed in the very sentences with which Austen describes
Emmas art, particularly in a passage elegantly contrasting Emmas
friends approbation with Austens own sober appraisal of what
Emma has genuinely achieved through her slapdash methods:
There was merit in every drawingin the least finished, perhaps the
most; her style was spirited; but had there been much less, or had there
been ten times more, the delight and admiration of her two companions
would have been the same. They were both in extasies. (28)
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Sober appraisal leads to satiric fun as author and reader alike enjoy
the silliness and poor judgment of Harriet and Mr. Elton. But the
author and reader can also see a modicum of talent in Emmas
least finished work and understand that Emmas creativity suffers
from not being held to a higher standard.
Emmas amateur artwork plays a role only in the first volume of
the novel, the section dealing with her matchmaking scheme involving Harriet and Elton; in the novel as a whole, music is a more frequent motif than painting. But the scenes in which Emma first
brings out her portfolio and then paints Harriets portrait are important because they introduce and reinforce the epistemological,
aesthetic, and social issues of the novel. Gilbert and Gubar attempt
to make a connection between Emma as the artist in the novel
and Austen as the artist of the novel, claiming that as a player of
word games, a painter of portraits and a spinner of tales, Emma is
clearly an avatar of Austen the artist.9 And they argue that Austen,
in her ambivalence toward womens self-expression, punishes Emma
for her exercise of imagination. But a connection between Emma
and Austen as artists makes sense only if we consider Emma as a parodic avatar of Austen, a spinner of false tales and a far less than
meticulous artist. Susan Morgan writes, Emma creates from love of
power and love of self, but also because she believes that without her
imagination acting upon it, the world would be a bore. But it is Austen, and not Emma Woodhouse, who imagines this world and gives
life to other characters besides Emma.10 Like her drawings,
Emmas scenarios for other people are unfinished; she makes haphazard sketches of reality.
Emma has a mind delighted with its own ideas (14). Until her
reformation at the end of the novel, Emma spins out fictions that
are false because of her lack of understanding of human nature and
her lack of awareness that people have minds and wills of their own;
in contrast, Austen creates fictions that are true because of her
splendid insights into human nature. Austens famous description
sent to her nephew of the little bit (two Inches wide) of Ivory on
which I work with so fine a Brush, as produces little effect after so
much labour is a satiric response to the reviewers misunderstanding of her work, but it shows that she considered herself a meticulous portraitist, though not really a miniaturist.11 In contrast, Emma
Woodhouse cannot be an accurate portraitist because she cannot
see people as they are. Her painting is therefore comical, and Austen punishes her not so much for having too much imagination as
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for having an imagination that fails to be guided by accurate observation and common sense. Although arguments have been made for
reading Emma as a Romantic novel, one that, for example, expresses
Wordsworthian ideas about the growth of the mind, Austens treatment of Emmas runaway imagination and faulty judgment implicitly conveys Enlightenment values of reason, sanity, and balance,
values which are reinforced by the comedy of the novel. Emmas
blunders and wrong-headedness make for the comedy throughout
the novel, but the picture she paints of Harriet Smith is the very embodiment of her misapprehensions and misguided fancy.
Emmas painting of Harriet reveals her perceptual errors: her distortion of Harriets image, her misreading of Mr. Eltons intentions,
and her misunderstanding of her own position as a young woman
coming of age in a society that offers her a paucity of alternative
occupations and a choice only of marriage or spinsterhood. Aesthetic values at Hartfield are compromised by other, nonaesthetic
considerations. As Emma thumbs through her portfolio, we are told
that she sketched her family many times over but gave up drawing
for a long time because her sister did not consider her brother-inlaws portrait to be flattering enough. No such problem arises when
she paints Harriet, for Emma increases her height, adds elegance to
her figure, and glamorizes her eyelashes. As Emma begins the portrait, she is pleased that her matchmaking scheme appears to be
going forth, and gratified with Mr. Elton for stationing himself
where he might gaze and gaze again without offence (30). Emma
is, of course, unaware that Elton is gazing at her, a misunderstanding
that makes the situation funny but also potentially dangerous.
Emma as the painter is being transformed into Emma as subject at
the very moment when she is feeling some satisfaction in her scheming and some superiority to Mr. Eltons lack of taste: She could not
respect his eye, but his love and his complaisance were unexceptionable (30). As the painter who attempts to represent Harriet as a
marriageable commodity, Emma momentarily tries to evade the role
of commodity herself by becoming the controlling wielder of pencil
and brush. In assuming the role and stance of the artist, Emma steps
outside, so she thinks, of the dyadic relationship of gazing male
lover and female love object. The semblance of artistry and control
Emma gains is false because she never escapes Eltons gaze; he
adores the painting for his own wrong reason, because it is Emmas
handiwork, and not for Emmas wrong reason, because it is Harriets
painted image.
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When Harriets portrait is completed, Mr. Elton vigorously defends it against all criticism:
Miss Woodhouse has given her friend the only beauty she wanted
observed Mrs. Weston to himnot in the least suspecting that she was
addressing a loverthe expression of the eye is most correct, but Miss
Smith has not those eye-brows and eye-lashes. It is the fault of her face
that she has them not.
Do you think so? replied he. I cannot agree with you. It appears
to me a most perfect resemblance in every feature. I never saw such a
likeness in my life. We must allow for the effect of shade, you know.
You have made her too tall, Emma, said Mr. Knightley.
Emma knew that she had, but would not own it. . . . (3031)
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ter and the small talk of Highbury: every day remarks, dull repetitions, old news, and heavy jokes (168).
As a writer portraying an amateur artist, Austen reveals the debasement of art in a world where womens creativity is preempted
by the rituals of courtship. Art is compromised in the world of Highbury when the picture of Harriet is overestimated and also esteemed
for the wrong, nonaesthetic reasons. To Mr. Elton the portrait is
something extremely precious, capitalized as the Picture, elegantly
framed (46); it signifies his and Emmas hyperbolic fantasizing and
thus represents the opposite of Austens true aesthetic of realism
and verisimilitude. It is invested with amorous rather than aesthetic
value, producing comedy based on the incongruity of aesthetic
value and erotic appeal.
Later, after the episode of the painting, Emma declares to Harriet
once more that she has no intention of getting married herself. She
insists that when she grows old as a spinster, Womens usual occupations of eye and hand and mind will be as open to me then, as
they are now. . . . If I draw less, I shall read more; if I give up music,
I shall take to carpet-work (58). This declaration is exceedingly
funny in its context, and not simply because the reader knows that
Emma will never be a spinster. Emmas equating of drawing, reading, and music with carpet-work has a deflating effect, but the deflation of art to the level of drawing-room busywork is so commonly
accepted in Austens world that it is hardly to be seen as comical.
What is comical is to imagine that the restless Emma would ever find
satisfactory diversion in confining herself to such handicrafts, that
carpet-work could hold her interest for long.
On this point one is compelled to recall Austens own methods of
composition. Wearing a cap and a work-smock and without a
room of her own but protected by her sister and mother from unwanted interruption, Austen habitually wrote in the family drawing
room, upon small sheets of paper, which could easily be put away,
or covered with a piece of blotting paper.13 She composed her novels on folded sheets of paper, which she then stitched together into
small booklets, so that she had a sense of her novel coming physically into being; and the tidy home-stitching of folded pages seems
to have been her very early practice.14 That a novel as great as
Emmaso seamless, rich, and radiantcould be produced by such
humble means adds another dimension to Emmas comment about
carpet-work. The miracle is that Austen could stitch together such
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highly serious art in the very midst of a domestic world whose arts
she satirizes in Emma.
As an occasion for satire, Emmas undisciplined painting makes
manifest her habitual solipsism and meddlesomeness. The question
remains as to why, on the one hand, the reader can see Emma as a
comic figure in a world that so severely limits the occupations of her
mind and imagination and why, on the other hand, one can sympathize with her at all, given her snobbery, pride, and self-delusion.
The answer lies, I believe, in Emmas irrepressible energy, which
challenges the limitations of her life in Highbury and transcends the
unattractive qualities of her own character, the snobbery and selfcenteredness.
In his theory of comedy, Henri Bergson describes a repeated jackin-the-box effect as a rather childish source of comic delight but one
that is capable of sophisticated refinements.15 There is such an effect
in the way that Emma immediately bounces back from every perceptual error about the feelings of other people: Mr. Elton, Frank
Churchill, Jane Fairfax, Harriet Smith, and Mr. Knightley. The energy that keeps her coming back for more imaginings and more mistakes is the life force of the novel. Thus, it is absurd to think of
Emma as settling herself down to carpet-work and, as she proposes,
repressing imagination all the rest of her life (96). She has the
spirit playfully to insist to Mr. Knightley at the end of the novel, Oh!
I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with any
other . . . (327). Being handsome, clever, and rich are great advantages that allow Emma to lay claims upon life and she goes as far
as she can in staking her claims. Emma is no artist, but through her
attempts at amateur art Austen shows us Emmas lively imagination
and the forces that keep trying to rein it in. Some of these restraints
offer salutary intellectual correction: Emma has to learn to exercise
judgment and self-control in order to grow up. Also limiting her
scope, however, are some stringent social conventions that continually force Emma into her comfortable box (her woodhouse); the
marriage plot prevails in the end. And yet, as Austen says of Emmas
portfolio, her style was spirited.
Virginia Woolf contrasts the literary imaginations of Jane Austen and
Charlotte Bronte in A Room of Ones Own. Championing Austen,
Woolf praises her for having a mind that, like Shakespeares, consumed all impediments and, conceding that Bronte possibly had
more genius in her than Jane Austen, Woolf goes on to criticize
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Jane Eyre, such as the dining room and saloon at Thornfield, which
have a painterly quality in their careful delineation of color, light,
and angle of observation.
The embedded works of art in Jane Eyre are of two kinds. What
might be called Janes parlor art, her portraits of other people,
shows her relationships to others and is associated with Bronte s extensive use of physiognomy in the novel. Her surreal art, consisting
of the watercolors that Rochester selects from her portfolio, is more
deeply tied to her psyche, hinting at her fate in a riddling way and
expressing her inner self through imagery. Such imagery proves useful because in Jane Eyre the concept of the self is presented as more
problematic, tension-filled, and conflicted than in most earlier novels, and so too, relationshipsespecially those between Jane and
Rochester and Jane and St. John Riversinvolve near-Lawrentian
struggles for domination and control between powerful but somewhat amorphous egos.
The Gothic elements within the novel, as they impinge upon
Janes consciousness, evoke and resonate with primitive, chthonic
tendencies within her own psyche. For example, in the moment
when Jane sits up all night with the severely wounded Richard
Mason and listens to the movements of the wild beast or the fiend
in the next room, unaware as yet that the fiend is Bertha Mason
Rochester, she inwardly asks, What crime was this, that lives incarnate in this sequestered mansion, and could neither be expelled nor
subdued by the owner?What mystery, that broke out, now in fire
and now in blood, at the deadliest hours of night? (138). This passage, like many, goes beyond mere Gothic titillation in its hints that
Bertha the fiend may be linked to some barely controllable Dionysian aspect of the psyche, even Janes own psyche, which could erupt
in fire and blood despite attempts to subdue it. The works of art in
the novel are closely aligned with such psychological struggles.
In the opening scene of the novel, excluded from the family circle
of the Reeds and bullied by her cousin John, Jane as a child hides
behind a curtain and takes refuge in Bewicks book on birds.
Each picture told a story, and those that most appeal to her imagination in a oddly soothing way are Romantic scenes of shipwrecks,
solitary churchyards, and especially the bleak shores of Lapland,
Siberia, Sptizbergan, Nova Zembla, Iceland, Greenland and other
forlorn regions of dreary space (2). This imagery of remote seashores and icy regions, repeated later in her own watercolors, carries
her away momentarily from the anger she constantly feels toward
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the abusive Reeds, but it also helps to define what might be called
the frigid pole of her life, the side of herself that wants to be driven
by duty, moral propriety, and restraint, as opposed to the fire of
anger that allows her boldly to assail Mrs. Reed and the fire of passion which Rochester arouses. Much later, when St. John Rivers, described as cold as an iceberg (296), offers her a loveless marriage
coupled with a sacrificial life as a missionary, Jane is momentarily
tempted by the grandeur of his evangelical rhetoric. But when he
presses her to marry him, revealing that he wants nothing less than
total control over her, Jane asks, Reader, do you know, as I do, what
terror those cold people can put into the ice of their questions? How
much of the fall of the avalanche is in their anger? of the breaking
up of the frozen sea in their displeasure? (274). Although she
comes to realize that in order to accept St. John she would have to
stifle half of her nature, the other half of her nature is drawn to the
icy St. John.
Images of oceans and ice reappear in the portfolio of drawings
that Jane shows to Rochester at his request shortly after she meets
him at Thornfield. Some of Janes art deals with conventional Victorian classical or sentimental subjectsa naiads head, an elf in a
hedge-sparrows nestbut the sequence of three watercolors that
Rochester singles out comes purely from her imagination and includes surreal scenes of a sort not usually found in womens amateur
paintings of the period. Prominent in the paintings are parts of bodies. The first one depicts a swollen sea and a half-submerged
mast on which there sits a cormorant holding in its beak a gold
bracelet, set with gems (82). Sinking below is a dimly seen drowned
corpse whose fair arm was the only limb clearly visible, whence the
bracelet had been washed or torn (82). The second painting portrays the bust of a woman against an evening sky, its dim forehead
. . . crowned with a star (82). The third painting shows an iceberg
and, resting against it, a colossal head, bloodless and pale, which
Jane connects with Miltons figure of Death. This series of pictures
reveals obsessive morbidity but also flashing hints of ecstasy. They
seem produced directly from Janes unconscious, and as such, they
contribute to Bronte s larger deployment of nonrational materials
such as nightmares, hallucinations, and gothic spectacle to engage
the reader on an intuitive, emotional level. The paintings reveal
Janes troubled psyche but also her secret aspirations to moments of
rapture, symbolized by stars, jewels, and white flames.
Critics have interpreted Janes paintings in various ways. L. E.
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not much pained by this rivalry because she does not really love
St. John, although she is tempted briefly by the missionary life which
he offers and impressed by his singleness of purpose. Casting off in
his own mind his infatuation with Rosamond, The Rose of the
World, in favor of Jane, whom he sees as unworldly and spiritually
strong enough to sacrifice herself for his cause, St. John creates a
false opposition between the two women. He does not perceive the
passionate, sensuous side of Jane that will call her back to Rochester.
Janes painting of Rosamond also provides the plot twist which will
allow Jane to become independently wealthy even as Rochester becomes helpless, the reversal which makes possible the unusual terms
of their marriage, with Jane as the dominant partner of the blind
and crippled Rochester. When St. John lifts from the surface of the
painting a scrap of paper on which she has been resting her hand as
she paints, this scrap reveals her true name and allows him to discover her identity as his cousin and the sole heiress of her uncles
estate. Thus, in a roundabout and gratuitous fashion, Jane becomes
rich through someones looking at her art. Jane has also grown beyond her self-abasing obsession with beauty in other women. Prior
to painting Rosamonds portrait, Jane constructs a judicious reading of her face:
[She was] ingenuous, sufficiently intelligent; gay, lively, and unthinking:
she was very charming, in short, even to a cool observer of her own sex
like me; but she was not profoundly interesting or thoroughly impressive. (245)
In a few short months and after many hardships, Jane has learned to
see marketable beauty and wealth in other women as less threatening to herself and less relevant to her own life. Janes art is never
mentioned again once she marries Rochester and begins to function
as his eyes, but in taking that step toward becoming a cool observer who can exercise creativity and control through her art, Jane
Eyre makes genuine progress in the fictional narrative of womens
journey toward becoming artists.
A curiosity of Jane Eyre is that the book does not close with the
account of Janes ten years of marriage to Rochester but rather with
the apocalyptic ranting of the dying St. John, conveyed to Jane in a
letter from India. Sally Shuttleworth interprets this final passage as
an indication of Janes hidden savage discontent: [j]ust as the
eruptions of Bertha had earlier disrupted the surface meaning of
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Janes text, so this final vision of St. John, internally torn and violently hewing down external opposition, undercuts Janes claims to
have achieved harmonious union.25 Shuttleworth adds that Janes
celebration of the fact of young Adeles having become a docile
young woman contradicts Janes own youthful spirit of rebellion.
Such statements of happy conformity, she notes, sit awkwardly
in a text whose power and motivating force lies in its clamour against
injustice, its desire to break bonds whether of social prescriptions
for femininity or the generic conventions of the realist text.26 One
might add that both the fire-setting animalistic savagery of Bertha
and the icy spiritual savagery of St. John are only temporarily subdued within the novel, and they find an echo in the spirit of Jane,
who in different circumstances might have fused this fire and ice
into forms of artistic expression. In any case, Charlotte Bronte represents painting as one aspect of Janes unrealized potential.
Two lesser nineteenth-century novels, The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
(1848) by Charlotte Bronte s sister Anne and The Story of Avis (1877)
by American novelist Elizabeth Stuart Phelps, feature protagonists
who make the attempt to become professional painters; they both
have studios and sell some of their work. In both novels the main
characters, infatuated with the beauty of the men they will marry,
paint portraits of them; in both cases the husbands turn out to be
morally and physically weak, and they die in the course of the novels.
The artist figures differ in that Avis Dobell in Phelpss novel has a
genuine vocation and several years of professional training in art,
whereas Bronte s character Helen Huntingdon turns from amateur
art to professional painting only briefly as a means of trying to cobble together a livelihood. In both cases, however, their artistic careers are aborted when marriage and art prove to be incompatible.
Anne Bronte and Elizabeth Stuart Phelps both depict women painters who are continually distracted from their work by the demands
of courtship and marriage.
In Bronte s novel the institution of marriage is never held up to
scrutiny; her protagonist simply has very bad luck in her choice of
her first husband. As Rachel Blau DuPlessis writes, Most of the
nineteenth-century works with female artists as heroes observe the
pieties, putting their final emphasis on the woman, not the genius;
the narratives are lacerated with conflicts between femininity and
ambition.27 Phelps also presents that conflict, but her novel, unlike
Bronte s, contains a bitter indictment of marriage and domestic life.
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What is surprising is not that Helen is an artist, for Anne Bronte was
herself a painter like her sister, but that Helen appears to have established herself as a professional. I cannot afford to paint for my own
amusement, she tells Gilbert, and her little son Arthur adds,
Mamma sends all her pictures to London . . . and somebody sells
them for her there, and sends us the money (69). Since the events
of the novel are set in the late 1820s, this is quite an early portrayal
of a professional woman artist. Helens career turns out to be a flashin-the-pan, however.
Although Anne Bronte , unlike Charlotte, writes in a style almost
devoid of symbolism, she does invite a symbolic reading of the artists space. Helen is living with her little son and her servant Rachel
in the one heated suite of rooms in Wildfell Hall, a superannuated
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mansion of the Elizabethan era, built of dark grey stone . . . cold and
gloomy to inhabit, with its thick stone mullions and little latticed
panes, its time-eaten airholes, and its too lonely, too unsheltered
situation . . . (45). Within the near-ruins of this old Tudor mansion
Helen has established a bright, clean studio, and within the studio
she paints various pictures of the old mansion to sell in London. A
woman artist symbolically claims a well-lighted space within a ruin of
the past and draws upon that same past as subject for her art, a
promising situation but one that is highly unstable, for neither
Bronte s plot nor even Helens own secret desires will allow her to
remain an artist for long.
A feminist strain in The Tenant of Wildfell Hall is revealed not only
in the scenes of Helens victimization in marriage and her attempt
to escape by means of her art but also in the ideas she subsequently
develops about equality of education for men and women. Nevertheless, Bronte s compromise with the marriage plot prevents any genuine liberation for Helen. The part of the novel narrated by Gilbert
Markham in epistolary form presents a traditional love story in
which the honorable Gilbert wins the woman of his dreams, the
beautiful Helen, after enduring various trials. The part of the novel
narrated by Helen, in the form of diary entries from the past, presents the harrowing story of her marriage to her first husband, Arthur, from whom she eventually escapes. The two parts of the novel
are like trains running on opposite tracks: narrated by a woman, the
diary tells the story of Helens escape from an abusive marriage into
a life of art; narrated by a man, the letters tell a story that runs
counter to it, in which the abused, self-sacrificing woman finds in
him, Gilbert, her own true love. The epistolary narration surrounds
that of the diary, privileging romance in the novel and revealing
Anne Bronte s ambivalence about Helens artistic career. Despite its
implausible plot and clumsy narrative techniques, The Tenant of Wildfell Hall is of interest because of its stark presentation of the conflict
between Eros and art, especially in scenes where the process of
sketching or painting is intruded upon by a lover.
After visiting Helens studio and seeing a mysterious painting of
a handsome young man turned face to the wall, Gilbert Markham
gradually falls in love with her. Although Helen appears to be serious about her art, admitting enjoyment in what she does and lamenting, like Jane Eyre, that she can never exactly produce the
various brilliant and delightful touches of nature (104), her art is
invaded at every turn by the distractions of courtship. When Gilbert
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Helens art has been reduced to an erotic stimulus for Arthur, who
seems ready to devour her subject like a tender roast dove. In the
ensuing scene, Arthur violates the privacy of Helens portfolio by examining her unfinished sketches against her will. When he seizes
upon a miniature picture of himself, Helen throws it in the fire. Yet
despite his violations of her privacy and her art, Helen marries Arthur, who promptly reveals himself to be a shallow, childish wastrel
who neglects his wife for months at a time. He has affairs under
Helens nose, even bringing a mistress into the household as a governess. Walter Hargrave attempts to rescue Helen into an adulterous affair with him, but she holds him off with her palette knife.
When Arthur and his carousing friends begin to corrupt her small
son Arthur, teaching him curses and plying him with alcohol, Helen
resolves to escape with the child, using her art as a means of support.
Working from dawn to dusk in the library, she builds up a new portfolio of works to sell, only to have Arthur discover the plan and burn
all of her work. Although he also seizes her money and jewels, Helen
manages finally to escape to Wildfell Hall, helped by her brother
and a loyal servant, and there she goes into hiding and sets up her
studio, keeping Arthurs portrait turned to the wall so that her son
might someday compare his face to that of his corrupt father.
Reading Helens diary, Gilbert realizes that she is not free to love
him so long as Arthur is alive; shortly thereafter, Arthur falls off a
horse and Helen returns to him, sacrificially nursing him until his
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With its symmetry and its Gothic ornamentation, Aviss studio seems
like a Romantic symbol of the ideal life of art. Inviting, templelike,
surrounded by birds and trees, her studio provides a private space
where the fancy can be indulged in peace and solitude. Aviss plans
to establish herself as a serious professional artist are thwarted, however, when she makes the fatal mistake of trying to combine that career with marriage.
Phelpss novel expresses feminist ideas that were implicit or latent
in earlier novels. Writing at a time when the feminist movement
showed signs of flourishing in the postCivil War era, Phelps sets out
to illustrate the point that marriage is not yet compatible with an
artistic career, although she remains optimistic that future generations of women will find a way. Before Avis decides to marry him,
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she explains to her suitor Philip Ostrander her reason for resisting
his proposal:
Successfor a womanmeans absolute surrender, in whatever direction. Whether she paints a picture, or loves a man, there is no division
of labor possible in her economy. To the attainment of any end worth
living for, a symmetrical sacrifice of her nature is compulsory upon her.
I do not say that this was meant to be so. . . . God may have been in a
just mood, but he was not in a merciful one, when, knowing they were
to be in the same world with men, he made women. (6970)
Nothing in the novel contradicts this absolutist point of view, although Phelps adds psychological subtlety and texture to the novel
by creating in Avis and Ostrander characters who are themselves
conflicted about the roles of men and women and lacking full understanding of their own hearts.
Avis starts out with a single-minded intention; she is the only character discussed in this chapter who has professional training as well
as a burning desire to be an artist. The intellectually bracing milieu
of the New England university town where Avis grows up, with its
book clubs and poetry societies, is surely more conducive to womens artistic aspirations than, for example, Edna Pontelliers uppermiddle-class New Orleans would be. Louisa May Alcotts sister had
even published a book on how to study art on a budget in Europe,
and many young women were doing so. Thus, although artistic careers for women were still rare, it is plausible enough that as the
novel opens, Avis has just returned from six years of study with the
best art masters of Italy and France. It is less plausible, at least to
readers of Henry James, that Avis has remained extraordinarily innocent while abroad. A flashback reveals that Avis made the decision
to become an artist in an epiphanic moment at age sixteen while
sitting in an apple tree reading Elizabeth Barrett Brownings Aurora
Leigh. When young Avis runs to her father Hegel Dobell with her
newfound aspiration, she expresses herself unequivocally: I have
decided this morning that I want to be an artist. I want to be educated as an artist and paint pictures all my life (33). Her fathers
response is typical of the times but uncharacteristically harsh for
him: Nonsense, nonsense! repeated Professor Dobell. I cant
have you filling your head with any of these womanish apings of a
mans affairs, like a monkey playing tunes on a hand-organ (33).
In this instance the familiar comparison of a talented woman to a
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worse, Avis learns that Philip has deliberately neglected his feeble,
dying mother. He loses his job as a college teacher because of inattention to duties and becomes like a third child to Avis, who, though
the stronger of the two of them, nearly dies of diphtheria herself.
After she learns that Ostrander has been seen in public making advances to Barbara Allen during Aviss illness, she agrees to send the
ailing Ostrander off to the south of France for the winter, at huge
financial sacrifice. Before leaving, he tells her frankly that he no
longer loves her as he once did.
Avis is now driven to paint in earnest in order to pay off Ostranders long-standing college debts, but work proves impossible. Phelps
presents dramatic moments in which the children literally pound
and scratch upon the locked studio door, demanding her attention.
After her son Van Dyck dies of pneumonia and Ostrander returns
from Europe in an advanced state of consumption, Avis sells photographs of one of her paintings in order to finance their trip to Florida for his health, an early instance of a woman making a profit on
the photographic reproduction of her work. Ostrander dies pathetically in a Florida swamp, and, despite his many selfish actions, Phelps softens his character at the end. Narrating the denouement
partly from his point of view, Phelps depicts him as a confused victim
of his own weakness and conventionality rather than as a brute like
Arthur Huntingdon. Ostrander sadly declares, I cannot seem to
make up my mind to bear it . . . that my wife should not respect me
enough to love me (230), and after that confused admission, he
and Avis experience at least some degree of reconciliation before
his death.
The gloomy end of the novel places it in the tradition of American
literary naturalism; Aviss fate seems totally determined by circumstances. Emotionally exhausted, Avis is not able to return to her
painting after Ostranders death. Her only remaining wish is that
her daughter, named Wait, or perhaps her daughters daughter, will
be able to achieve what she could not. It is not entirely clear why
Avis, still a young woman, should have no hope of transcending the
hardships she has endured and of finding renewed sources of passion and strength in order to paint, but Phelps obviously means her
premise in the novel to have the force of an axiom. In answer to the
question, is it possible to avoid the stern either/or choice of art or
marriage? is it possible to have both/and? Phelps replies, in effect,
not yet; wait.
As various readers have observed, Phelpss tone is uneven and her
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style self-consciously literary. The Story of Avis should not be regarded as the work of an inferior sensibility, however. On the contrary, the novel reveals an imaginative writer struggling to express
radical ideas; the formal lapses imply a dialogue in the writers own
mind between her anger and her desire to please. As editor Carol
Farley Kessler points out, her style documents Phelpss effort to
force her voice from hedged-in silence.32 Phelps freely makes use
of allusion and leitmotifs to add emotional resonance and a larger
frame of reference to her story, her efforts foreshadowing some of
the techniques of modernist writers. Her recurrent metaphors of
bird, lighthouse, and sea anticipate the metaphors of Virginia
Woolf, although Phelpss handling of these tropes is clumsy in comparison to Woolf s delicate artistry. Birdlike Avis finds freedom at
the seashore, but she is also given to trying to rescue dying birds that
fling themselves upon the local lighthouse and then, when she
agrees to marry Ostrander, she throws herself upon him like the
bird to the light-house (110). These images are an attempt to embellish the story and help convey its emotional content in a pictorial
way. Phelps foreshadows the works of Kate Chopin and Virginia
Woolf in her effort to imbue the novel itself with an artistic sensibilityan acute visual sense and an appreciation for color, symbol, and
natural formssimilar to the sensibility of the artist in the novel. Or
rather, Phelps attempts this kind of artistic writing in the early parts
of the novel, which show the growth of the artist, before the domestic drama takes over and stifles art. Aviss epiphanies are sometimes
sentimental, but Phelps does seriously attempt to express the rapture of a young womans artistic awakening: The whole world had
leaped into bloom to yield her the secrets of beauty. She spread the
spring showers upon her palette, and dipped her brushes in the
rainbow (54).
The embedded works of art in The Story of Avis do not particularly
evoke an aesthetic response in the reader; they function more in a
literary way, as thematic texts to be decoded. Phelps makes use of
literary allusions in conjunction with the paintings to offer the
reader riddles and hints about Aviss destiny. Her references to the
Arthurian cycle and events in The Faerie Queene also lend an aura of
spirituality and knightly heroism to womens quest for artistic fulfillment.
Spenserian allusions provide the reader with the means of interpreting the first of the embedded works, a sketch of Una, and discovering its hidden truth. Aviss charcoal sketch of Una and the lion
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dent on a heavy sea. When she agrees to marry him, she passed the
length of the silent room, and put both hands, the palms pressed
together as if they had been manacled, into his (110). After their
engagement takes place, she resumed with stiff, strange fingers,
her work in the studio, where her principal painting is that of the
sphinx. At that moment, experiencing deep regrets, Avis casts off
her engagement ring, flings her arms around the painting and,
rather amusingly, presses her cheek upon the cold cheek of the
sphinx, whispering, I will be true (120). At the end of the novel,
when she can no longer paint successfully, Avis works as if I had a
rheumatic hand. . . . the stiffness runs deeper than the fingers
(244). The motif of the artists hand emphasizes both her vulnerability and her skill.
A similar double meaning is embodied in the motif of the sphinx,
which represents womens power and their silence. The meaning of
Phelpss sphinx is explicated in an essay in the Independent written
some years earlier (1871) and entitled The True Woman. The
True Woman is essentially the New Woman, the liberated woman of
the future who at present is like the sphinx, silent but filled with
latent and unknown strength. The last sentence of the essay prophesies the coming of the True Woman in language of near-Yeatsian intensity:
Fair as the moon, clear as the sun, and terrible as an army with banners
will be the face which, out of the desert of her long watch and patience,
she will turn upon the world.33
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2
The Painterly Eye: Kate Chopins
The Awakening
One of these days, she said, Im going to pull myself together
for a while and thinktry to determine what character of a
woman I am; for, candidly, I dont know. By all the codes which
I am acquainted with, I am a devilishly wicked specimen of the
sex. But some way I cant convince myself that I am. I must think
about it.
Kate Chopin, The Awakening
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cares for Ednas children is a disturbing element in the scene. Elizabeth Ammons comments on the presence of anonymous black servants in the novel: the very liberation about which the book
fantasizes is purchased on the backs of black women.1 Chopin is
intuitive enough as an artist, however, to imbue even these marginalized characters with hints of a life of their own. Here, she describes
the octaroon as following the Pontellier children about with a faraway, meditative air, a phrase that suggests her dignity and alienation. Thus, the elements that comprise the first scene are of two
sorts: the picturesque aspects of the scene invite the reader to dwell
upon the present moment, while the political aspects propel the
story forward and give it complex thematic impetus. The texture of
the novel is woven of the warp and woof of these two elements: the
social-political and the pictorial components that together constitute Chopins vision of experience, her larger aesthetic pattern.
The visually arresting moments of framed beauty that pass before
the reader, not only in the scenes on Grand Isle but also in New
Orleans, tell their own story, counterpointing Ednas story. Chopins
vignettes seem to declare that life is beautiful, evanescent, and to be
savored, not to be thrown away. That Ednas suicide feels tragic
rather than merely senseless or gratuitous is due in part to the readers awareness of all that she loses out on, the lost perceptions and
experiences of beauty, as well as the fruits of her newfound desire
for freedom and her awakening to her sensuous self. The question
of why art cannot save Edna is a corollary to the larger question of
why Edna must die at age twenty-nine. In order to understand the
role of Ednas art in the novel it is necessary, therefore, to explore
the reasons for her suicide.
The riddle of Edna Pontelliers suicide does not have a simple answer. Manifold factors converge upon her on a sleepless night when
she finds that her situation offers no other exit than death by drowning. From the beginning of the novel, Ednas story is a series of attempted departures and voyages out. Her first brave swim, the idyllic
trip to the Che nie`re with Robert, her quests to consult Mlle. Reisz,
her moving out of her husbands house into the pigeon house,
her romantic affair with Robert and purely sexual one with Arobin,
and then her final swimall of these adventures carry her away from
domestic life and her role as wife and mother. She is unable, however, to find a satisfactory destiny or destination toward which to
make her way.
Edna has a potentially grand spirit; she desires freedom, self-pos-
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session, and passionate life. Her spirit fails her for a variety of reasons. As Chopin once wrote, truth rests upon a shifting basis and is
apt to be kaleidoscopic.2 Strangely enough, Edna chooses death in
part because of her children; she knows that she cannot abandon
her two little sons, but she refuses to sacrifice herself for them. The
bedrock truth of their biological dependency upon her is brought
home when she attends Madame Ratignolle in childbirth the evening before Edna drowns herself. The bursting of the bubble of her
romantic attachment to Robert Lebrun, which coincides with the
eight or nine months of the novels time span, is another factor. Ultimately, Robert offers her the same sort of conventional life she has
with her husband. Shortly before Robert leaves her, she understands
that the aura of romance she has woven around him is an empty
dream, no more lofty than her casual sexual encounters with Arobin. Edna is ultimately alone, without a true mentor or a friend who
understands her.
In addition, Edna dies because of an all-too-human frailty in her
own nature. She makes forays into various forms of liberation, but
she lacks the singleness of purpose to choose one form. Her inability
to find a path in life results from her longing for the infinite and
her dissatisfaction with all the finite paths of life. Psychoanalytic critics such as Cynthia Griffin Wolff have noted and explored the regressive nature of Ednas personality which drives her to unite
herself at last with the all-embracing sea as a simulacrum for the
nourishing mother who, ironically enough, abandoned her by
dying. Wolff writes that Edna experiences the haunting memory of
this evanescent state [of early infancy] which Freud defines as Oceanic feeling, the longing to recapture that sense of oneness and suffused sensuous pleasureeven, perhaps, the desire to be
reincorporated into the safety of preexistence, an urge that may
explain Ednas frequent lapses into lethargy.3
Chopins expanding, multipurpose symbol of the sea prepares the
reader for the tragic conclusion. The sea at first promises adventure,
romance, freedom and solitude, but finally offers only oblivion and
self-extinction. Chopins description of the voice of the sea early in
the novel, just as Edna is beginning to discover herself, is itself Oceanic:
The voice of the sea is seductive; never ceasing, whispering, clamoring,
murmuring, inviting the soul to wander for a spell in abysses of solitude;
to lose itself in mazes of inward contemplation.
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The voice of the sea speaks to the soul. The touch of the sea is sensuous, enfolding the body in its soft, close embrace. (14)
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The reader sympathizes with Ednas plan to start over and paint as a
professional rather than as a parlor painter, but certain aspects of
this scene bode ill for her venture. For one thing, the sketches seem
static and irrelevant to her life. One sketch that Madame Ratignolle
admires is of a basket of apples and another is of a Bavarian peasantin the midst of New Orleans where so many splendid subjects
must have presented themselves! Ednas fatal flaw as an artist is that
she does not observe the world around her, thanks to her obsessive
infatuation with Robert. On the same day that she shows her friend
the portfolio she goes walking through the streets:
Edna looked straight before her with a self-absorbed expression upon
her face. She felt no interest in anything about her. The street, the children, the fruit vender, the flowers growing there under her eyes, were
all part and parcel of an alien world which had suddenly become antagonistic. (51)
Here is where the author and her character part company, for
Chopin is sharply observant of the life of the street and carefully records the local, as her earlier reputation as a local colorist suggests,
but Edna does not even look at the flowers growing under her eyes,
caught up as she is in a cloud of shapeless romantic longing.
Edna continues to paint, however; she is next seen seriously at
work in her bright atelier, using the children and servants as models.
This work seems more immediate and promising, although it may
seem troubling that she orders the quadroon and the housemaid to
pose for her. Edna really does observe the housemaid, however; she
perceived that the young womans back and shoulders were molded on classic lines, and that her hair, loosened from its confining
cap, became an inspiration (55). But even as she begins to paint,
the sensuous beauty of the young woman sets up a series of associations in Ednas mind in which she recollects scenes of her romantic
encounters with Robert the previous summerthe sound of the sea,
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the moon on the bay, the gusts of the wind from the south. Ednas
own romantic ardor disrupts her art: A subtle current of desire
passed through her body, weakening her hold upon the brushes and
making her eyes burn (5556). When she loses her grip on the
paintbrushes, the creative process has been short circuited; Ednas
awakened sensuality and passion do not enter into her work but
rather distract her from it.
Although her work does not express her emotional life, Edna
does succeed in an external way as a painter. At the time when she
is making plans to leave her husbands lavish house and move into
a small house of her own, she reports that she is working with new
confidence and ease and that her paintings are selling well. She finances her new household with income from her art as well as a
small inheritance and her winnings at the racetrack, and this outward success continues right up until the time of her suicide. Edna
fully makes the transition from amateur to professional artist, establishing her studio on her own, a transition that coincides with her
awakening. As Joyce Dyer writes, we might wonder why these new
strengths, the strengths of the artist, do not give her courage to turn
toward shore and all the canvases yet unpainted.4 Dyer convincingly argues that it is the issue of motherhood that most pulls Edna
out to sea, but one must also note that her failure to connect art and
life, her failure even to try to create an artistic expression of her own
awakening, means that her art is not enough to lure her back to life.
Ednas career is the ultimate example of womens art as unfinished.
Mlle. Reisz, the pianist who seems to serve as Ednas artistic mentor, also plays a part in the failure of Ednas art. She counsels Edna
on more than one occasion that genuine art demands courage,
words that Edna internalizes. The older woman seems to exemplify
sacrifice and singleness of purpose in her devotion to music. Her
duplicitous actions contradict her counsel, however. Next to Edna,
Mlle. Reisz is the most interesting and complex figure in the novel,
and she is extremely difficult to read. The reader can only guess
at her motives because her thoughts are not revealed, and the motives themselves seem mixed and contradictory. When she first appears, playing Chopin for a musicale at Madame Lebruns resort,
Mlle. Reisz is described as a shuffling, aging woman, shabby and
tasteless in dress, and self-excluded from the fellowship of the other
summer visitors due to her imperious and quarrelsome nature. Her
playing is much admired, but she agrees to play only in order to
please Edna, telling her, You are the only one worth playing for.
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Courageous, ma foi! The brave soul. The soul that dares and defies.
(61)
Playing the role of Ednas artistic mentor, Mlle. Reisz represents art
as a matter of character, requiring a pure and brave soul, but her
actions direct Edna away from that expressed ideal.
Mlle. Reisz proceeds to play Edna like a fish on a line, mentioning
a letter from Robert and telling her that it is all about Edna herself,
then teasing her by refusing to hand over the letter and offering to
play a Chopin impromptu instead. Calling herself a foolish old
woman whom you have captivated, she finally agrees to gratify
Edna with both the letter and the music, which romantically reinforce one another and reduce Edna to helpless sobbing (61). Elaine
Showalter suggests that there is something more intense than
friendship between the two women: whereas Ednas relationship
with Madame Ratignolle is depicted as maternal and womanly, Mademoiselle Reiszs attraction to Edna suggests something more perverse. While Madame Ratignolle seems like a surrogate mother for
Edna, Showalter says, Mlle. Reisz seems like a surrogate lover.5
Surrogate lover may be too explicit and and narrowly defined a
term to describe how Mlle. Reisz sees herself in relation to Edna,
and Showalter does not go on to explore what specifically leads to
Mlle. Reiszs subrogation of the role of lover. But the point is well
taken, for Mlle. Reiszs hidden motives seem to include an erotic
element, as suggested by the phrase a foolish old woman. In that
case, the perversity arises, not from her attraction to Edna, but from
her devious means of expressing it. She offers up her enthralling
music and the letter together to create an irresistible romantic atmosphere so that Edna will come back for more. Evidently she wants
Ednas presence as an auditor of her music but also enjoys the pleasure of manipulating her emotions, seducing her feelings by proxy.
In addition to these subtleties, there is the obvious point that the
letter compromises the music. Mlle. Reisz uses her art to arouse
Ednas ardor, and by abetting Ednas fantasies about Robert, she
contributes to Ednas tragedy. Her brief segue into Isoldes Liebestod
from Wagners opera in the middle of playing the Chopin piece suggests an uncanny foreknowledge of Ednas fate.
Ednas next visit with Mlle. Reisz, a similar encounter, is even
more rife with inherent contradictions, and again Ednas attention
swerves from her art to her passion for Robert, abetted by Mlle.
Reisz. Coming from a conversation with Arobin which upsets her by
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Her joy and exultation become immediate when Edna reads in the
letter that Robert will return to New Orleans. She does not see the
incompatibility between her recent resolution to be free and her enthrallment in the romance of Robert, her delirious emotions having
been prepared for and fostered, virtually stage managed, by Mlle.
Reisz.
By presenting two very similar scenes between Edna and Mlle.
Reisz, Chopin is repeating a pattern of events and emotions for the
same reason that composers repeat their themes: the second occurrence intensifies the effect of the first one and ensures that the audience will not forget the themein this case, one of betrayal. Mlle.
Reisz leads Edna away from art rather than toward it; she plays her
music upon Ednas spine and upon her emotions, causing her to
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swerve off the path to freedom and enticing her back to the conventionality of a banal and illusory romance. She is much more blameworthy than Robert, who is an honorable and earnest young man
but not the fairy tale lover Edna imagines him to be. The elderly
pianist willfully contributes to Ednas tragedy.
Mlle. Reisz is rather like some of Henry Jamess sinister and manipulative women characters, and her motives remain mysterious.
She may be impelled by a range of feelings: among them, her attraction to a passionate and beautiful young woman, her enjoyment of
the brightness and beauty of Ednas presence, a vicarious gratification in prying into her love affairs, and a malicious pleasure in manipulating others. Perhaps she is also jealous. Mlle. Reiszs musical
art is genuine, but, for whatever reasons, she uses it to seduce Edna
and foster her delusions, fomenting the tragedy. She uses her art to
add to the romantic longings that distract Edna from her own art,
affecting Ednas ability to look at the world in a steady fashion. Although she plays beautifully, her devious use of her music contrasts
to the purity of Fre de ric Chopins expressive Romantic voice.
Despite the novels brevity, the treatment of art in The Awakening
is multifaceted. Edna exemplifies the psychological breakdown of an
artist; Mlle. Reisz, a duplicitous misuse of art. Kate Chopins own literary art invites the reader to contemplate the value of aesthetic perception. Through her descriptions of landscapes and interiors in the
novel, Chopin presents the world of Grand Isle and New Orleans in
luminous art that Edna cannot achieve because, caught up in yearning for an absent and dreamlike lover, she cannot focus on and
paint the present things of her world. Chopins descriptive passages
are analogs of painting, composed visual impressions that do more
than provide a setting; they arrest moments in time and offer a perceptual point of view separate from Ednas and more vibrant. Michael T. Gilmore comments that the lush, sensuous ambiance of
Chopins novel is notably similar to that of the world portrayed in
Impressionist paintings of two or three decades earlier. The resemblance extends both to subject matter and to technique. Mentioning Manet and Seurat, he adds, Chopin also suggests the
Impressionists in her interest in creating atmosphere through sensory imagery, particularly color and light.6 Although Gilmore attributes an impressionist sensibility to both Edna and the author,
overlooking the difference in how they perceive the world, his analogy to the work of the impressionists helps to explain the aesthetic
appeal of Chopins novel. Ednas impulse to throw away life itself is
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Chopin conveys the textures of the fabrics, their appealing whiteness, and even the way they flutter in the breeze with an attention to
detail that, again, suggests a painterly eye. One is reminded of several paintings of women by the impressionist Mary Cassatt, whose
work was known to Chopin; Chopin is reported to have viewed her
mural Modern Woman at the Colombian Exposition in Chicago in
1893.10 The figures of the two women are linked by the sensuous
appeal of their beauty; indeed, a prominent subtext of The Awakening is a celebration of the sensuousness and beauty of women of all
social classes. When the two women arrive at the beach, Edna feels
their friendship deepen and is moved to confide in Madame Ratignolle about the growing dissatisfactions of her life. At the same time,
the difference between the two women is also revealed by Chopins
physical description of them. Madame Ratignolles veiled and
swathed appearance, her care for her complexion in contrast to
Ednas sunburn, shows her more conventional femininity; her pure
white dress may suggest her singleness of purpose as a motherwoman; and her entire appearance emphasizes matronly beauty.
Edna appears more casually dressed, and the waves in her gown and
her hair connect her to the sea. The touches of color in her costumeher hat, her heavy hair, and the pattern in her dress
suggest, perhaps, greater complexity and a different kind of
sensuality from that of the fertile, motherly Madame Ratignolle. The
two women are framed in arrested motion, a sense of the moments
pastness adding poignancy to their portrait. To reveal character and
enhance thematic ideas through visual description is, of course, a
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tried and true technique of fiction. But Chopin trusts the visual to
speak for itself, free of explanatory rhetoric, more than fiction traditionally had done; her reliance on the visual gives the entire novel a
painterly feel.
The scene of the dinner party that Edna gives on her twenty-ninth
birthday, meant to be a grand event and a gesture of beauty, celebrating her leaving of her husbands house, includes frequent references to the fine arts and can be read as a critique of the state of the
arts in Ednas world. Chopins sense of color is again in evidence
when she describes the dining room setting in intense hues of red
and yellow and the gleam of precious gems: the yellow satin tablecloth and matching silk candle shades, the yellow and red roses, the
table heaped with crystal and silver and gold, Ednas matching gold
satin and lace gown and the showy diamond ornament in her hair,
the gift of her absent husband. Such lavish materialism and display
of wealth seem a curious way to celebrate her plan to liberate herself
from her husbands house and become independent.
Other incongruities run through the scene, compromising the
beauty and pleasure of the event. Chopin writes, a feeling of good
fellowship passed around the circle like a mystic cord, holding and
binding these people together with jest and laughter (85). Chopins mystic cord is nothing like the secret bonds that tie the characters together in Virginia Woolf s dinner party scenes in To the
Lighthouse and The Waves; here, the good fellowship is merely the effect of food and wine, and the evening ends in decadence and disorder rather than communal sharing. Chopins dinner party bears a
more distinct, if remote, resemblance to the one in James Joyces
The Dead with its air of fin de sie`cle weariness, especially as regards
the arts, which appear deflated and debased.
Chopin describes Edna as outwardly regal but inwardly distraught:
The golden shimmer of Ednas satin gown spread in rich folds on either
side of her. There was a soft fall of lace encircling her shoulders. It was
the color of her skin, without the glow, the myriad living tints that one
may sometimes discover in vibrant flesh. There was something in her
attitude . . . which suggested the regal woman, the one who rules, who
looks on, who stands alone. (84)
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the past summer, she shatters a glass of wine and yanks the garland
from his head. As the party ends, the mandolin players have left the
street and the voices of the departing guests jarred like a discordant note upon the quiet harmony of the night (87).
Here, the Romanticism of Chopins music which so often speaks
to Ednas spirit is counterpointed by the decadent aestheticism of
Swinburne, bespeaking the weariness that comes from overindulgence of fleshly desire. Ednas mind is disordered at this time because she has experienced a rending apart of the spiritual and the
sensual sides of herself, represented by Robert and Arobin. At the
end of the novel, her longings of both flesh and spirit will collapse
into one and seem futile as she moves toward oblivion. Meanwhile,
music and the other arts are deflated in the vacuous little society of
people surrounding Edna at the dinner, for they too lack spirit. Only
Mlle. Reisz has genuine artistic talent, but she is alienated and embittered and has misused her art. The dinner party makes it more
evident why Edna cannot feel artistically inspired in such an environment and suggests the emptiness of an aesthetic far more nihilistic
than Kate Chopins, who, in other scenes, celebrates the bright possibilities of sensuous life rather than the despair that comes with satiety. Chopin implicitly rejects an aesthetic that would perceive
material richness as art.
In contrast to the dissipation of Ednas dinner party, the scene of
her second accidental meeting with Robert after he gets back from
Mexico seems to promise a return to innocence and another chance
for Ednas spiritual love. Robert appears as Edna is eating a quiet
dinner in a garden cafe while reading a book and stroking a cat, a
scene of contentment and repose, although the reader is well aware
that Edna is fatally self-divided; she has been carrying on an affair
with Arobin while dreaming of Robert. Nonetheless, Chopin describes the setting as idyllic, very much like an impressionist painting
of a garden cafe:
There was a garden out in the suburbs, a small, leafy corner, with a few
green tables under the orange trees. An old cat slept all day on the stone
step in the sun, and an old mulatresse slept her idle hours away in her
chair at the open window, till some one happened to knock on one of
the green tables. She had milk and cream cheese to sell, and bread and
butter. There was no one who could make such excellent coffee or fry a
chicken so golden brown as she.
The place was too modest to attract the attention of people of fashion,
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This description forms a complete picture in which each item is distinctthe tables, the trees, the cat on the step, the old woman in the
windowbut part of a harmonious whole, a little suburban world of
repose and innocent gratification. The secondary colors of green,
orange, and gold make the scene attractive, and the blotches of sunlight cast upon the table through the quivering leaves suggest an impressionists attention to the play of light upon objects. Chopins
carefully controlled pictorialism invites the reader to paint the
scene in the minds eye. Although the mulatresse is defined by her
racial identity, she does have a name, Catiche, and she seems very
much the master of her quiet little world. This description invites
the reader into a secluded and self-contained garden space as a
painting can do; it offers an interval of poise and repose before
Ednas tragedy unfolds. Robert appears, Edna asks him to come
home with her, and for the first time she offers him a passionate kiss.
It is then she learns that he hopes to marry her someday if her husband will set her free, to which she responds in horror and anger
that she belongs to no one. When she goes off to attend to Madame
Ratignolle in childbirth, she begs Robert to wait for her, but he
abandons her out of a sense of honor. The end comes because
Ednas dreams are not compatible with commonplace reality, including the reality represented by childbirth, and her powerful impulses of flesh and spirit begin to cancel one another out.
The end of the novel is like a picture breaking up. Visually composed scenes give way to synesthesia in Ednas last moments; she experiences a confused collage of sensations as she sinks down to
death. A hasty reading of the last scene might suggest that Edna
heedlessly swims out too far and, in fatigue and despair, makes the
decision on the spur of the moment not to turn back to shore. A
close reading reveals that Edna makes the decision the night before
and comes to Grand Isle for the purpose of committing suicide; her
ordering of dinner and towels is simply a ruse so that Mariequita
and Victor will not grow suspicious and stop her. She moves me-
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of its time. Chopins novelistic technique is also modern, particularly in her willingness to trust her images to carry the political and
psychological weight of the novel. Thus she achieves a work suffused
with an aesthetic sensibility, the vision of a painterly eyenot that
of Edna the painter but that of Chopin the author. Like Elizabeth
Stuart Phelps, Chopin shows societys inability to understand or accept a woman of strong imagination, but she also shows Ednas
tragic failure to find a creative way to focus her longings and shape
them. Edna is resourceful enough to attain a studio of her own, but
the existence of her atelier is brief. The readers sense of Edna as a
genuinely inspired artist is limited to that evanescent moment when
she perceives the beauty of her housemaids elegant figure and begins to paint, that moment before she lapses into infatuated dreaming and loses her grip on the brush. Edna never creates an authentic
portrait of a woman; Chopin, however, succeeds where Edna fails.
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3
Journey to the Silent Kingdom:
Virginia Woolf s To the Lighthouse
After the first shock and chill those used to deal in words seek
out the pictures with the least of language about themcanvases
taciturn and congealed like emerald or aquamarinelandscapes
hollowed from transparent stone, green hillsides, skies in which
the clouds are eternally at rest. Let us wash the roofs of our eyes
in colour; let us dive till the deep seas close above our heads.
Virginia Woolf, Pictures and Portraits
FASCINATED BY THE DIFFERENCES BETWEEN FICTION AND PAINTING, VIRginia Woolf carried on a lifelong dialogue with the painters and aestheticians whom she knew intimately in her family and among her
Bloomsbury friends. Although she frequently attended exhibits and
wrote essays and reviews on the visual arts, Woolf never felt entirely
at ease in the world of painting, which she describes as alien and
mysterious to those such as herself who inhabit a world of words. It
was with some trepidation, therefore, that she developed the character of Lily Briscoe in To the Lighthouse (1927). Woolf worried
needlessly, as it turns outabout the reaction of her sister Vanessa
Bell to a novel that not only portrayed their parents in thinly disguised form but also presumed to reveal the consciousness of a
painter at work. Reading over the completed manuscript, Woolf records in her diary on 21 March 1927, that most of the book seems
to her pliable and deep with never a word wrong for a page
at a time, but she adds, not Lily on the lawn. That I do not much
like.1 Despite Woolf s trepidations, she creates in Lily Briscoe one
of modernisms major artist figures. Although she is a middle-aged
woman, older than D. H. Lawrences Paul Morel or James Joyces
Stephen Dedalus, Lily struggles, like them, toward an artistic vision
that will free her from the heavy weight of the past. Working in ob85
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ness, Woolf attempts to cross over that margin into the inner life of
a painter. Still, Woolf portrays the process of Lilys painting in a novelistic way: it entails risk, involves a variety of emotions, and has a
beginning, middle, and an end, unlike Lilys completed painting,
which is silent and unliterary.
Another relevant aspect of Woolf s essay on Sickert is her startling
hypersensitivity to color in art. One of the speakers describes reacting to the colors of the exhibit:
I flew from colour to colour, from red to blue, from yellow to green.
Colours went spirally through my body lighting a flare as if a rocket fell
through the night. . . . Colour warmed, thrilled, chafed, burnt, soothed,
fed, and finally exhausted me. For though the life of colour is a glorious
life it is a short one. Soon the eye can hold no more. . . .17
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with the world and its beauty. That she is also a manipulative, prying
matchmaker seems scarcely to matter. Based on Julia Stephen,
whose death when Woolf was thirteen was arguably the most grievous of many tragedies in her life, Mrs. Ramsay seems forged out of
Woolf s deepest emotions. In Professions for Women Woolf confesses that in order to survive as a writer she had to kill the Angel in
the House within her own psyche, but in To the Lighthouse her attitude is conciliatory rather than violent. Woolf bridges the gap between her mothers generation and her own, between the Victorian
domestic woman and the modern artist, by softening the sharp distinction between the artist and the Angel in the House. Mrs. Ramsay
is presented as an artist of domestic life, sustaining her family and
ordering their world through constant application of her creative
powers and strength of will.
Woolf epitomizes Mrs. Ramsays artistlike sensibility in a rare instance of pictorialismrare because To the Lighthouse does not have
the moments of stasis found in The Awakening; time rarely stands still
except in memory or art. Exactly at the turning point, or center, of
the dinner party scene, the moment when the candles are lit and
disgruntlement turns to celebration, Mrs. Ramsay looks at the centerpiece arranged by her daughter Rose, a yellow and purple dish
of fruit. In her direct and unmediated way of looking at things,
Mrs. Ramsay sees the bowl of fruit as a still life. It is a microcosm, a
feast for the eyes, an epitome of all that Mrs. Ramsays own art
providessustenance, abundance, a sense of community:
What had she done with it, Mrs. Ramsay wondered, for Roses arrangement of the grapes and pears, of the horny pink-lined shell, of the bananas, made her think of a trophy fetched from the bottom of the sea,
of Neptunes banquet, of the bunch that hangs with vine leaves over the
shoulder of Bacchus (in some picture), among the leopard skins and the
torches lolloping red and gold. . . . Thus brought up suddenly into the
light it seemed possessed of great size and depth, was like a world in
which one could take ones staff and climb hills, she thought, and go
down into valleys, and to her pleasure (for it brought them into sympathy momentarily) she saw that Augustus too feasted his eyes on the same
plate of fruit, plunged in, broke off a bloom there, a tassel here, and
returned, after feasting, to his hive. That was his way of looking, different
from hers. But looking together united them. (97)
While the poet Augustus Carmichael views the arrangement selectively, picking out details here and there, Mrs. Ramsay sees it more
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the visual sense and its ability to leap across boundaries or categories. In this instance, the metaphor of butterfly wing and cathedral
arch violently yokes together disparate aspects of the work of art
rather like a metaphysical conceit, suggesting the effort required to
attain such a balance. These metaphors also provide a means of
bridging the gap between the domains of painting and fiction. The
vehicles of the metaphor, butterfly, and arch, are purely visual, but
the tenor, the idea of a tensile force, is an underlying principle of
the novel itself. Thus Woolf suggests a ratio: as the butterfly wing
is to the arch, the color or surface rendering of a painting is to its
composition or treatment of space and the flowing style of Woolf s
novel is to its solid three-part structure. Lily is not a self-portrait of
Woolf, but her thoughts embody Woolf s own aesthetic principles
expressed in nontechnical terms, and through Lily, Woolf conveys
her own aesthetic commitments and her desire to bridge the arts.
As The Window draws to a close, the reader begins to realize
how much Lilys art means to her. She tosses off a little insincerity
when she tells Mr. Bankes that she would always go on painting,
because it interested her (72), but three times during the dinner
party sceneonce when Tansley offends her, once when she decides
to abandon her experiment not to be nice to him, and once when
she is disturbed by the presence of the engaged coupleLilys
thoughts turn to her art as a means of emotional survival.
Although Lily barely appears in Time Passesthe section begins with her falling asleep and ends with her awakeningthis
densely poetic section ushers in, among many other things, a new
cultural context in which her art must be begun again and remade.
At the end of the first section, much has been broken off and left
unfinished in both the artistic and the domestic realms. Lily never
completes the first version of her painting, and Mrs. Ramsay, who
privately celebrates wholeness, whether it be in a bowl of fruit or a
Shakespearean sonnet, accurately predicts of the stocking that she is
knitting for the Lighthouse keepers boy, I shant finish it (123).
Although Mrs. Ramsays death is announced only in brackets, its effect upon the reader is profound when Woolf describes her decaying house, her fading clothes in the wardrobe, and her empty
mirror. Woolf brilliantly portrays an emptiness that expands to include an entire culture, one which must be filled with new human
arrangements and new forms of art in the postwar world. A hypothetical insomniac walking on the beach and having just seen an
ashen-coloured ship drop a depth charge that stains the sea pur-
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ple, raises abstract questions: Did Nature supplement what man advanced? Did she complete what he began? (13334). The answer
is negative; the Great War has changed everything. The old Romantic faith in a liaison between humanity and nature has been reduced
to mere solipsism:
With equal complacence she [Nature] saw his misery, his meanness, and
his torture. That dream, of sharing, completing, of finding in solitude
on the beach an answer, was then but a reflection in a mirror, and the
mirror itself was but the surface glassiness which forms in quiescence
when the nobler powers sleep beneath? Impatient, despairing yet loth to
go (for beauty offers her lures, has her consolations), to pace the beach
was impossible; contemplation was unendurable; the mirror was broken.
(134)
The sleep of the nobler powers implies the sleep of reason in the
midst of wars barbarism. The broken mirror, which could be the
same mirror that stood empty after Mrs. Ramsays death, suggests
the shattering of a culture and of old ideas of selfhood. The broken
mirror also brings to mind the Renaissance notion of art as the mirror up to nature, art as mimetic representation dependent upon accepted notions of reality. As the characters emerge from the dark
corridor of years in Time Passes, they enter the light of a postwar
world that seems dazzlingly alien and unreal. Thus, the third part of
the novel, The Lighthouse, begins with much unfinished business. Along with Mr. Ramsays journey to the Lighthousea sentimental journey sternly undertakenthere is a need for a new order
and reconciliation in the family, and the reestablishment of art as a
source of wholeness and harmony in a the midst of so much disorder. Although Mrs. Ramsay can never be replaced, it seems that
Lilys painting, or the process of the painting, partially fills the vacuum that she leaves behind. In short, Lilys painting, her need for
self-expression, becomes more urgent in the postwar cultural context. It should be added that although the third section of the novel
takes the characters into new and uncharted territory, it also subtly
recapitulates various events of the first part of the novel, as many
readers have noticed. E. M. Forster seems to have been the first to
observe that To the Lighthouse follows the sonata form.
At the opening of The Lighthouse Lily feels numb, chaotic, at
loose ends. She is still feigning gestures to hide herself from the gaze
of others: sipping coffee, turning her back. Her thoughts remain
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novels who give in to male demand for attention and put down their
paintbrushes, Lily draws upon her own wits to come upon a suitable
compromise and get on with her work.
After the boot scene, the narrative divides as Cam, James, and
their father sail to the Lighthouse and Lily begins to paint, and the
process of the painting and the narrative processes of the novel
begin to intertwine to form a counterpoint. Lilys first step in the
process of painting is to confront once more the white monster
of empty space. As Lily looked blankly at the canvas, with its uncompromising white stare she again faces the most immediate
question that an artistor a writermust ask: Where to begin
that was the question at what point to made the first mark? One line
placed on the canvas committed her to innumerable risks, to frequent and irrevocable decisions (157). In Woolf s diary she too anguished over compositional questions of space as well as time when
she came to write this section of the novel; moving her characters
apart in space, she wanted to maintain an illusion of simultaneity,
so that one had the sense of reading . . . two things at the same
time.20
Woolf s solution to this problem of creating simultaneity in a linear narrative consists of a carefully planned system of structural arrangements. In keeping with the idea that the formality of art fills a
great need for order in the period after the Great War, the third
section of the novel has a more insistently formal rhythm and structure than the first part. On the island Lily moves forward in time,
learning how to master space on her canvas. The Ramsays in their
boat sail along coordinates of time and space to their goal, the Lighthouse. Bearings are taken and distances are measured as though in
solemn ritual. There is very little dialogue. Linear distance creates
silences between the boat and the island; psychic distance creates
silences between the children and their father. Up until the simultaneous completion of the painting and arrival at the Lighthouse, the
major blocks of consciousness alternate between the moving boat
and the shore in this order: Lily, Cam, Lily, James, Lily, Cam, Lily,
Jameslike the voices of a fugue. By the end of the journey, Woolf
has taken the reader to the vanishing points of her characters opposite visual perspectives, achieving a sense of elasticity stretched almost to the breaking point, as though a team of horses had tried
to pull it apart. When the Ramsays reach the Lighthouse, the island
appears to Mr. Ramsay, Cam supposes, as the frail blue shape which
seemed like the vapour of something that had burnt itself away
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(207) whereas for Lily the Lighthouse had become almost invisible, had melted away into a blue haze (208). These formal temporal and visual patterns induce in the reader an awareness that time
and space can be malleable elements within a narrative; if the effect
is not exactly that of simultaneity, it certainly evokes the idea of simultaneous events. Woolf s stretching of the two parts of her narrative almost, but not quite, to the breaking point illustrates not only
an aesthetic principle but also a psychological one: so much depends, Lily thinks, upon distance: whether people are near us or
far from us; for her feeling for Mr. Ramsay changed as he sailed further and further across the bay. It seemed to be elongated, stretched
out; he seemed to become more and more remote (191). Distance
tests the elasticity of human relations; the Ramsays and Lily drift
apart in time and space, but they are bound together by their shared
experiences in the past.
Woolf s experiment with simultaneity has another effect as well.
The double ending of the novel allows Woolf to embrace a paradox.
Mr. Ramsays leap into space gives the novel a feeling of open-endedness, an illusion of life racing on beyond the limits of the story. At
the same moment, Lilys solemn proclamation that It is finished
as she draws the final line on the painting seems to give the novel a
strong closure. The simultaneous events of the last pages imply, at
the least, that life is always making endings and always going on.
The ending of To the Lighthouse has been the subject of lively critical discussion about Woolf s aesthetics, with many critics, Lucio P.
Ruotolo and Geoffrey Hartman among them, interpreting Lilys It
is finished as deeply ironic.21 Lily herself recognizes that her
painting is destined to be utterly ignored, tossed in an attic. More
importantly, the aesthetic of wholeness and significant form that
the early parts of the novel seem to embrace and embody begins to
break down when the reader encounters Time Passes: there is no
patching together what personal loss and the Great War have torn
asundera new aesthetic is called for. Marianne Hirsch convincingly argues that the double plot does not merge and oppositions
remain.22 Hirsch points out that Woolf s refusal to describe the line
that Lily places at the center of the painting as anything other than
a line leaves unanswered the question of whether the masses of
the composition have been balanced and whether Lily has attained
anything like connection and wholeness in a world of loss. The ambiguity of the line, Hirsch argues, illustrates the aesthetic of both/
and: there is no writing without loss, and writing cannot quite con-
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door had opened, and one went in and stood gazing silently about
in a high cathedral-like place, very dark, very solemn (171). In pursuing her vision, Lily crosses over a clear demarcation between ordinary experience, a day in summer in the Hebrides, and what she sees
as a sacred space, the cathedral-like palace of art. One of the most
striking paradoxes of Lilys work is that on the one hand her art is
sealed off entirely in a separate world of its own, hermetic and isolated, even protected, from the rest of her life, and on the other
hand her art is inextricably bound up with and dependent upon her
deepest life experiences, her memories and her grief. Although this
paradox may not be resolved, it is broadly inherent in the modernism of the 1920s; one thinks of how deeply personal and at the same
time impersonal The Waste Land and Ulysses are.
Vanessa Bells career as an artist also exhibits a paradoxical blending of the personal and impersonal. Quentin Bell notes that his
mother painted pictures replete with psychological interest while
at the same time firmly denying that the story of a picture has any
importance whatsoever.25 Vanessas career shows a vacillation between abstraction and representation as well as between flat decorative design and the illusion of perspective and depth, with both
modes often appearing in the same painting. Purely abstract art did
not provide the sensuous relationship with the everyday world
that Vanessa needed, but at the same time she wished her art to be
separate from concepts of use, value, from sentimental associations
and other non-visual content.26 This compromise with representation is evident in paintings like The Tub (Tate Gallery), in which a
stylized female nude, viewed frontally with eyes demurely cast down,
stands next to a very large round copper bathing tub. The tub is
viewed from above, so that the woman and the tub seem disturbingly
to occupy incompatible spaces even though they are juxtaposed.
The Tub conveys to the viewer a sense of inexorable isolation, a
disquiet that, Frances Spalding notes, is expressed through the formal relationships of the figures.27 Spalding suggests that the
strained relationship between the tub and the standing figure in this
large painting is an unconscious expression of [Vanessas] own
sense of incompleteness at the time, in 1918.28 Thus, a painting
that appears to be governed mainly by a sense of design and to eschew any effect of narrative is at the same time suggestive of deeply
personal emotions.
Lily educates Mr. Bankes on postimpressionist principles when
she tells him that a mother and child, perhaps the most tender sub-
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ject of traditional art, can be represented by a purple triangle without disrespect. Vanessa Bell sometimes painted her friends and even
Virginia with blank featureless faces. Lilys finished painting will very
likely appear impersonal in the sense that no recognizable human
figures will be visible in it. At the same time Lilys own emotions affect the very gestures she makes with her brush. Woolf makes it explicit that Lilys art contains the residue of her life. Fiction is
different from painting in this regard; fiction cannot take leave of
the personal so readily as painting can. Woolf is, after all, drawing
upon her own experiences including her grief for her parents, but
at the same time she believes, along with her fellow modernist writers of the period, that fiction should be impersonal and detached
from the ego of the artist. She addresses this paradox in various essays, most notably Modern Fiction and Mr. Bennett and Mrs.
Brown. In rejecting the unexamined mimesis of earlier fictionan
approach that assumed an easy, natural affinity between descriptive
fiction and lifeWoolf proposes a newly invented and more distilled form of mimesis in which life is represented through the
atoms of consciousness rather than external description, resulting in greater verisimilitude in portraying human experience. To the
Lighthouse exhibits this kind of selectivity and abstraction, becoming,
in a way somewhat different from Lilys painting, both personal and
impersonal at once.
Once Lily gets into the rhythm of her painting, she feels the leisure to contemplate an enormous question posed so baldly as to
seem almost comical: What is the meaning of life? (161). The
process of painting provokes her to question lifes meaning even as
it hales her away from her everyday reality. Lilys answerthat
there is never to be a great revelation but only the little daily
miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark
brings her back to her motivation as an artist, for the small illuminations of life include her attempts at art (161). The metaphor of
illuminations is similar to the luminous halo of consciousness
described in Modern Fiction and to the moments of being in
A Sketch of the Past. The metaphor of illuminations is a spatial
one, giving the image of a dark space lighted, although Woolf also
stresses its brevity, like a match flame. Lily thinks of art in temporal
terms as making of the moment something permanent as in her
own way Mrs. Ramsay did: In the midst of chaos there was shape;
this eternal passing and flowing (she looked at the clouds going and
the leaves shaking) was struck into stability (161). (Note that
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Woolf s sentence itself embodies a contradiction: it declares the possibility of permanence even as the parenthetical statement, which
for Woolf usually contains the more insistent truth, proclaims the
mutability of all things.) In Lilys revelation there is nothing particularly mystical: just as Mrs. Ramsay has created an illusion of permanence by the force of her personality, living on in memories of
selected moments, so too Lily as an artist can seem to make clouds
and leaves, emblems of ephemerality, stand still in her painting.
Having made a connection between herself and Mrs. Ramsay and
between art and life, Lily experiences a moment of harmony: the
thought of Mrs. Ramsay seemed in consonance with this quiet
house; this smoke; this fine early morning air (161). The word
consonance echoes Stephen Dedaluss Thomistic term consonantia, which he translates as harmony, one of the elements required
in order for beauty to be apprehended. Roger Fry also speaks of
rhythm and harmony as essential elements of the artistic vision.
Woolf hints at similar aesthetic principles, but she emphasizes the
internal tensions of a work of art more than Joyce and Fry do. And
she implies that the internal tensions of the painting represent the
distillation of the artists psychological struggles as she works to
achieve her vision. Woolf allows Lily to experience a temporary
sense of consonancewith herself, her art, and her worldbefore
she goes on to do battle with the most menacing obstacles she must
confront before completing the painting: death, loss, and grief.
Grief, the nexus of the presence and absence of the past, overwhelms Lily while she is painting, almost as though grief were a necessary part of the artistic process. Lilys work, like the novel itself,
has an elegiac pattern: in order to complete the painting she has to
descend to the nadir of grief, of longing and emptinessto want
and want and not to haveand temporarily surmount it (202). At
the moment when Lilys grief reaches a climax and she cries out
Mrs. Ramsays name and bursts into tears, Woolf produces a horrifying objective correlative: in the boat Macalisters boy cuts a square
of flesh from the side of a fish and throws the live, mutilated fish
back into the sea. So too, Woolf suggests, life treats all who have suffered loss. Her feeling of psychological mutilation drives Lily back
to her painting. It seems that Woolf s keen sense of human suffering
serves to strengthen, even motivate, her commitment to art. In A
Sketch of the Past she writes that by putting the shock and pain of
life into words she gives reality and wholeness to the real thing behind appearances and this wholeness means that it has lost its
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power to hurt me.29 Lily, feeling that a part of her has been torn
out, works on her painting as she simultaneously reconstructs moments of the life of her friend until she finally sees Mrs. Ramsay
beyond the window pane, knitting and casting a shadow on the step,
not as an apparition but as a real person, a part of ordinary experience living on in memory (202). Mrs. Ramsay and the past are both
present and absent at the same time.
The completion of the painting means for Lily, so she hopes, the
creation of something whole compounded out of artistry and vision
and motivated by love: painters, she thinks, are among the larger
category of lovers whose gift it was to choose out the elements of
things and place them together and so, giving them a wholeness not
theirs in life, make of some scene, or meeting of people (all now
gone and separate), one of those globed compacted things over
which thought lingers, and love plays (192). The creative process
here, involving selectivity, vision and wholeness, seems straight out
of Roger Frys essay, but Woolf expands the category of creative people to include Mrs. Ramsay. By making Mrs. Ramsay integral to Lilys
creative process, Woolf acknowledges the creativity of women of earlier generations who never dreamed of becoming artists. Psychologically, Lilys painting represents a triumph over the voice of Mr.
Tansley, and it contains the experience of her grief. Even the formalists never denied the emotional content of a work of art: the drawn
line, writes Roger Fry, is the record of a gesture, and that gesture
is modified by the artists feeling which is thus communicated to us
directly.30 And yet Lilys painting also has a separate existence,
apart from the life that inspired it, and it represents an attempt to
embody an ideal form. It may be useful here to distinguish between
the idea of wholeness and the achievement of it. Up until the moment when Lily completes her painting, she sees it as ephemeral,
destined at best to be hung in attics, and yet somehow solid and permanent, like the arch of a cathedral. This paradox is reinforced by
Mr. Carmichaels imagined elegiac gesture of blessing the scene by
bestrewing violets and asphodels, flowers representing the
ephemeral and the eternal. Lilys painting, Woolf implies, is both
ephemeral and permanent.
Although Lily finally sees her completed painting, the reader does
not. From various hints it can be surmised that the painting depicts
a part of the house, including a white wall, the window, steps, a
hedge, and trees. The main colors are greens and blues, with
touches of violet, brown, and red. The colors are the most vibrantly
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artists was usually tentative, their aesthetic goals often vague or unarticulated and their achievements spotty at best. Writing in the 1920s,
when opportunities for women in the arts were opening up
although painting still lagged far behind fiction in that regard
Woolf captures a woman painter at moments of breakthrough, not
into professionalism, but into serious exploration of the emotional
and intellectual possibilities of her art. At this time in her career
Woolf found it possible to synthesize her aesthetic and political views
into a single narrative; that is, to espouse the notion of high art as
consistent with a feminist viewpoint. Later in her career her growing
anger at the worlds injustice and brutality would cause her to alter
the forms and genres of her writing and she would come to reject
the idea that art can validly occupy some high plateau above the fray.
But in To the Lighthouse Woolf s inclusive view of creativity proves to
be consistent with a rather moderate feminist stance. Her broad category of all of those who possess creative or artistic sensibilities and
love their work, that great clan, includes not only modern thinkers, writers, and painters but also women of an earlier generation
who exercised creativity and love within the constraints of the domestic realm. Woolf discovers an affinity and continuity between the
household manager and the artist, between Mrs. Ramsay and Lily,
implying that women always have had creative powers. As Christopher Reed and others have pointed out, modernism was congenial
to feminism and to womens art because the principles of modernism encouraged a certain detachment and inventiveness which
tended to preclude older patriarchal conventions.
Unlike earlier fictional painters, Lily Briscoe does not allow men
to distract her for long; she hangs on to her paintbrush. Lily forms
an enduring friendship with Mr. Bankes, resisting Mrs. Ramsays silent scheme of matchmaking for the two of them. She internalizes
the hectoring voice of Mr. Tansley but eventually triumphs over that
voice by proving it wrong. And she successfully fends off Mr. Ramsays demands for attention by means of an intelligent compromise:
she will give him something, but not her full attention. Choosing to
paint, Lily abandons all thought of romantic love, although To the
Lighthouse is not so insistent on the incompatibility of love and art as
The Story of Avis is. In setting and symbol, The Awakening more nearly
anticipates To the Lighthouse, but Edna Pontellier, with her romantic
distractions and inattentiveness to the world, seems practically the
opposite of Lily Briscoe, with her seriousness of purpose and keen
observations of life. Jane Eyre, oddly enough, is the fictional woman
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4
Figure and Ground: The Portrait Painter in
Iris Murdoch and Anna Banti
The work of art may seem to be a limited whole enclosed in a
circle, but because of contingency and the muddled nature of
the world and the imperfections of language the circle is always
broken.
Iris Murdoch, Metaphysics as a Guide to Morals
Her weapons were to paint with ever increasing boldness and ferocity, with heavy shadows, stormy light, brush strokes like the
blows of a sword.
Anna Banti, Artemisia
HISTORICALLY, PORTRAITS WERE COMMISSIONED TO DISPLAY ACHIEVEment or rank and to bestow fame rather than to reveal the psyche.
Portraits especially engage the viewers interest, though, when they
illuminate human character and arouse curiosity about the individuality of the sitter. The portrait painter is the type of painter whose
task most closely resembles that of the novelist, the representation
of human character. A novelist who portrays a portrait painter creates an alter ego, a fictional sister artist who will, in turn, portray the
character of her subject.
Anna Bantis Artemisia (1953, trans. Shirley DArdia Caracciolo)
and Iris Murdochs The Sandcastle (1957) both depict professional
women portrait painters who succeed in their work but who, like the
painters in earlier fiction, find that their artistic careers are incompatible with love and marriage. Bantis novel relates to the history of
art; Murdochs, to the philosophy of art. Banti creates a fictional version of the real-life Baroque painter Artemisia Gentileschi, stressing
her struggles for recognition, the arduous journeys she undertakes,
and the sacrifices she makes for her art. Banti impressionistically
evokes the colors and textures of seventeenth-century Europe through
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her painterly use of color, light, motion, and scenes of daily life.
Although almost all of Gentileschis surviving works depict biblical
or mythological subjects, painted from models, Banti chooses to represent her mainly as a portrait painter, so that, with certain exceptions, the embedded paintings in the novel are imagined ones.
Rain Carter, the painter in The Sandcastle, works throughout the
novel on a commissioned portrait of a retired headmaster; as in To
the Lighthouse the painting and the novel unfold simultaneously. A
comic novel with a somber ending, The Sandcastle is narrated mainly
from the point of view of Bill Mor, a discontented middle-aged British schoolmaster, married with teenage children, who falls in love
with the young painter. Mor and Rain tentatively plan to run away
together, but human frailty and a family crisis combine to thwart
their romance. Rain Carter ends up, like Artemisia and Lily Briscoe,
a solitary figure. As in many of Murdochs novels, the eventful plot
raises philosophical issues, in this instance issues having to do with
duty, honor, desire, and the nature and value of art. Although she is
seen mainly through Mors eyes, Rain the artist is the most dynamic
and spontaneous character in the novel and the one who embodies
Murdochs own aesthetic ideas.
What these two novels significantly have in common, despite their
obvious differences, is that both of the women artists have been professionally trained and deeply influenced by their fathers. The
father provides the wayin the case of Artemisia, the only possible
wayfor the woman painter to enter into the male-dominated
mainstream of art. By conversing inwardly with their absent fathers,
the real Orazio Gentileschi and the fictional Sidney Carter, the
painters enter into dialogue with inherited artistic tradition. Like
every other fictional artist discussed so far in this study, both characters are motherless. This conspicuous absence of a mother may have
something to do with the development of the artist: the half-orphaned
girl feels an urge toward self-creation through art, or perhaps she
simply escapes strong indoctrination in traditional female roles and
therefore can seize an opportunity to make her way in her fathers
world. The paternal tutor provides both an entrance into an artistic
vocation and the technical expertise upon which the artist can begin
to base her own style.
Artemisia, both the real artist and the character, assumes the
point of view, rules of perspective, and typical subject matter of the
male artists who precede her, but she alters the presentation of that
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does not dwell on the professional difficulties that the patronage system presented for all artists, particularly the rare woman artist. The
historical Artemisias surviving letters to her patrons, probably dictated to a scribe, show her to be proud, forceful, and businesslike.
She complains that male painters are treated better, and she demands a fair price for her work.
Banti departs from the historical record in order to achieve her
own artistic and thematic purposes. Drawing on the facts of Artemisias life, the novel presents her as an artist hero, but it also raises
the question of how artistic achievements can be measured against
the sacrifices they require and the losses that life inevitably brings.
Artemisia suffers many losses, especially of her husband and father,
as she struggles to create her art. Bantis novel describes her own
struggles as a writer as well as Artemisias as an artist. The opening
third of the novel dramatizes the difficulty of crafting a portrait of
a historical artist in fiction, using the known materialshistorical
records and the extant worksplus imagination to create the figure
of a believable artistic personality. Anna Banti (the pen name of
Lucia Lopresti) appears as a first-person voice in the novel, speaking
to Artemisia and cajoling her to come to life. As the novel opens, the
authoror rather, her first-person, unnamed personais seated in
the Boboli gardens surrounded by refugees after the battle for the
liberation of Florence in 1944. Anna, as she may be called, is
grieving over the loss of a manuscript buried in the rubble of the
battle, her unfinished first version of the book, which contained
my companion from three centuries ago who lay breathing gently
on the hundred pages I had written (4). As Shirley DArdia Caracciolo points out in her afterword to the novel, the intense dialogue
between the author and the artist is thus further complicated by the
intrusion of this character from the first version, her own lost Artemisia (217). In the first part of the novel, Anna tries to recapture both her lost fictional Artemisia and the more remote historical
artist. The authors relationship to the painter is extraordinarily intimate, but at the same time Artemisia remains elusive and difficult to
conjure up; I carry Artemisia around with me in fragments,
Anna says (40). Anna sees herself as Artemisias storyteller, her
spokesperson, and her witness for the defense. The dialogue between the artist and the painter, implicit in the novels of Kate
Chopin and Virginia Woolf, here becomes explicit, yet it is frustrating because the painter remains silent. Artemisia belongs to a world
almost too remote to speak to Anna, but she is also silent in the
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sense that she lives most fully in the visual realm of art; she thinks
of painting as the language that she speaks. After a difficult search,
Anna finally conjures up Artemisia as a child in early seventeethcentury Rome. Having endured the horror of the rape trial, Artemisia begins to paint still lifes while living in virtual seclusion in her
fathers house at the age of seventeen. (As a victim of rape she would
be considered damaged goods, whereas the rapist seems to have gotten off with nothing more than the embarrassment of a trial.) Banti
traces Artemisias move to Florence and her struggles to survive and
to paint on her own.
Although most of the embedded paintings in the novel are imaginary portraits, Banti makes notable use of two of the most famous
of Artemisias actual paintings, her Judith and Holofernes described
early in the novel and her self-portrait, described at the end. Although five autograph paintings of Judith by Artemisia have survived, the one Banti obviously has in mind is Judith Slaying Holofernes
(c.1620) in the Ufizzi Gallery, the well-known painting in which a
muscular, middle-aged, resolute Judith, assisted by her maidservant,
strenuously decapitates a foreshortened Holofernes, blood spurting
on her dress and seeming to drizzle out of the picture plane. The
powerful Judith, the apocryphal Hebrew heroine who slays the Assyrian general to protect the Israelites, was very likely not a real person
at all; no historical record exists of her or of Holofernes. Often
taken as an allegorical figure for Israel, Judith had been painted
many times, but Artemisias version was unprecedented. In her Judith, Garrard writes, we witness an existential killing, with no heroes and no villains, a murder in the realm outside the law.8 The
painting shocks, not only because of its violence but also because of
the reversal of gender stereotypes in the remorseless, androgynous
figure of Judith.
Banti imaginatively recreates the scene where Artemisia works on
this painting. In her version, the fictional Artemisia paints the beheading as an act of symbolic vengeance upon her rapist, but her
motives are more complex than that. In the process of painting she
attains a sense of control and perfected technique; this achievement
allows her to speak the language of her fathers art and also to
redeem the young Artemisia desperate to be justified, to be
avenged, to be in command (46). Banti has Artemisia look into the
mirror for the face of Judith, a plausible surmise. As she labors in
her studio, five well-dressed women sit around gossiping and watching her finish the painting. Inventing the figure of Anastasio the
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Greek giant to serve as a model for Holofernes, Banti gives the scene
a surprising twist when Artemisia glimpses the flash of a knife blade
out of the corner of her eye. Inspired by the completed painting,
the five visiting gossips are on the verge of attacking Anastasio with
the knife. Artemisia screams at the model to put his clothes on and
run for his life. This scene is grotesquely comical because of the
break with decorum and the total lack of conscious motivation on
the part of the women so ready to castrate or murder the gigantic
male. This vignette allows Banti to show the subversiveness of the
painting and its shock value. Because she cannot reproduce the
painting in the novel, Banti provides a moment of black comedy to
indicate how radical a work of art it is, nearly inspiring an act of
mayhem.
While the major struggle of Artemisias life is to gain recognition
as a painter and praise from her father, who continually distances
himself from her, she, like earlier fictional painters, experiences a
conflict between art and love. In Bantis version, the marriage to Antonio is a mere formality to save Artemisias reputation, but some
time later she returns to him in Rome and spends a couple of years
with him and his colorful extended family of pimps, thieves, and
fake beggars. The brief interval with Antonio provides Artemisia
some short-lived happiness. But unlike most of the works discussed
earlier, Bantis novel shows the conflict between art and Eros to be
almost entirely an inward one, a struggle in Artemisias own tormented psyche between her restless ambition and her need for love.
Antonio, a gentle, innocent fellow who makes his living as a peddler
and trader, does not interfere with Artemisias work. She lives with
him in a hovel, feeling delighted pleasure in belonging at last to
someone. He brings her gifts from his trade. But then she receives
the offer of a commission for several portraits which carries with it
the use of a lavish apartment with a salon, a carriage, and a footman.
As Artemisia packs up her portable easel and other belongings, she
feels oddly victimized, as though she herself were the subject of injustice. She longs to reach out to Antonio with gestures of affection,
but it was like hearing heartrending music and not being able to
follow it (78). Although Antonio accompanies her to the new
home, his sweet nature changes; he is unable to adapt to the lavish
surroundings, becoming obtuse and sleeping apart from her. The
victim of uncontrollable emotions of anger and spite that she does
not understand, Artemisia drives him away with her bitter words, all
the time hating herself for doing so.
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mastery of the Caravaggesque style in a work of great realism, concentration, and focus. It displays a fusion of artist and art (done with
hidden mirrors) and of the ideal and the real. The face she paints
as the personification of the art of painting is not Annellas or Everywomans; it is her own face. A bid for fame and glory is what inspired
most self-portraits in the Renaissance. Volker Manuth points out
that the revival of the notion of individual glory gradually carried
over into the world of artists, and in particular the evolution of the
self-portrait has to do with the artists desire for improved professional standing.11 The historical Artemisia masterfully portrays herself as a master artist. Banti, in trying to universalize her feminist
theme, negates the face and hand of the artist depicted in the embedded work. If Artemisia is so readily identified with Judith the destroyer, a somewhat more tenuous connection, why does Banti not
connect her with the allegorical artist as well? That Banti doubts Artemisias presentation of herself seems particularly ironic in the light
of Bantis own self-portrayal; Anna has a strong presence in the
novel as a writer deeply engaged in the project of finding and sustaining a vision of Artemisia.
The novel ends with Artemisia in bed experiencing a visceral
struggle between her new-found strength and the bodily pains and
thoughts of death that suddenly arise in her: She closed the curtains round the bed, extinguished the lamp. It was a while before
she fell asleep: she had a bad night (214). This ending is ambiguous: it is unclear whether Artemisia is simply experiencing loneliness
and grief or whether she is undergoing the first twinges of a fatal
disease. Banti is evidently deeply committed to a modernist aesthetic
that insists upon indeterminacy and multifacetedness. She has in effect given the reader several alternative endings from which to
choose: Artemisias reunion with her father (a strong completion of
her emotional and artistic quest), the painting of the portrait supposedly of Annella (an opening out of the novel to aspiring
women), the visit of Anna to the painting in England and the closing of a book (a definitive conclusion of the search for Artemisia),
or the scene of Artemisia falling asleep (an ambiguous fade-out).
These final events imply an underlying aesthetic principle of the unfinished in Bantis novel.
Iris Murdoch embraces the idea of the openness of a work of art in
a somewhat different way. Like Virginia Woolf, she carried on a lifelong dialogue with the visual arts. Works of art figure prominently
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in many of her novels, although The Sandcastle is the only one of her
twenty-six novels to feature a woman painter. Murdoch also explores
aspects of aesthetics in her philosophical writings, but she does not
write about aesthetics separately from metaphysics and morals because, as a Platonist of sorts, she sees them as intertwined aspects of
ones journey through life. Murdoch believes that a work of art is
necessarily and almost by definition open to the world. In Metaphysics as a Guide to Morals, she writes that the art object is a kind of
illusion, a false unity, the product of a mortal man who cannot entirely dominate his subject matter and remove or transform contingent rubble and unclarified personal emotions and attitudes.12
Good art also relates to the psychology of the self, illuminating the
lack of perfect wholeness in both the artist and the observer. Murdoch writes:
We seek in art of all kinds for the comforting sense of a unified self, with
organized emotions and fearless world-dominating intelligence, a complete experience in a limited whole. Yet good art mirrors not only the
(illusory) unity of the self but its real disunity.13
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Parliament. When Mor meets the painter Rain, who arrives to paint
the retired headmaster Demoyte, he is intrigued by her youth, her
childlike smallness, her fierce dedication to her profession, and her
wild spontaneity. In a very funny scene, Mor goes on what seems like
an innocent spin with Rain in her auto, they turn toward a river on
a dirt road, manage to mire the car on the riverbank, and then,
thanks to their efforts to free it, the car plunges into the river and
overturns. Afterward, Mor writes a letter to Rain explaining why he
does not intend to reveal this event to his wife. Mors childrens discovery of this letter leads them to believe that he is engaged in an
illicit affair before it actually happens, and the children work in secret to keep their family intact.
Rain comes to represent to Mor all that is absent from his life: art,
spontaneity, nature, and the allure of the warm southshe has lived
most of her life on the coast of southern France. His passion for her
develops almost unconsciously at first, but he becomes painfully
conscious of it when he sees her on top of a ladder dressed in flowing sea-green silk posing for a drawing class at the school. Rain at
once intuits his feelings, and she calls his name softly before running off. It is ironic that the acknowledgment of their love occurs at
a moment when Rain has surrendered her role as painter to become
instead a subject of art, with all gazes upon her, a moment reminiscent of the similar reversal in Emma. For her part, Rain had earlier
fallen in love with Mor as, like Avis, she sat sketching him. It is evident that this new-found passion for Mor does her art no good, for
she draws him as younger and more handsome than he is. Although
both Rain and Mor struggle against their feelings, they end up
spending a rather innocent romantic night together at Mors house,
only to have Nan discover them when she unexpectedly returns
from the seashore in the morning.
Although the attraction between Rain and Mor seems genuine
she opens a new world to him, and he offers her her first real
lovea variety of forces conspire against them, and the events that
follow raise issues having to do with the uses of power and with
moral choice. Nan is the most willful of the characters in the novel,
and in the face of a threat to her marriage and family, she becomes
the Avenging Angel in the House. Nan wreaks vengeance upon Rain
and upon the incipient affair by means of an after-dinner speech,
delivered on the occasion of the dedication of the portrait. In the
speech Nan unexpectedly announces that Mor will be running for
Parliament in the fall, a possibility that he never mentioned to Rain.
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Rain is crushed that Mor could have made any plans that did not
include both of them, and she virtually gives up on Mor at that
point. Although Nans fierce desire to hold her family together may
seem to put her morally in the right, Murdochs moral philosophy,
like her aesthetics, views such attempts to dominate the other as misguided; the end does not justify the means.
The Sandcastle offers variations on the uses of power. Whereas Nan
achieves dominance over her husband by sheer determination and
force of will, losing it for a time but regaining it at the end of the
novel, her children, especially her daughter Felicity, try to control
events through magic. In an attempt to exorcise Rain from their
family, Felicity performs an elaborate ritual involving herbs, Tarot
cards, and a kind of voodoo. Felicity evidently unleashes a real force,
for their fathers affair does end after the crisis of his sons nearly
falling from the schools tower, an event that pulls Mor back into
the family circle. Felicity resembles her enemy Rain: she is highly
imaginative, creative, and spontaneous. But her magic, though
thrillingly dangerous, constitutes a lower form of creativity than art.
Magic seeks to dominate: it wants to affect the future and order
events rather than to attend to the presences in the world, but it is
just the attention to and celebration of presences that, according to
Murdoch, is the true power of art.
The most important forces opposing the romance of Mor and
Rain, however, are internal psychological factors, and it is here that
the incompatibility of art and romance becomes evident. The eccentric art master Bledyard tries to warn Mor to stay away from Rain,
citing the damage to his family but also adding, A painter can only
paint what he is. You will prevent her from being a great painter.19
Mor is wildly enraged by these words, probably because he sees some
truth in them. At the dinner where Nan makes her startling announcement that Mor plans to run for Parliament as a Labour candidate, Mor misses his one opportunity to go to Rain and explain
himself: A lifetime of conformity was too much for him. He stayed
where he was (294). Although Mors lack of action at this moment
may seem morally right with regard to his family, it feels like a defeat. If Mor is finally so rooted in conformity as not to seize the love
offered, he probably would have been a detriment to Rains art.
Also, he is haunted by the question of whether Rain might be looking for a father substitute. This is a plausible suspicion, since Rain,
an only child whose mother died when she was very young, is grieving for her father, who has recently died and to whom she was ex-
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traordinarily close. Rain says that she cannot remember a time when
she was not painting with her father, an acclaimed artist, standing at
her side. Although Rain is a sophisticated professional painter, she
has remained emotionally and romantically inexperienced; her jealous father kept all suitors at bay. Although her feelings for Mor appear genuine and powerful, she is also lonely, vulnerable, and
bereaved. Given the intensity of her relationship to the late Spencer
Carter, it seems likely that she unconsciously sees Mor as a father
figure.
Like Artemisia, Rain is attached to her father through her art; her
style is so similar to his that Mor cannot tell them apart at an exhibition. Her father has imparted to her both his theory and techniques
of portrait painting. When she begins to work on the portrait of Demoyte, she hears her fathers voice speaking to her saying, Dont
forget that a portrait must have depth, mass, and decorative qualities. Dont be so fascinated by the head, or by the space, that you
forget that a canvas is also a flat surface with edges which touch the
frame. Part of your task is to cover that surface with a pattern (103).
Her fathers recollected advice on the handling of figure and
ground helps her to get started. The tension that she is aware of
between pattern and representationor, to put it differently, between the paintings decorative and representational qualitiesis
somewhat similar to Lilys Briscoes tension of butterfly and cathedral arch. Rain needs to discover a motif that, when repeated, will
create a pattern in the portrait. She finds her motif in a certain recurrent curve in the old mans wrinkled face, and this curve, very
small and frequently repeated in his lips, nose, and forehead, serves
to reveal his character, the point where the amusement was
merged into tolerance and the sarcasm into sadness (103). Early
on in the process, then, Rain discovers a way to fuse representation
and pattern.
Rain must also find a way to unite figure and ground. For part of
the background she will paint the Gothic tower of the school beyond
the window, but another part of the background consists of a rich
golden hanging rug in Demoytes collection of valuable rugs. The
rug repeats the curve motif from the face and also shows Demoytes
aesthetic sensibility, his passion for the ornate patterns of his collection. Like Matisse and other modernists as well as many recent
women painters, Rain incorporates decorative art into her painting,
blurring the supposed distinction between decorative art and
high art. She worries that the motif she has chosen may seem too
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sweet but relies upon the strength and mass of the old mans head
to counteract that sweetness. Thus, as with Lily Briscoes painting,
the work of art that begins to emerge is the result of much questioning, and the tensions that have tugged at the painter will be evident
in the finished work: representation versus pattern, figure versus
ground, strength versus sweetness.
Even though Rains father has provided entree into the world of
art, and she has already achieved recognition, including an exhibit
in London, she has to make extra efforts to establish her credentials
because she is a woman. Even Demoyte, referring to her diminutive
size, repeats the stale joke about a performing animal, though not
in her presence: Shes rather like a clown or a performing dogin
fact, very like a performing dog, with a pretty jacket on and a bow
on its tail, so anxious to please (199). One recalls that Aviss father
called her a monkey playing tunes on a hand organ but then sent
her to Europe to study art. The crusty old Demoyte, seeing and secretly approving Mors attraction to Rain, is only teasing. Demoyte
is, in fact, a closet feminist who even offers to pay Mors daughters
college tuition so that she can have an education equal to her
brothers.
Rain also takes pains to establish her credentials with Mor. Alone
with him in the art room of the school, she suddenly twirls on her
heels, picks up a brush full of red paint, and in the blink of an eye
draws a nearly perfect circle on a sheet of white paper. She then
mentions to Mor the story of Giottos having painted a perfect circle.
The story to which Rain alludes, in Vasaris Lives of the Artists, describes how a courtier came to Giotto from the Pope asking for a
sample of his work so that he could compete for important commissions in Rome. Taking a sheet of paper and a brush dipped in red,
Giotto supposedly drew an absolutely perfect circle with a swift twist
of the hand. Although other artists sent drawings to the Pope, Giotto
got the commission for paintings in St. Peters on the basis of his
circle, according to Vasari.20 Rain says that the story impressed her
as a child, and I used to practice it, as if it were a guarantee of success (50). Perhaps even as a child Rain intuited that she would
need a trick or two to establish her right to practice her art; what
could be better than a show of virtuosity that also alludes to the great
Renaissance tradition that, in a sense, began with Giotto? It may
seem surprising that Murdoch represents art here as a closed circle,
since the broken circle is her figure for the true nature of art, its
openness. But Murdoch never denies that a work of art creates the
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illusion of wholeness and closure, and Rains circle is, after all, not
quite perfect.
The discussions about art in The Sandcastle emphasize the unique
qualities of portrait painting as a genre and also underscore the idea
of the openness of art. Even before she begins the painting Rain
stresses that a portrait is a result of the artists vision and not a simple
reproduction of what the artist sees:
Where the human face is concerned, we interpret what we see more immediately and more profoundly than any other object. A person looks
different when we know himhe may even look different as soon as we
know one particular thing about him. (45)
Rain believes that in order to create an authentic portrait of Demoyte she must come to understand his inner nature. She engages
in a debate with the art master Bledyard, who, evidently more of a
theorist than a painter, presents a radical and self-parodying version
of Murdochs own idea of presences. Bledyard says, when we are in
the presence of another human being, we are not confronted by an
object . . . We are confronted by God (76). A religious man, Bledyard insists that in order to paint a portrait one should be a saint,
and saints do not have time to paint. Bledyard is a kind of holy fool.
His annual lecture to the school is regarded as a joke because of
his tautologies and his stammer, and yet during the lecture Bledyard
endearingly falls into silent bewilderment when he stands before a
slide of a Rembrandt self-portrait, probably the famous Self Portrait
with Two Circles at Kenwood House. He simply acknowledges the
paintings presence and greatness with his silence. And despite Bledyards intellectual eccentricities, he will later provide the most telling and useful criticism of Rains portrait.
Rain and Bledyard agree that every portrait is a self-portrait.
Rain says, In portraying you I portray myself (106). Rain is, of
course, not the first to assert such a hypothesis. An Italian adage
going back to the fifteenth century says, Ogni pittore dipinge se
(every painter paints himself ).21 Rain argues that there is a somatic
basis for this hypothesis: we feel our own face, as the three-dimensional mass, from withinand when we try in a painting to realize
what another persons face is, we come back to the experience of
our own (107). If the artists rendering of the subjects face inevitably contains some element of self-portraiture, as Rain insists, then
that is another way in which the work of art is open to the external
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world, not self-contained. As Wallace Stevens writes about an imaginary portrait in his poem So-and-so Reclining on her Couch,
She is half who made her.22
When Rain displays the nearly finished portrait of Demoyte, Mor
finds it extraordinarily good. He feels that he is really seeing the
man for the first time, seeing him as he looks when he is alone, his
massive head emerging forcefully from the decorative background.
Bledyard insists, however, that although the painting is good, it is
too beautiful. It reveals Demoytes character but not his mortality,
and the head is not seen as a conjunction of masses (169). Rain
readily agrees with these criticisms. There is no better evidence of
Mors deleterious effect upon her work than the fact that she is
tempted to leave the painting as it is when she becomes involved
with Mor. It is only after the dedication dinner and their subsequent
break-up that Mor finds her seated on a ladder in her flowing, paintspattered evening gown, tearfully reworking the painting. This scene
echoes and reverses the one in which he revealed his love to her as
she posed on a ladder as a model; here, the love is defeated but she
is back in control of the artistic process. She tells him that she realizes that she can paint wherever she goes, but that wandering would
be no life for him. She admits that the death of her father may have
driven her into the romance, and she sends Mor away so that she
can work. Mor does not see the finished painting until after Rain has
departed in the night, leaving it as her final statement. Demoytes
head is now shown as more solid, uglier, with the expression emerging from within the depths of the face rather than from the surface
details.
The other embedded paintings in the novel are Rains French
works, which she and Mor view along with works by her father in a
London gallery at a time when their love seems possible. These
paintings show the openness of her art, but they also exclude Mor
by depicting her private world, a world that he could never inhabit:
Almost all were either pictures of the house, or of the landscape near it,
or self-portraits, or portraits of each other, by the father and daughter.
. . . Mor looked with bewilderment and a kind of deeply pleasurable distress upon this vivid southern world, where the sun scattered the sea at
noon-day with jagged and dazzling patches of light, or drew it upward
limpidly light blue into the sky at morning, where the white house with
the patchy plaster walls was stunned and dry at noon, or shimmering
with life in the granulous air of the evening, as it looked one way into
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the sea, and the other way across the dusty flowers and into the mountains. (240)
The serial paintings of the house from different sides and at different times of day provide a variety of angles and points of view upon
the world of Rain and her father, suggesting an aesthetic of the unfinished. Rains house stands on the edge of land and sea: her position is liminal like that of other artists. To Mor, who had not even
realized that Rain had inherited a house, the paintings come as a
revelation. He sees her true home, which is also both her subject
matter and her studio, as mysterious and multifaceted. The dazzling,
shimmering light of the sun, reflected off the sea and the white plaster walls of the house, illuminates her world, making her vision of it
seem numinous. One is reminded of the radiance of Lilys painting
and of Virginia Woolf s rhetorical question, How can I bring the
sun on to my page? When Mor asks Rain if there is a path to the
house, she replies, No, you have to push your way through (239).
Rains house excludes Mor, not because it belongs to the sunny
world of France, but because it belongs to the silent kingdom of art,
where he has no place. The paintings reveal what means most to her,
and in doing so they foreshadow the end of their romance.
The exhibit also includes a self-portrait Rain painted when she
was nineteen, showing her leaning over the keyboard of a piano:
out of a haze of colour her presence emerged with great vividness,
bathed in the light and atmosphere of a southern room (238). The
self-portrait highlights Rains presence, but it also, like Artemisias,
establishes her credentials as an artist. Another portrait, which Rain
did of her father, shows him also surrounded by light, or haloed
from behind, as he stands in a doorway wearing a casual white suit,
his face in shadow, the brilliant expanse of the sea behind him. He
seems mysterious and godlike, the man who occupied the threshold
of her world.
The last of Rains pictures that Mor looks at is complicated and
revealing. It is a large canvas, depicting Rains father sitting behind
a table covered with books and papers. Next to him on the table is a
big, gilt-framed mirror that reflects Rain at work on the painting and
a foreshortened version of the painting itself. The use of a mirror in
a painting reflecting the artist or some aspect of the real world is, of
course, an old device, famously employed by Jan Van Eyck in Marriage of Giovanni Arnolfini and Giovanna Cenami (1434) and by other
artists over the centuries. The artist in Margaret Atwoods Cats Eye
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frequently paints such mirror images. Whatever else the use of the
mirror does in a painting, it opens the painting to the world beyond
itself. In this case the world of the painting opens into the illusory
real world of the novel, defying the border between the arts. The
painting also reveals extreme intimacy between the father and
daughter, since her reflected face is very close to his as they gaze
intently and silently upon each other. At the same time, the mystery
of the subject is preserved. The painting is technically open to the
world, via the mirror, but emotionally closed to Mor or anyone else,
as the viewer observes the totally private world of father and daughter artist. The circle is both broken and unbroken.
In both Artemisia and The Sandcastle there exists a conundrum, virtually a paradox, in that although the father and daughter share a
secret world of arthermetic, exclusivetheir art is also open to
the world in the ways that have been illustrated. Lily Briscoes work
also exhibited this mysteriousness. Perhaps all representational art
shares some of this double nature, offering a glimpse of the artists
seemingly exclusive private vision, which, as Murdoch says, due to
contingency and the muddled nature of the world can never be
wholly self-contained. Portrait painting and figure painting in particular look both inward and outward, revealing the artists version of a
human presence that, although it contains something of the artists
presence, is by its nature mysterious and not her own.
Both novels also embody a story of near-mythic proportions in
which the father provides an entrance, gives birth, to the daughter artist, leading her into the mainstream of artistic traditiona tradition that he represents. Absurdly counterfactual as the notion of
a father giving birth is, that story line has considerable currency in
Western civilization via the myth in Genesis as well as the birth of
Athena. The daughter later discovers that her newly launched career as an artist is not compatible with romantic love. Then the
father artist dies. In Bantis versionalthough not historically
Artemisia seems defeated by his death and ready to die herself. Artemisias defeat in Bantis novel may be a reflection of Annas
distress at the defeated and war-torn world around her. Banti does,
however, express hope and encouragement for women artists who
will come in the future. Rain Carter, on the other hand, seeks a
father-substitute in her lover, only to realize sadly but wisely that she
must continue on her own. The novel does not end with a Joycean
epiphanyin fact it ends with Felicity sobbing helplessly about all
that has occurredbut Rain exits the novel and is released into the
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5
Painters of the Irish Coast:
Jennifer Johnston and Deirdre Madden
This image of a critically positioned figure, a figure who is neither here nor there, at some notional interface, may be traced
back . . . to some deep-seated sense of liminality that was, and is,
central to the Irish psyche.
Paul Muldoon, To Ireland, I
The first thing the reader learns about Helen is that she is isolated: her studio is a shed with a wall of windows facing the Atlantic
Ocean, a situation that offers a view of the sea and invites her to turn
her back upon the land. Like Artemisia Gentileschi and Rain Carter,
Helen has learned that isolation is the price she must pay for her
art; ironically, however, this isolation affords her no insulation from
the violence of Irish political life. Perhaps it is merely a coincidence
that Jennifer Johnstons novel and Deirdre Maddens Nothing is Black
(1994) both have as their central characters single women artists of
very modest means living alone in isolated cottages and painting on
the seacoast in Donegal. Both artists are aspiring professionals preparing for exhibitions, and both find inspiration in the bleakly beautiful seashore setting. Helen lives near a broad bay between a bare
132
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stony headland and a sandy spit, a vista of dunes, rocks, and sparse
bushes. Maddens protagonist Claire (no surname) lives in a small
rented stone house that stands on a headland at the end of a road,
with hills rising steeply behind it. Claire thinks that to appreciate the
bleak magnificence of the Donegal coast requires a special way of
seeing. Because of the Atlantic winds, the landscape is always in motion, and she liked the colours, not bright, but often vivid, with the
contrasts of the low, soft plants against stone.2
These fictional painters subsist liminally in a literal sense, living
on the periphery of a nation, and in a metaphoric sense, as in Carolyn Heilbruns description of creative women existing in a liminal
state psychologically and culturally. Helen explains to her lover
Roger, I like to live on the edge of things (113). The two artists
sense of living on the edge and their intense awareness of place are
not entirely a result of their gender, however; these feelings are
echoed everywhere in Irish poetry and fiction.
The seashore is a prominent setting in Irish literature: the seas
that surround Ireland are drenched in symbolism and historical association.The sea is a path of conquerors and oppressors; a means
of escape or forced exile, especially during the famine and Diaspora;
and a dwelling place of fairies and Celtic gods. Yeats, Singe, Joyce,
and other writers have built in Irish literature an edifice of metaphors describing the sea as the birth mother of thought and speech,
the dwelling place of the supernatural, the setting of fervent meditation, and the pathway to death. Johnston and Madden subtly allude
to this history of sea symbolism. The artists they portray both collect
bits and pieces of things washed up by the sea or found on the
beach. Helen draws in her sketchbook stones, sand, wings, claws,
beaks, sea, an arm, a leg, movement, stillness, which she will later
piece together, she hopes, in her paintings (106). Claire collects
shards and other sea wrack, and she takes comfort in contemplating
the sea with its ancient waves crashing over the detritus of centuries: broken ships, coins, bones, weapons (113). In both novels, the
sea serves as an implicit trope for the long, tragic history of Ireland
and for the fragmentation and disintegration of things brought
about by violence or by times wasting. To piece together the fragments is a daunting challenge for the Irish artist.
This pervasive sense of fragmentation is a major theme in the history of a nation brutally conquered, long oppressed, riddled with
fractious warring parties, and partitioned into two separate and unequal realms, with the North further divided in brutal and senseless
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A serious writer like OBrien might well feel rueful at having inherited such a burden of female symbolism, much of it expressed in
demeaning terms that derive from Irelands long subservient status.
In a country that has until recent times discriminated against
women as much as any nation in Europe, it would be difficult for a
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hardly ever works when Helens son calls from Dublin. Rogers
mad reconstructions parallel Helens paintings as actions opposing the disintegration caused by war and politics. Despite their compatible temperaments, however, Helen refuses Rogers offer of
marriage because of her need for her own space to live and paint
in. Helens son Jack, an aimless and misguided university student,
becomes involved in a secret paramilitary splinter group. During an
attempt to hide munitions in an empty shed at Rogers railway station, Jack causes an auto crash and a subsequent explosion that kills
Jack, Roger, and two lorry drivers who were transporting the bombs.
The immediate cause of this senseless tragedy is Jacks overreaction
to seeing his mother naked with Roger on a couch. In the end Helen
is left only with young Damien, the simple craftsman who becomes
a kind of substitute son, the other men in her life having disappeared like the man in her serial paintings.
The plot of The Railway Station Man is a variation on a persistent
thematic pattern that Elizabeth Butler Cunningford has discovered
in Irish drama and film, stretching from nineteenth-century plays to
several films such as Ryans Daughter and The Crying Game. In this pattern, a decent British military type comes to Ireland, usually with
goodwill toward the Irish, and a love triangle develops among the
Briton, an Irish woman, and an Irish man of strongly patriotic if not
radical political leanings. Notable plays that follow this pattern include George Bernard Shaws John Bulls Other Island, Brendan Behans The Hostage, Brian Friels Translations, and others. Invariably
the British soldier comes to grief; usually he is killed. The Stage
Englishman, Cullingford writes, is doomed as well as beloved.
Blown up on the beach, disappeared in the borderlands, suffocated in a cupboard, or squashed by a Saracen, the British soldier in
Ireland no longer heads for a happy ending.4 This pattern offers a
potent mixture of political and erotic possibilities. As in Brian Friels
Translations, the love affair between the Englishman and the Irish
woman, dangerous as it may be, initially suggests the idea of a rapprochement between the two nations. The violent death of the Englishman, however, dramatizes Irish resentment and resistance. The
Railway Station Man offers a variation on the pattern: the radical patriot who is a rival for Helens attentions is her son rather than a rival
lover, but Jacks Oedipal horror at his mothers affair confirms the
pattern. Johnstons treatment of the intertwined themes of politics
and love, then, follows a well-established motif. In this instance the
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outcome seems fated though senseless: any attempt to love the warscarred, mad Englishman is doomed by Irelands secret violence.
Although the The Railway Station Man deals with the incompatibility of love and politics, its most prominent subject is the opposition
of politics and arta Yeatsean theme, one that creates the tensions
in many of his greatest poems. Yeats was continually torn between
the life of creativity, art, and contemplation on the one hand and
the life of action and politics on the other. Jennifer Johnston uses
intertextual references to Yeats to develop her theme of art versus
politics. As Jack Cuffe and his coconspirator Manus, a far more radical revolutionary and a socialist, pass the Drumcliff churchyard in a
stealthy caravan with their truckload of bombs, Jack begins to recite
Yeatss poem Under Ben Bulben, remembered from his school
days. Manus responds contemptuously, and a telling dialogue ensues:
To hell with Yeats.
Cast a cold eye. . . .
All poets.
On life, on death. Horseman. . . .
The Russians have it right.
. . . pass by.
Prison is the place for poets. (122)
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lazuli, Yeats concedes that works of art, like everything, are ephemeral. Mentioning the exquisite sculptures of Callimachus that lasted
only briefly, Yeats nonetheless insists that it is better to be among the
party of artists and builders than among those who aid in bringing
civilizations to rack. All things fall to ruin and must be rebuilt, but it
is the builders who experience joy.
Johnstons implied view of art is similar to Yeatss: art serves as a
counterbalance to the present terrors as well as to the nightmare of
history. When Jack accuses his mother of refusing to assert political
opinions and trying to avoid the subject of politics altogether, she
becomes evasive:
Well . . . politics perhaps . . . Id rather not . . . be forced to make
judgments. Jack laughed sharply.
One day, mother, your ivory tower will fall down. Then where will
you be? Then youll have to ask questions . . . answer questions . . . draw
conclusions.
If my ivory tower, as you call it, falls down, Ill build another one.
(135)
Although Johnston presents both sides of the debate, she clearly favors Helen, who sees herself as belonging to the party of builders as
opposed to those who, like Jack, cause things to fall to ruin. In the
novels prologue, Helen describes the restoration and fall of Rogers
railway station:
Brambles and scutch had grown up on the permanent way and the platforms were covered with thick grass and weeds. That was until the Englishman bought it about three years ago and he and Damien restored
and refurbished it until you would never have known that it had suffered
nearly forty years neglect. It is now derelict again and the weeds are beginning to take over once more. The engine shed by the level crossing
was almost demolished when the explosion happened. . . . No one has
bothered to rebuild, or even shift the rubble, nor I suppose, will they
ever. . . . The buildings stand there, and will presumably continue to
stand there until they fall down, as a derelict memorial to the deaths of
four men. (3)
The slow ruination, the painstaking rebuilding, and the violent demolition of Rogers railway station exemplify the process of building
and falling that Yeats illustrates in Lapis Lazuli.
As an artist, Helen is one of the builders. In the course of the
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novel she makes a gradual transition from the housewife that she
was to the serious painter that she is to become; the slow flowering
of her creativity counterbalances the violent, destructive path that
Jack and Manus pursue. Helens art is at first rather tentative, her
ambitions modest. She paints some pastoral landscapes in watercolor which she offers for sale at a local jumble sale along with various cast-off items donated by housewives of the village. Roger, whom
she has just met, admires the paintings and buys them, providing
her with encouragement to value her own work more highly; she
begins to feel driven to paint in a more serious way. The next stage
in her development as an artist occurs in a series of epiphanic events
halfway through the novel. Finding a spot on an isolated part of the
beach, Helen draws assiduously in her sketchbook, filling page after
page with observed fragments of things: weeds on a broken shell, a
birds beak probing for food, the curve of the birds leg, a moment
of bursting sea spray. These sketches of fragments of the seashore
mark a turning point in her view of herself as an artist. Helen thinks
of the careful studies in the notebooks of Leonardo; clearly she has
become a much more meticulous student of the world than she was
when she painted her earlier landscapes.
Having worn herself out with this work, Helen undresses and runs
naked into the sea, swimming straight out, heedless of how far out
she has gone as she enjoys the sensuous motions of swimming. Suddenly she panics, gasps, and almost goes under when she realizes
how far from the shore her courage has taken her, but she soon relaxes, floats, and lets the tide carry her back to the strand. This experience can easily be read as a baptism into her new life as an artist
but also as a test of nerve, a trial by water; unlike Edna Pointellier,
Helen has the fortitude to swim out and to return. It is in a metaphoric sense that Lily Briscoe swims in high seas and feels herself to
be naked and exposed as she embarks seriously into the process of
painting; with these metaphors Woolf emphasized Lilys heroism in
her setting out to become a woman artist. Helen literally swims out
naked, but the effect is much the same; she is finding her element,
making strides into a new life.
When Helen returns to the shore, she finds Damien Sweeney
there, holding her towel. Bemused, young Damien takes off his
clothes and goes skipping into the shallows, twirling and kicking up
spray in joyous exuberance. After he gets dressed he discovers that
Helen has been sketching him dancing in the water. Thus begins
Helens first major series of paintings Man on the Beach. Her work
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habits are idiosyncratic: even after she can afford to buy an easel,
she paints crouching over a canvas on the floor in her dressing
gown, chain smoking, hurrying to make best use of the light. As
Helen labors on her first painting in the series, she humorously recalls an argument from her life as a housewife with her late husband
Dan. Discontented Helen is anything but an Angel in the House.
She complains to Dan that the really dreadful, debilitating thing
about housework, domesticity, whatever you like to call it, is that
over and over again youre doing the same bloody thing (108). Ignoring what she is saying, Dan vehemently objects to her use of the
word bloody. Defiantly she continues to use the word to describe
her tasks, until Dan finally tells her that she is a slut:
No, she said sharply. I wish I were. If I were a slut I wouldnt care.
Im just a boring woman with a boring sense of duty. I feel my whole life
is rushing down that bloody sink with the Fairy Liquid bubbles. (109)
This memory is rich in irony, for as Helen has exchanged the boring, repetitive labor of cleaning house for the creative, fruitful labor
of painting, she has indeed become a slut in the old (and Irish)
sense of the word, that is, a careless housekeeper, and she no longer
cares.
Virginia Woolf expresses her aesthetic principles, and Lilys artistic efforts, in terms of tensile forces, a stretching of ones vision to
its utmost limit. Johnstons metaphors are similar, if simpler. She describes Helens painting as a natural force, like magnetism or a
strong plant thrusting through the earth. As Helen works on her
first major painting, her art seems to be drawn out of her, as though
by an external agent, but that, of course, is the power of her newly
awakened imagination at work. The canvas is like a magnet drawing out of her head an implacable coherence that she had never felt
before (109). As she works on the figure of the young man, his
bones became a great stalk growing up through the centre of the
canvas, from its own black shadow on the sand (109). This implacable coherence of her artistic vision and its powerful organic expression provide a counterbalance in the novel to the explosive
destruction brought about by the partisans. As she paints, Helen
struggles, like Lily, to hold on to her vision, the fear always in her
mind that if she faltered, looked back even for a moment over her
shoulder, Orpheus-like, she would lose it (109).
Helens model Damien, her only remaining friend at the end of
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the novel, is also one of the builders in Yeatss sense of those who
choose to create rather than destroy. Damien defects from the secret
military organization to which Jack and Manus belong and devotes
himself to carpentry, restoration, and work on Helens studio. Roger
calls him an artist. At the end of the novel, Helen mourns the needless dead, but she is not totally bereft because in many ways her
painting connects her back to the world: On canvas, I belong to
the world. I record for those who wish to look, the pain and joy and
loneliness and fear that I see with my inward and my outward eye
(186).
Helens confident blending of inward with outward vision shows
that she has successfully imbued her paintings not just with external
views of the world but also with internal values. She conveys an understanding of the world through her work; her serial paintings tell
an Irish story, and they do so silently. Jennifer Johnston focuses on
the opposition of art and political violence, portraying art as a positive force working against all that is bitter and destructive in Ireland.
Johnstons novel and the paintings embedded in it attempt to embrace that opposition and transform the bitterness.
In Deidre Maddens Nothing is Black, the discipline of art provides
freedom, self-expression, and a rich introspective life for Claire, as
it does for Helen. But given Claires fatalism and her extreme skepticism, she has to invent for herself the terms on which Irish art seems
possible, and these terms are severe. Maddens novel and Claires
life and art are, in several senses of the word, economical, an art
suited to the life of a woman living on the western edge of an island
and on the periphery of European affluence. Claire lives by choice
on the economic margin as well as the edge of the sea, painting in
her austere stone cottage as she prepares for an exhibition in Dublin. Her rented house has sanded wooden floors, and her studio is
spartan, with pale white light streaming in the window from the Atlantic onto the bare white walls. The simplicity of Claires surroundings heightens her awareness of how light strikes the world and
controls its colors: Where she lived provided ample proof of how
colour depended on light (27). The austerity of Claires life
cleanses her vision, giving her, as her name suggests, a certain clarity. Her strong sense of place seems to be the most crucial factor
enabling her to work. She has chosen her cottage in part because it
is located on a piece of land that, she believes, has never been the
scene of an atrocity, although how can one ever know in Ireland that
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blood has not been shed on a particular spot? Another reason why
Claire prefers this spartan life is that she considers owning property
an encumbrance, an attitude that serves her well since she has little
money anyway. There is also a certain philosophical motive for
choosing poverty: since life is short, as she is acutely aware, possessions give one a false sense of permanence. She asks herself, Why
pretend life is anything other than transitory? Why pretend you are
anything other than utterly alone in your existence? (109). It is best
to travel light through life. Whereas Johnstons novel is about the
opposition of art and political violence, Maddens novel, more introspective and philosophical, focuses on the meaning and value of art
in the context of ordinary life. The two novels share the view of the
woman artist as liminal and the aesthetic principle of the unfinished.
Maddens aesthetic values in the novel and those of Claire as a
painter are all of a piece, clear and consistent. Maddens style is lyrical but at the same time spare and metonymic, and the plot is incremental, depending upon small crises and minor but important
changes rather than large, dramatic ones. These features are consistent with Claires economies of life and thought as well as the simplicity of her artistic aims: Claire believes that things of the world
have beauty in their own light, and there is no need of fantasy to
enhance them. According to David Lodges structuralist binary system of classifying works of literature as either primarily metaphoric
(based on similarities) or primarily metonymic (based on contiguities), Nothing is Black clearly falls under the heading of metonymy.5
In Maddens novel even the meaning of the seashore is seen in literal terms: it is an appropriate place to live and paint, and the bits
of bone and shards that wash up from the sea are, in fact, fragments
of history rather than metaphors.
Nothing is Black deals, in part, with problems that many women
face: misunderstandings with relatives, strained or overdependent
mother-daughter relations, the difficulty of learning to live as an autonomous, grown-up woman, and the choice between motherhood
and a career. The characters all confront some of these problems in
their own lives with modest degrees of success. Through the artist
Claire, Madden deals with the aesthetic choices that an artist must
make and the relationship of art to the rest of life, especially its relation to ones morality, ones sense of the drastic challenge of being
fully human, and ones compassion for other human beings. Paradoxically, Claire feels that she must live in isolation and solitude in
order to create works of art that are themselves intended to reveal,
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wordlessly, a sense of her connectedness to the world and compassion for its inhabitants. Claire is an agnostic whose aesthetic values
are deeply infused with moral values. Art, for her and presumably
for Madden, is an expression of love for the world in the face of
universal loneliness, knowledge of annihilation, and the force of necessity.
Although Madden does not write about Irish politics in Nothing is
Black, she has frequently and passionately addressed political issues
in several of her other novels. Born in 1960 in Belfast, Madden confronts what it means to be Northern Irish, an artist, and a woman
coming of age in the late twentieth century. In her novels Hidden
Symptoms, Birds of the Innocent Wood, Remembering Light and Stone, and
One by One in the Darkness, the protagonists typically experience a
keen sense of the fatal divisions in Ireland and in themselves. These
novels explore, in succession, issues of the artists engagement in
politics; the separateness and silence of women; the task of understanding and accepting ones Irish identity; and brutal rifts within
families wrought by clashes in Belfast. In Nothing is Black, her fourth
novel, Madden risks an affirmation: her portrait of Claire offers an
extremely cautious, almost grudging endorsement of the life of art,
while insisting, as noted above, that severe economies of body and
spirit are required of the Irish woman artist.
The plot of Maddens novel parallels the economy of Claires life.
Maddens plot is incremental in that the three main women charactersNuala, Anna, and Claireeach take small, believable steps
toward achieving a life of freedom and sympathy. Claire broods over
the solitary life she has created for herself as she prepares for her
exhibition in the city. Her married cousin Nuala, a successful restaurateur in Dublin but a deeply unhappy woman, is sent for a rest cure
with Claire when her husband finds out about her kleptomania.
Nuala, a daughter who has lost a mother, befriends the third
woman, Anna, a mother who has lost a daughter. A Dutch interior
decorator summering in Ireland, Anna anguishes over her estrangement from her daughter Lili, whom she has not seen for years because of a misunderstanding arising from Annas divorce. The two
unhappy women, Nuala and Anna, help one another in small ways,
Anna becoming a mother figure for Nuala, and Nuala teaching
Anna that her daughter needs to receive forgiveness rather than to
offer it. Although they have some unusual twists, the dilemmas that
Nuala and Anna face are common to many women: a midlife crisis,
a family breakup, strained relationships between mother and daugh-
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Claire does not dissent from this view; indeed, she herself is deeply
interested in the relationship between art and death, in learning
how to die. But the state of art in the modern world does not interest
her very much; she simply wants to get on with the work. Moreover,
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moment recollected near the end of the novel when Alices ghost
seems to return, as Mrs. Ramsays ghost did, to haunt and perhaps
inspire Claire as a painter. Such echoes of Woolf are not infrequent
in women writers. In The Serpentine Cave, for example, Jill Paton
Walsh weaves into her novel several such references to Woolf, to the
extent that they constitute a kind of teasing code for the reader to
break. In Maddens novel, the indirect allusions to Woolf, though
less explicit than the allusions to Frida Kahlo that will be discussed
below, suggest that Madden is building on what Woolf has done,
finding her way in her own Irish setting to make use of similar materials and similar aesthetic goals. Madden is showing, for one thing,
that a metaphoric style and stream of consciousness technique are
not essential to exploring the mind of a creative woman; metonymy
and direct description can also serve. It should be noted that allusions to Woolf in later novels by women seem never to show any anxiety of influence, to borrow Harold Blooms phrase. Rather, they
suggest mutual sympathy and continuity in the effort to depict
women struggling for artistic autonomy.
Later in the summer Claire switches to the daily exercise of painting the same apple every day until it decays. These serial still lifes
reveal the inevitability of death and decay in living things and, although Madden does not make the connection explicit, the reader
is reminded of Claires earlier admiration of Ce zannes paintings of
fruit: they expressed knowledge of other thingsmortality, tenderness, beautyin a way that was only possible without words (60).
Nonhuman nature is thus intimately approached through wordless
expression, language being what most divides humans from it.
Claire, and presumably Madden, values arts extralinguistic expressive power to make a connection to the world.
What Claire calls her real work, her exhibition paintings, depict
the human body. Claire has learned something in the process of
moving from her preliminary studies to the finished paintings. In
the earlier versions she was trying to counteract the emotionalism of
her work by striving for pure form, seeing a spine, for example,
isolated as an extraordinarily complex and beautiful structure
(138). That is, she attempted, by a process of abstraction, to depict
fragments of the human frame as if they were complete in themselves: the muscle as muscle, the bone as bone. But now she
painted bones and muscles as though they were not just beautiful
abstractions, but also parts of a strong and vulnerable body (138).
Although the body parts remain fragmented and have no gender,
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they now are shown as fragments of a whole, and they convey something of the artists own strength and her vulnerability. All of the
embedded paintings in the novel point toward a holistic understanding of a common frailty and beauty in nature and humanity,
but they do so only by suggestion.
Maddens title Nothing is Black alludes to notes on color in the
diary of Frida Kahlo, the Mexican painter, who is quoted again in
the epigraph and in the body of the novel. Kahlo celebrates colors
for their private emotional associations: e.g., Yellow: madness, sickness, fear. Part of the sun and of joy. . . . Black: nothing is black,
really nothing (211). This phrase equivocates on the word nothing, appearing both to affirm and to deny the supremacy of nothingness or annihilation in life, as Maddens novel does as well.
Maddens fictional painter is not, however, based on Kahlo, nor do
her paintings resemble Kahlos. Kahlo is, if anything, an antithetical
figure: an artist whose emotional high-wire acts of self-exhibition
and contortion, of turning oneself inside out for the sake of art, contrast sharply to Maddens rather muted, understated fiction and
Claires subtle, delicate paintings. Rather, the allusions to Kahlo are
an instance of interdisciplinary intertextuality that prompts the
reader to think about certain personal and cultural themes in the
two artists. Maddens allusions to the Mexican painter invite the
reader to think of the artist in terms of place and the accidents of
cultural context: specifically, how can the post colonial woman artist
attain a sense of cultural identity? Susan Lowe writes that Kahlo had
to come to understand herself as inscribed in overlapping cultures,6 As Lowe says, The experience of colonialization, the struggle for independence, and the articulation of an artistic identity free
from cultural imperialism were always at the center of Kahlos art.
Her unwillingness to be labeled forced her to confront and reclaim
her heritage, to search for political, cultural, and personal identity
that is the core of her life and art.7 These same themes are also at
the core of Maddens work, if one looks at all of her novels taken
together. Despite the vast differences in the two cultures of Ireland
and Mexico, the experiences of postcolonial women artists trying to
establish a sense of identity within their respective cultures are similar.
A more specific parallel is that Kahlo in real life and the fictional
painter Claire both suffer miscarriages. Disabled for life by an early
streetcar accident that impaled and crushed her body, Kahlo translated the pain of her multiple miscarriages into art in a painting
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called Henry Ford Hospital (1932), stunning the art world with her explicit subject matter. After her first miscarriage, in Detroit, Kahlo
began to paint more seriously, eventually making the same bargain
with life that Maddens character Claire makes. After enduring a
miscarriage in art school, Claire learns that society extracts a hidden contract. You could have your painting and an austere life, or
you could have children. You werent allowed to have both (52
53). When young Claire tells her mother about the miscarriage,
Claires mother is deeply sympathetic, having suffered an even worse
experience herself. At the age of fifteen she got pregnant, and her
father beat her until the baby miscarried; he then threatened to beat
her again if she told anyone what had happened. The repressiveness
from which Irish society is only beginning to emerge makes Claire
feel, like Phelpss character Avis, that the rules do not allow both
children and artistic freedom. Frida Kahlos radical, disturbing images make explicit and iconic that which is implicit in Maddens writing: the artists need to create and assert herself and to mend the
losses where possible.
As women, Madden and Kahlo share a sense of internal exile, and
are aware of cultural layering as a source of identity. In Nothing is
Black, Anna and Nuala visit an ancient pagan dolmen and a ring of
standing stones, and Anna observes that Irish women live in a society
where just below this crust of Catholicism is pure paganism
(127). Anna says that the priests tell the women to be like Mary
and some of them are pretending, and some of them just dont
give a damn because they are in touch with their own reality (127).
In Kahlos society, a deep pagan source of female strength also underlies the Catholic culture. In The Two Fridas (1939), a life-size oil
painting, Frida presents herself as twins and literally bares her heart.
The pagan Frida, dressed in the Tehuana costume of her mother,
gives a blood transfusion to the European Frida who, dressed in the
Victorian costume of her German Jewish fathers homeland and of
the imperial Spanish culture, daintily spills blood from her hemostat. Although Kahlos vibrant Mexican palette is radically different
from the soft Irish greens and greys in Nothing is Black, color and
light are for both Kahlo and Maddens fictional painter the means
of expressing without words the identities they have discovered
within the different worlds they inhabit.
Claire chooses the bare stone house which is her heritage and also
the emblem of her art. The subtle light and worn stone of the Irish
countryside have a complexity and radiance of their own that coun-
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teract the blackness. From her vantage point on the western coast,
Claire can contemplate the oceanic sweep of Irish history, with all
its sad detritus, and at the same time inhabit a landscape rich in consonances:
she preferred the complexity of the sort of light she found in Ireland. It
allowed the land, the sky, and the ocean to each have their own place.
She would never live far from the sea again, its vastness a comfort, its
anonymous ancient waves crashing over the detritus of centuries: broken
ships, coins, bones, weapons. She would never have believed that it
would be possible to feel so much at home. (113)
These are sentiments that Virginia Woolf would very likely agree
with, since she dramatizes the force of fate and necessitythat fluidity out therein To the Lighthouse and she continually emphasizes
the mysteriousness of personality and consciousness. The events of
Maddens novel emphasize approximately the same things. Nuala
makes some small progress toward healing; at least she begins to understand some aspects of her illness, although she is still stealing
pepper pots from restaurants. Anna makes some progress toward
reconciliation with her daughter; she will reach out to Lili in a less
defensive manner. And Claire successfully completes a series of
paintings in which the parts suggest a whole person.
In both The Railway Station Man and Nothing is Black art is offered
as a positive counterforce to the operations of fate and necessity. In
Johnston, to paint is to build something, metaphorically to restore
some broken part of the world, if only a small one. In Madden, to
paint is to make a connection with the world and silently to express
love. Both writers readily acknowledge the obvious, that art cannot
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really mend things, but they also see that art has a power beyond its
material existence. Madden uses the voice of Claires friend Alice to
express the paradox of painting, that it consists of so little and can
be so much:
I like the paradox of it. Strength and frailty, dont you see? People confuse immortality with the indestructible, but its not the same thing at
all. Take, say, Vermeers Portrait of a Young Woman in a Turban. What the
painting means is beyond words, beyond time. And yet, in purely material terms, its a layer of paint a couple of millimetres thick on a piece of
canvas. (139)
Alice adds that the magic of art is the only magic she can believe
in: To take things and make something charged with that sort of
knowledge and energy. Its worth devoting your life to that (140).
Markus may have been right that art no longer has religious meaning for the people of Europe, but Claire, through her memories of
Alice, insists that a work of art, defined as a material object charged
with . . . knowledge and energy, can still speak to the mind and
spirit.
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6
Northern Light: Margaret Atwoods Cats Eye
The page waits, pretending to be blank. Is that its appeal, its
blankness? What else is this smooth and white, this terrifyingly
innocent? A snowfall, a glacier? Its a desert, totally arid, without
life. But people venture into such places.Why? To see how much
they can endure, how much dry light?
Margaret Atwood, The Page
The only thing between us is this black line: a thread thrown
onto the empty page, into the empty air.
Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin
FOR MARGARET ATWOOD, THE ARTS ARE A STRATEGY FOR SURVIVAL; WRITing is both necessary and dangerous. She sees her words as a slender
lifeline thrown into the void in hopes that a reader will catch it. Like
Virginia Woolf, Atwood is familiar with the terror of venturing into
those desert places, the blank page or the empty canvas. The imagery of snowfall and glacier with which she describes the blank page
no doubt comes naturally to a Canadian writer, especially one who
spent much of her childhood in the bush of the far north. In Survival (1972), her handbook to Canadian literature, Atwood postulates that, just as the frontier is the central theme of American
literature, survival is central to the literature of Canada, and she describes the survival theme as grim and bare.1 She then urges
her fellow writers to break free of a Canadian literary heritage that
usually presents the national sensibility in a negative and somber
light. She characterizes earlier Canadian literature as a dreary
record of struggle and victimizationdeath by avalanche, attacking
grizzly bears, or lost expeditionswhose true and only season is
winter.2 Seeing herself as working against a literary tradition as dismal as a continent of snow, Atwood, beginning with her first novel,
The Edible Woman, writes novels that are filled with color, wit, delight152
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Perhaps more subtly than the novels of the Irish writers Johnston
and Madden, Atwoods work is inevitably shaped by its place of origin. Various as they are, Atwoods novels tend to follow the native
Canadian tradition as she describes it; she adheres to the theme of
survival against difficult odds. Her novels are mostly about womens
struggles and stratagems to survive, sometimes in extremely harsh
circumstances, as in Bodily Harm or The Handmaids Tale. In Survival
Atwood remarks humorously that the Canadian authors two favorite natural methods for dispatching his victims are drowning and
freezing, drowning being preferred by poets . . . and freezing by
prose writers.4 Atwood herself makes use of that same imagery; near
drowning is a favorite motif in her novels and stories. In Cats Eye,
for example, Elaine Risley nearly freezes and drowns in a childhood
episode of abuse that profoundly shapes her life and art. Near
drowning often symbolizes the way that life can overwhelm women
in the modern world. Atwoods main characters exist in a liminal
state in the sense that they see themselves as living on the brink
not of some transformative experience, as described by Carolyn
Heilbrunbut rather on the brink of disaster.
Atwoods protagonists view their own lives in drastic terms, as a
struggle for survival, and their narrative voices tend to assume a
wary, ironic tone. Atwood prefaces The Edible Woman with an epigraph taken from instructions for making puff pastry: The surface
on which you work (preferably marble) . . . should be chilled
throughout the operations.5 From her first novel on, Atwoods narrators speak in voices purged of sentiment. For the sake of survival,
sentiment must be jettisoned, along with all romantic dreams, including the dream of love. Male-female relations, mother-daughter
relations, and friendships between women are all portrayed as problematic at best, tyrannous at worst. Atwoods narrators are nearly always isolated figures, distanced from others by their most admirable
assets: their honesty, desire for autonomy, and need for self-expres-
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husband Jon in Cats Eye, a creator of ugly art. Joe does violence to
his clay pots, mutilating them in seeming contempt for his own craft.
Several details of Surfacing anticipate Cats Eye, written seventeen
years later: the background of the narrators family, her childhood
in the wilderness, the disastrous affair with her art teacher, and the
book illustrations. But Surfacing is not about the narrators art; it is
about submersion and self-discovery. Atwood calls it a ghost story.
The narrators denial of her own historythe fact that her lover has
forced her to have an abortionleads her to create in her own mind
a false history in which she is married and has abandoned her child.
The narrators best moments of sanity and control seem to occur
when she is floating alone or with her companions in a canoe on the
lake searching for her father: Its like moving on air, nothing beneath holding us up; suspended, we drift home.7 She navigates well
in the wilderness and feels most at home suspended in its beauty.
Although it seems for a time that her increasingly intense mistrust
of words and language will lead her more fully into a world of visual
expressionmaps, drawings, photographsthe narrator eventually
burns all of her own and her familys records, including her artwork,
paints and tools, along with her childhood drawings and scrapbooks
in order to clear a space in which she can descend for a time into,
literally, an animal existence, devoid of language or civility. These
events occur after she mystically sees the ghosts of both her parents. Although several of the elements of this story can be found in
other novels about women artiststhe sensation of suspension
above water, the longing to enter into the mysteries of purely visual
experience, and even the return of the ghostsit is obvious that this
narrators art is a dead end.
Atwoods short story The Sunrise provides a sketch, rather than
a full-length portrait, of Yvonne, a professional painter of undetermined age, somewhere between thirty and fifty. In this story Atwoods relentlessly cold, laconic style keeps Yvonne at a distance
from the reader, even as Yvonne keeps the world at a distance. Outwardly affecting a jaunty manner, Yvonne has acquaintances but
confides in no one. She has developed mechanisms for coping with
her own self-conscious fears when in the society of others: she
clutches the tablecloth under the table and tells jokes she collects on
index cards. Yvonne is the most isolated of the women artist figures
encountered in this study. Although isolation is Yvonnes most obvious problem, Atwood also dramatizes in this story several other difficulties confronted by a woman artist at the end of the twentieth
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her failed first marriage. The middle of life brings to Elaine the
usual complaints of middle age: dimming eyesight, a less vigorous
body, and an awareness of a large communication gap between herself and the next generation of women, represented by the young
reporter who interviews her about her exhibit. As Elaine reflects
upon her life, she comes to understand that past time cannot be
thought of as a line, a linear record of events. Rather, the extraordinarily complex and reticulated connections among the events of
ones life begin to form a dimension or substance, something that
can be dipped into, even though its exact structure cannot fully be
described:
But I began then to think of time as having a shape, something you
could see, like a series of liquid transparencies, one laid on top of another. You dont look back along time but down through it, like water.
(3)
Seeing time as like water and memories as like layered transparencies gives a tactile and visual quality to the act of remembering, a
first step, it would seem, toward transforming memories into visual
art. As Elaine looks back upon her life, her recollections down to
the present moment culminate in the exhibition; it is not that the
paintings document her life but rather that they prove she has something to show for having lived. Her paintings are, as she says,
drenched in time (161). Elaines narration of events in various
alternating time sequences is in keeping with her view of time as layered transparencies. As at the end of To the Lighthouse, the artistic
effort of the novelist converges with that of the artist in the novel, so
that both may rightly say, I have had my vision. Only in this case,
Elaines words are, I have said, Look. I have said, I see (427). Elaine
cannot work her way progressively through grief and loss to artistic
accomplishment in the conscious, internally articulate manner of
Lily Briscoe, but her art bears witness to those aspects of her life.
Whereas Lily struggles to achieve and inwardly articulate a vision
as well as a painting, Elaines thoughts about art remain in the realm
of the purely visual, even though her artistic process and goals are
subtle and complex. To the extent that there is a theory of the
creative process embedded in Cats Eye, it has to be read between the
lines by looking at Elaines total development as an artist.
The scenes of a painful childhood are the most vivid part of Cats
Eye. The novel has been justly praised for its faithful re-creation of
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ate way when his former lover, Suzy, nearly dies of a self-inflicted
abortion: he expects Elaine to pity him and console him for the pain
of it all.
Elaines marriage to fellow art student Jon more seriously interrupts her progress in art. Even as Jon drifts from one trendy art fad
to another, Elaine has no time to paint at all in the first year after
their daughter is born. Still constrained by old notions about a womans place, Elaine feels that she ought not to win in their marital
battles, which are mostly about Jons infidelities: If I were to win
them, the order of the world would be changed, and I am not ready
for that (361). The world order is changing, of course, and a little
more than a year later Elaine becomes so fully exasperated that she
finally utters the words that Avis Dobell could not have uttered a
century earlier:
Jon sits in the living room, having a beer with one of the painters. I am
in the kitchen, slamming around the pots.
Whats with her? says the painter.
Shes mad because shes a woman, Jon says. This is something I
havent heard for years, not since high school. . . .
I go to the living room doorway. Im not mad because Im a woman,
I say. Im mad because youre an asshole. (366)
Elaines frustration with her marriage leads her to cut her wrist theatrically with a tool of the trade, an Exacto knife, but later she regains control of her life and moves west with her daughter. With her
second husband Ben, whom she eventually meets in Vancouver,
Elaine enjoys the only relationship of her adult life not tainted by a
victor-victim struggle of wills. Significantly, Ben, the most dependable, attractive male in any of Atwoods novels, stays off on business
in Mexico and never appears in the novel at all; he phones in his
lines. With Ben, Atwood makes the point that decent, supportive
men may occasionally be found, but she also keeps him out of sight
so as not to dilute the novels pervasive cynicism about men.
During the time that Elaine makes these missteps with men she
also moves with unsteady progress toward becoming an artist, first
by discovering her vocation, then achieving a degree of technical
expertiseprecision of line, naturalistically rendered surfaces, and
so onand ultimately developing a style, the unique character of
her work which will empower it and make it expressive. Elaines
progress follows a familiar pattern that dates back at least to The Story
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At this point Elaine has not yet acquired the impersonal gaze that
will serve her well as an artist. Although she observes in passing certain painterly features such as mass and line, her attention is captured by the womans alarmingly unglamorous fleshy presence, so
that the model becomes a kind of bogey of aging.
Another problem that Elaine encounters is the ambiguous and
belittling way that women artists are defined and labeled. When
young men in the Life Drawing class make fun of housewives in the
class, calling them lady painters, Elaine raises the question:
If theyre lady painters, what does that make me? I say.
A girl painter, Jon says, joking.
Colin, who has manners of a sort, explains: If youre bad, youre a
lady painter. Otherwise youre just a painter. (297)
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series of paintings of Mrs. Smeath; and the west wall shows her five
most recent works. Whereas the viewers in the novel have only the
speculative gallery notes of Charna, the gallery manager, to rely on,
Elaine gives the reader a guided tour of the show, moving around
the fictional gallery from east to west. Atwood provides far more extensive passages of ekphrasis than other novelists in this study do.
Elaines descriptions of her own work are cool, straightforward, detailed, and uncluttered by personal comment. In describing each
painting she moves systematically from right to left or from top to
bottom, inviting the readers eye to take in the elements of the
composition. The lack of emotion in her tone is all the more telling
in that the paintings depict the most grievous and moving moments
of her life. The effect of the exhibit is vivid, providing a fitting climax to the novel, and the paintings take on a presence of their own,
even a dominance in the narrative. Elaines ekphrastic passages attempt to translate the events of the novel into a visual form, and they
become separately memorable from the rest of the text. The reader
is invited to puzzle out the meaning of the events depicted and, on
a more abstract level, to ponder the mysteriousness of words construed as pictures.
Displayed on the end wall is the series of paintings of Mrs.
Smeath, some of which are narrative sequences, and all of which depict her in fantastic and humiliating situations. Although she has
painted Mrs. Smeath more than any other subject, Elaine claims
more than once that she does not know why she hates her so much,
even though the paintings make it evident that the hatred has liberated and inspired Elaines creativity. The reader must therefore try
to piece together the reasons for Elaines hatred of this obviously
symbolic woman, and not surprisingly those reasons are complicated; Mrs. Smeath carries a good deal of cultural and moral significance as well as personal meaning for Elaine. The fact that Graces
mother countenances the other girls torment of heathen Elaine
and lets Elaine know that she countenances it is one of Elaines bitterest memories, filling her with hatred and shame. It is in that moment that Elaine first learns that adults can also be evil and that evil
can mask itself under the guise of holiness. The pleasure that Mrs.
Smeath displays in feeling spiritually superior to Elaine offers a
glimpse into her meanness of spirit. Her bourgeois life is unredeemed by imagination, beauty, or vitality. Moreover, Mrs. Smeaths
appropriation of God unto herself robs Elaine of any hopes she
might temporarily entertain of embracing Christianity. As a child
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Elaine sees the potential for exclusiveness, smugness, and, by extension, violence in Canadian Protestant culture. Ironically, she is told
that Mrs. Smeath has a bad heart. In the paintings Elaine satirically represents the moral ugliness of religious hypocrisy as physical
ugliness and lack of grace. Culturally, then, Mrs. Smeath represents
the part of Canadian society that is dull, narrow-minded, middle
class, and smugly Protestant. Mrs. Smeath, her name a portmanteau
of Smith and Death, represents the forces of anti-art, though
in quite a different way than the punk artist in The Sunrise does.
When a woman dashes into the gallery and throws ink on one of the
Smeath pictures, Elaine momentarily mistakes her for Grace
Smeath. In a sense the misapprehension is correct: the persons who
violently oppose indecency in art are all children or clones of Mrs.
Smeath.
Mrs. Smeath is also a particularly repulsive version of the Angel in
the House; Elaine portrays her over and over in serial paintings in
order to kill the Angel. The combination of religious hypocrisy and
ferocious, discontented domesticity is depicted in a painting called
AN EYE FOR AN EYE, in which Mrs. Smeath is shown violently peeling a potato with a mean-looking paring knife. Elaine also paints her
posing as an odalisque in her Sunday hat with her rubber plant, symbol of stodgy domesticity. And, since the Mrs. Smeaths of this world
lay claim to decency, Elaine makes her indecent through various humiliating poses, nude or in her underwear, or copulating with her
husband in the posture of flying insects. In the painting that is defaced by the ink, White Gift, there are four panels showing Mrs.
Smeath being unwrapped from tissue paper and stripped down to
her underpants, with one big breast cut open to reveal a reptilian
heart. These images reveal a savagely satiric purpose that is seen nowhere else in Elaines work but that seems to add animationand
animusto her more gentle, later visions. Elaine ruthlessly exposes,
reveals, then dissects and sections her victim, drawing upon her former expertise in laboratory illustration. Surely, no other writer has
pilloried the Angel in the House with such bitterness and glee as
Atwood has done. In its distaste for the supposedly corrupt flesh of
her subject, Elaines satiric art seems neoclassical in spirit, at least
remotely reminiscent of the practice of Swift and Hogarth, and,
again, she presents a world where no pity or sentiment may enter.
Sentiment does threaten to seep in at the edges of the five paintings on the west wall of the gallery, Elaines most recent work, in that
the paintings are themselves individually retrospective and also highly
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personal; they tell her life visually. But Elaine keeps sentiment at
bay by assiduously sticking to her impersonal style. The paintings
themselves are too reticent to arouse any easy or automatic responses.
The five paintings are Picoseconds, which depicts her now-dead parents
as small figures in a landscape; Three Muses, in which three friends
who were kind to her when young now offer a ritual gift of spruce
budworm eggs; One Wing, a symbolic tribute to her brother, who was
killed by terrorists; Cats Eye, showing herself with her childhood enemies; and Unified Field Theory, which attempts to map Elaines emotional and aesthetic world. In contrast to Elaines verbal narrative,
these paintings are cryptic and surreal; they contain elements of displacement and deliberate rearrangement in order covertly to express
an emotion or judgment. These paintings do not preserve moments
in time; rather, they combine elements that could not have been present in the same moment. Like the artist in Spending, Elaine also draws
upon materials and ideas from past ages of art, such as a virgin, a
triptych, a convex mirror, and the use of tempera, the old monks
medium, tying her private visions to a public tradition or historical
and religiously significant art. Like Atwood herself, Elaine rejects the
label of postmodern because it makes her work sound belated and
derivative, but the reworking of bits of historic art in a boldly innovative style certainly gives her work a contemporary feel.
In Picoseconds Elaine paints a landscape depicting her parents picnicking in the bush above an iconic band of old gas pump logosa
red rose, a maple leaf, a shellsigns of their traveling days transformed into mysterious images. The parents are tiny and painted in
the position of Bruegels disappearing Icarus. They are painted in a
different light than the landscape, as if belonging to another dimension, and, as Elaine points out, the logos call into question the reality of landscape and figures alike (428). These are the parents who
have twice abandoned her, most obviously by dyingshe cannot
bring them back for a trillionth of a secondand less obviously by
her fathers obliviousness and her mothers mute bafflement in the
face of Elaines torment at the hands of her supposed friends in
childhood. The positioning of the small figures of the parents so as
to remind the viewer of Icarus, if only subliminally, suggests that
they too have vanished from sight to the utter indifference of a busy,
self-absorbed world.
One Wing, Elaines tribute to her brother, who was randomly killed
by terrorists in an airplane hijacking, shows a man falling from the
sky brandishing a childs sword. In the triptych the suspended, fall-
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stream that flows from the cemetery, the world of the dead. Since
the beginning of the novel, the bridge has represented Elaines life
span, the structure that holds her up above the icy river. The sky and
the bridge thus create space-time coordinates, the field of life and a
symbolic representation of her lifes journey. Floating over the
bridge is the Black Virgin, Elaines self-generated hallucination that
saved her from freezing. The Black Virgin, who in Mexican folklore
restores lost things, levitates over the bridge bearing in her hands an
oversize cats eye marble. In part, she is a figure for memory, proffering the marble of luminous vision, now enlarged to suggest a globe.
The levitating Virgin seems to be the opposite of the dreaded Mrs.
Smeath, and indeed Unified Field Theory is the most hopeful and comprehensive of Elaines paintings, despite its references to fear and
suffering. This painting also exhibits, more fully than any other embedded painting discussed in this study, the imagery of the liminal,
the suspended, and the unfinished.
What Unified Field Theory might imply about Atwoods own art of
the novel is problematic. It suggests the necessity of transforming
those events that are most wounding, to turn them to some account
in works of art. But Atwoods own opinions and feelings are only
hinted at in the novel: the device of a narrator who addresses the
reader in brisk staccato rhythms, usually assuming an ironic stance,
effectively removes the brush strokes that betray the artists hand.
Unified Field Theory also conveys the precariousness of one womans
modern existence as a fragile bridge across the void, unsustained
by institutions or external props. The Black Virgin, detached from
Christianity, is projected from Elaines own heart and mind like a
photographic negative, back-lit against the sky, not only a symbol of
memory but also a dark portrait of the artist.
Cats Eye ends with a stronger sense of closure than some of the
other novels in this study. Elaine forgives Jon and at least partially
lays to rest the ghosts of her parents and her brother, although she
never can rid herself of the haunting voice of Cordelia. She attends
the retrospective in which her life work is brought together and displayed. But the paintings themselves illustrate the aesthetic of the
unfinished found in other novels. They include serial works, prominent depiction of suspended or floating figures, displaced and stylized objects, and fragments of her life presented ambiguously. In
the paintings, old grievances are brought back and made to hang
literally suspended on the walls. And, although the last painting in
the gallery, Unified Field Theory, is tinged with light and hope of deliverance, it also reconstructs an old, cold time of suffering.
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7
Drawn from Life: Jill Paton Walshs
The Serpentine Cave
The nature of the task was to discern the exact position of the
intersection between a physical object and the light, and draw a
line round it.
Jill Paton Walsh, The Serpentine Cave
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are also provided by Leo Vincy [sic], a sculptor and painter who
comes to collect a large sum of money for a sculpture Stella commissioned from him. As Stellas former pupil, Leo is able to identify the
beach paintings as a setting near St. Ives, and he identifies the subject of a portrait as Tommy Tremorvah, Marians putative father, a
man disgraced in St. Ives because he missed the lifeboat the night of
the disaster. Journeying to St. Ives with her son Toby, Marian is suddenly flooded with memories of early childhood. She finds a house
for lease with a grand view of the sea, and immediately she realizes
that she and Stella once lived there for a while. Discovering her
mothers spilled paint still unfaded on the floor of the upstairs studio, Marian rents the house on the spot and almost immediately begins to think of it as her true home. The sudden move to St. Ives is
the first stage of Marians transformation. After revisiting the cave
and investigating the events surrounding the long-ago lifeboat disaster, Marian eventually locates her aging father Tommy, a retired sea
captain, although at first he is reluctant to acknowledge her at all
because of the disgrace of having spent the night with Stella rather
than responding to the rocket signal that led his mates to their watery death. Beyond the literal mystery of her parentage lies the mystery of Marians selfhood, for she does not truly know herself until
after her mothers death and the events at St. Ives. The completion
of Marians search for her father gives closure at the end of the
novel, but the end is also a beginning as Marian discovers a new self
and attacks a blank canvas. Paton Walsh uses this plot as the framework for a novel of psychological depth and richness.
Paton Walsh implies that failure to understand, or even to know,
a parent can seriously retard ones attainment of self-knowledge and
creativity. The novel seemingly centers around Marians quest to locate and identify her father in order to fill a gapor, as she sees it, a
gaping holein her own sense of who she is, her fathers daughter.
There he is, she thinks, running in my bloodstream and in my
childrens bloodstream, and we dont know a thing (48). But in
reality Marians understanding of herself hinges much more dramatically and complexly upon the mystery of her mother. Stellas
death is the crisis that sets the novel in motion, hitting Marian like a
great weight crushing upon her: all the upheaval, the appalling
sight of une femme peintre laid low like a fallen tree, weighed her
down (37). Her mothers death instigates a retrospective examination of Marians own life, especially of the unstable dynamics of her
interactions with her mother in her early years. Marians lifetime of
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To be the shadow of every light in her mothers life, the light to every
shadow. To be practical, to be tidy, to be dutiful, to be attentive and kind,
to choose a place and live in it, to stay put lifelong, to have no interest
in art, no opinions on anything intellectualit was loving her mother
that had laid these heavy shackles on her, as though she could by being
at the opposite pole in some way pay her mothers unpaid debts, make
up her mothers shortfall, pay her mothers unpaid tribute to convention, to normal conduct, to uncontroversial judgement about how to
live. (51)
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paintings themselves appear to be unfinished as a deliberate aesthetic choice. Stella has scrawled For Marian on the back of the
portrait of Tommy Tremorvah, the man who turns out to be Stellas
father. Tommy is portrayed sitting nude on a wooden chair with his
back to a window and facing into a room so that he is both aureoled
and cast in shadow; this is the same position in which Marian will
unconsciously pose herself when she comes to paint her first selfportrait at the end of the novel. The positioning of his hands over
his genitals at the center of the painting actually calls attention to
his sexuality; it is easy to assume that he was Stellas lover. His eyes
are unreadable, watchful, dark, but there are hints of his profession in his rough hands, wiry frame, and the sketched-in stylized
boat in the background: the portrait both conceals and reveals.
Other paintings containing clues to Marians past are a series of
three seascapes depicting the forgotten beaches that Marian wants
to rediscover. Leo helps her identify the setting near St. Ives, and
she is able to connect the paintings to her memory of having been
trapped in the cave of serpentine marble, caught by the tide, and
rescued by a man, presumably her father, who protected her all
night from the cold Atlantic on an islanded rock until they could be
rescued. When Marian arrives at St. Ives and meets her mothers old
friend Violet, Violet shows her photographs that offer additional
clues. A picture of Violet in a flowered dress that Marian remembers
provides her the information that it was Violet who once made love
on the beach with Tommy during the war and thus Violet, not Stella,
who neglected Marian as a toddler and irresponsibly allowed her to
be trapped by the tide. Violet shows Marian another photograph in
which Stella is obviously exhibiting her love for her young daughter.
These images help reconcile Marian to her dead mother. Clues to
the painters inner life were present in Jane Eyres surreal paintings,
Aviss sphinx, and Elaine Risleys mysterious logos and icons. In Marians case, her mothers paintings offer clues to the mystery of her
past, her paternity, and her childhood trauma. Here, ekphrastic passages play an essential role in unfolding the narrative rather than
arresting its flow.
The remainder of Stellas paintings in the studio are mysterious
in other ways. At one end of the barn are quite a few raw-colored,
semiabstract paintings that appear to express rage against the world;
they seem to Marian like acts of existential anger. Although Marian
and Leo agree that these paintings are not sellable, they express a
hidden side of Stella, perhaps her private vision of darkness or a
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There were the headlands, the near one green, the further one lilac.
And the sea that began beneath her a modest green like the glass of a
white wine bottle, deepening to turquoise in the middle distance, had
gathered at the horizon a concentration of bright blue fierce enough
fully to deserve the name ultramarine. (80)
Marians sensitivity to color, her observation of atmospheric perspective, and her use of painterly terms such as middle distance
and ultramarine reveal her painterly way of seeing. Windows
frame the world for her, a first step toward art. Later, when she walks
on the beach and turns her back to the sea, observing the panorama
of the town, the town seems to consist of a geometry of roofscapes
and windows floating above the bay. Her eye automatically analyzes
what it sees and performs the kind of reduction to angles and planes
that a painter would do. She is unconsciously composing a view of
the town rather than simply taking in the scenery. Marian thinks, I
have come too far, referring to her walk on the beach, but in fact
she is well on her way in her journey toward art. Later still she climbs
to a hilltop, the place where she is about to rediscover her home in
St. Ives, and again looks out to sea:
Remembering, dreaming, and experiencing had become fused. She did
not know what she was doing. From here she could see the sea above
and behind the houses round the harbour, and was looking down at and
beyond it all. The vista had the wildness of landscape and the open, dangerous seas as well as the nested safety and friendliness of human habitation. (82)
Although Marian does not know what she is doing, it will eventually
become evident that she has found the perfect place to begin the
vocation that she unconsciously desires, a home with two stories of
triple windows overlooking a grand vista of the sea. Like other fictional women artists, she finds her ideal locus on the margin of the
seashore and the sea, the nexus of civilization and wild nature.
The importance of St. Ives in the novel cannot be exaggerated;
the term setting, with its suggestion of stagecraft, does not apply.
Here, and in her other novels, Paton Walsh evokes a sense of place
and weaves it into the heart of her techniques in a way reminiscent
of the techniques of Virginia Woolf or Eudora Welty. Welty describes
this special sense of place:
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In The Serpentine Cave the gathering place of St. Ives ties together the
past and the present because Marian is seeing everything double,
both as it presently appears and as she saw it as a child. She can even
be said to see everything threefold, since many scenes of the locale
also appear in Stellas paintings. Although the town is not always picturesquein some ways it has gone downhill like other English
coastal resortsSt. Ives represents layers of time and experience in
one place much as Margaret Atwoods Toronto and Deirdre Maddens Donegal do.
At the same time that she develops the story of Marians selfdiscovery, Paton Walsh also shows Marians single adult children, Toby
and Alice, making discoveries of their own in St. Ives which echo
and complement Marians story. Toby, a stockbroker in trouble and
adrift in his life, willingly accompanies his mother to St. Ives in order
to escape from London, where he has been living under the shadow
of suspicion of insider trading. Desperately needing renewal and a
new path to follow in life, Toby, like his mother, receives clues to his
true identity from the ambience of St. Ives and the vista of the seashore and the sea. He discovers a cousin who is a near twin in St.
Ives, along with a whole family of Cornish relatives. Eventually he
will decide to abandon his life in the City and use his money to buy
a boat in order to revive his cousins fishing operation. Like his mysterious grandfather, Toby will become a man of the sea; like Marian,
he will find that St. Ives has given him both his past and his future.
Alices life is even more confused than her brothers, but her artistic temperament links her more deeply to her grandmother Stella
and, eventually, to her mother. A professional violist and member of
a string quartet in London, Alice lives entirely for her music. She is
dismissed from the ensemble by her on-and-off lover Max when she
misses too many rehearsals because of her grandmothers death and
funeral. Moody and disconsolate, Alice spends her days in St. Ives
endlessly practicing; the sound is a groaning and mournful sound,
not simply because Alice has lost both her job and her lover but also
because the viola seldom gets to carry the melody. Alices music is
always partial and dependent on the consort. One night Marian discovers Alice playing in the darkness at the very edge of the cliff
above the sea, risking her life. Although she is invited back to the
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quartet, Alice finally realizes that her affair with Max will go nowhere. Music is what really matters to her, and like her grandmother
Stella she chooses the life of art over love and domesticity, but she
will always be sad because of the choice she has had to make.
Whereas Alices discovery is that she must reaffirm and live with
the commitment she has made to music above all else, Toby learns
that his life must take an entirely new turning. Both of these realizations echo Marians story, which will culminate in a pursuit of art,
but first she must learn to look and to see, to renew her vision, and
this is the process that blossoms when she comes to St. Ives. She begins to learn what serious art is and to establish a sense of her own
tastes and preferences. When she looks at bad art in the shops of St.
Ives, her reaction is emphatic:
Unpaintings. They wouldnt clean your eyeballs, and sharpen up your
view of the world, they would clutter them, with a double whammy of
awfulness. First with a sort of stupid prettification, an intent to show even
this spectacular place in the light of any old beauty spot, and then with
technical incompetence, so that the intended selective realism was
botched and only half achieved. (91)
Marian implies that good art cleanses the vision and clarifies the
world rather than attempting to prettify. It requires intelligence and
technical mastery. As opposed to bad art, the unpaintings, Violet
Garthens engravings and lithographs are merely ordinary in Marians eyes: her street scenes, sea scenes, and moored boats are literal
and unchallenging, restful to have on the wall. Although they reveal
a technical expertise beyond that of the bad art in the shops, they
do not arrest the mind or cleanse the eye. Violets role as an artist is
similar to that of Mr. Paunceforte in To the Lighthouse, to serve as a
foil to the serious artist who labors, sometimes hopelessly, to give
expression to a unique vision. While taking a critical view of Violets
work, Marian chastens herself by thinking that she has no right to
criticize, since she herself possesses neither mastery nor technique;
previously she had shown no particular desire for such talents.
On that same day Marian, while gazing at the harbor, feels a sudden urge to draw the surf with pastels and she begins to speculate
about color, wondering if there exist pieces of chalk bright enough
to capture the silver and the lilac of the branching rivulets of the
tide receding across the sand in the sunlight. Later, returning to
Stellas studio to arrange for the sale of the paintings, Marian res-
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with an aging father. Finally, Paton Walsh arrives at a mutual understanding with Woolf that the purpose of art is, above all, a cleansing
of the eye and mind, and in this purpose visual art and the art of
fiction are conjoined. Unlike Michael Cunningham, who deeply explores Woolf s sensibility and extends her world forward in time in
The Hours, Paton Walsh does not try to become Woolf; she does
not write in stream of consciousness nor attempt to record the
atoms as they fall upon the mind. Rather, she offers variations on
themes by Woolf, and she appears to draw upon her as a kind of
power source as so many creative women have done since Woolf exhorted them in A Room of Ones Own to pay heed to the growing
power of their creativity: Women have sat indoors all these millions
of years, so that by this time the very walls are permeated by their
creative force, which has, indeed, so overcharged the capacity of
bricks and mortar that it must needs harness itself to pens and
brushes.2 In Paton Walshs novel the dialogue of the writer with the
painter is enriched by this secondary dialogue with Virginia Woolf
and her character Lily, a dialogue that indirectly alludes to the pent
up force of womens creativity.
In The Serpentine Cave the encoded references to Woolf s life are
subtle. It dawns upon the reader at some point that Paton Walsh
has named several of her main characters after people whom Woolf
particularly lovedStella, Violet, Leonard, and Tobyand while
these characters bear no particular resemblance to the real-life
counterparts, this naming has the effect of making them seem more
familiar. More deeply encrypted are the references to Woolf s early
memories as she describes them in A Sketch of the Past. One of
Marians early memories, vague but persistent, is that of a woman in
a dress printed with bright blotchy flowers who carries her down
a cliff face at St. Ives. Although this turns out to be a false memory
of her mother (it was Violet who wore the pansy-flowered dress that
day at the serpentine cave) it nonetheless echoes Virginia Woolf s
very first memory, that of her mothers flowered dress as she sat on
her mothers lap on the train to Talland House in St. Ives, the setting
that gets transported to the Hebrides in To the Lighthouse. This echo
might seem coincidental, and in any case trivial, were it not followed
by another incident in which Marian, rediscovering one of her
mothers paintings of the seashore at St. Ives, begins vividly to reexperience auditory sensations from early childhood:
She knew that behind her was homethe windows and doors standing
wide, and the blind billowing stiffly in the breeze, like a salt-encrusted
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sail. She could hear the tapping of the little acorn-shaped head on the
dangling drawcord on the blind, as it flew in and out across the sill. The
knowledge filled her with joy . . .
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For Marian as for the six-year-old James Ramsay, the lighthouse becomes the focal point of an ardent desire for adventure and discovery, a desire that is squelched by the voice of practicality. The
lighthouse steadfastly stands as a symbol of altruism in Paton Walshs
novel, whereas the symbolism of the lighthouse is far more complex
in Woolf, connected as it is with the luminous halo of consciousness and with the deep hidden radiance of Mrs. Ramsays innermost
being, the sweeping light that brings her moments of ecstasy.
When sixteen-year-old James Ramsay approaches the lighthouse
in the boat with his father, he comes to see the lighthouse in two
opposite ways: through the eye of memory and imagination and
through the eye of realism. Marians views of the lighthouse are so
similar that, again, the interweaving of the two texts cannot be ignored. When Marian first arrives in St. Ives she finds herself looking past the harbour quay, and out over bright blue water to the
lighthouse, both suddenly seen and suddenly remembered, mistily
white in a hazy morning distance (80). Mistily is the word that
ties Marians perception to Woolf s text: when James Ramsay approaches close to the lighthouse in the boat with his father, he remembers the way it had appeared across the harbor long ago when
his mother was alive: a silvery, misty-looking tower with a yellow
eye.4 In both instances, the lighthouse invokes memories from
childhood and a world of imagination; its mistiness imbues it with
dreaminess and desirability. In Marians case, the lighthouse is associated with sexual desire and her need for a life of deeper and more
satisfying sensations. Although she scoffs, Oh rubbish, son, when
Toby suggests that she loves lighthouses because they are phallicas
Woolf, too, invites such an interpretation with one hand while seeming to dismiss it with the otherMarian thinks about the sounds of
the surf in explicitly sexual similes (97). The sounds that invite her
to open the curtain and view the lighthouse are the clamorous
shouted whispers, sighing and slushing with a rhythm of thrusting
and withdrawing like sexual play . . . each soft climax an audible
ejaculation half a mile wide (80). Her bemused but seemingly prodigious sexual longing is thus projected upon the sea and the lighthouse and dispersed throughout the scene before her, imbuing it
with desire, and finding within it an irresistible ecstasy that will be a
powerful drawing point for the artist she is to become.
As Marian draws nearer to meeting her father, who lives nearby,
she finds the lighthouse imposing but devoid of allure when viewed
more closely:
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Stark is the linking word that ties Marians view to James Ramsays:
He could see the white-washed rocks; the tower, stark and straight; he
could see that it was barred with black and white; he could see windows
in it; he could even see washing spread on the rocks to dry. So that was
the Lighthouse, was it?5
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8
Space, Time, and a Muse:
Mary Gordons Spending
Certainly I believed that if a woman painter was going to be serious, not an embarrassment, not a painter of chocolate box or
calendar art or her own menstrual or menopausal nightmares,
she had to be distant. That, because she was a woman, she had
to work extra hard to prevent the hot fluid of desire from steaming up her glasses.
Mary Gordon, Spending
MONICA SZABO, THE FIFTY-YEAR-OLD PAINTER IN MARY GORDONS SPENDing, is in fact totally unable to assume an objective stance for long or
to prevent herself from steaming up in the presence of her male
model, patron, and lover, known as B. The question of aesthetic
distance takes a comic turn in this novel, along with other issues
faced by women artists. Through the narrator Monica, Gordon assumes a breezy, ironic approach to recurring aesthetic problems
such as how to manifest ones vision, achieve clarity, and attain a
distinctive style. She humorously dramatizes familiar problems of
the woman artist such as the struggle to find her place within the
mainstream of art, the difficulty of attaining recognition, and, above
all, the need to claim a space in which to paint. In A Room of Ones
Own Virginia Woolf asks what conditions are necessary in order to
be a writer, and she answers: a room, a quiet place, and an adequate
supply of the material necessities of life. Spending offers a scenario
of what could happen, hypothetically, if an artist were provided
these things in great abundance. Freed by the fanciful premise of
her novel from the strictures of social realism, though not from
those of internal plausibility, Gordon creates a comic portrait of an
artist who is allowed to indulge in the many and various gratifications of wish fulfillment.
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The stranger, B, a wealthy commodities trader who has been collecting Monicas paintings, takes her out for an evening of dining, dancing, and lovemaking, followed by an offer to become her patron,
supplying her with all of the space and money she needs, including
a salary so that she can quit her teaching job. He invites her to paint
on the deck of his modern glass house by the ocean, and he finds
her an apartment in Manhattan with excellent light and a view of
the river. He tells her that this largess is an experiment to see what
she can achieve given more than adequate space and time. Soon this
ideal patron becomes her model as well.
Gordon interweaves issues of gender, desire, and art in unprecedented ways. The title of Spending is a pun on sex and money: not
only is B willing to spend great amounts of cash on Monica and her
work but also she soon begins a series of paintings to be called Spent
Men, in which contemporary figures of post-orgasmic men are presented in the postures of various deposed Christs in paintings by Italian Renaissance artists. Commenting on a figure of Christ by
Carpaccio in the Metropolitan Museum, Monica remarks, he
doesnt look dead. Hes just had it for now (58). She adds that
Northern European Christs, unlike those of Italy, always appear convincingly dead to her. To paint the spent men in the pose of Christ
figures is more an act of profanation than of blasphemy; as a witty
but serious contemporary painter, Monica reduces the sacred to the
worldly. Moreover, although she was raised as a good Catholic girl
with medals to prove her devotion, her painterly eye trumps all else,
including the possibility of blasphemy. Her profession demands
that, like Robert Brownings Fra Lippo Lippi, she must always see
and paint flesh as flesh, even if it may be the body of God.
The novels subtitle, A Utopian Divertimento, is playfully misleading,
for Monicas utopian dream of having the perfect male muse lasts
less than twenty-four hours, only until the moment when she begins
to think of herself as a whore. This moral ambivalence continues to
trouble her through much of the novel, for although Monica inhabits a comical world, she is deeply serious about the moral and aes-
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Monica announces on the first page that the three subjects of her
story are money, sex, and art, a heady triad that causes most of the
tensions in the novel. Mary Gordon invites the reader to ponder
their interrelations. By combining money and sex, Bs patronage
causes Monica to worry about compromising herself in a way that,
she realizes, only a woman would have cause to regret. On the other
hand, money, art, and sex all provide spectacular gratifications that
would seem to dispel these misgivings. Bs money affords her luxuries and travel; Monicas art eventually brings her fame and copious
cash of her own; and her affair with B gives pleasure. Not only does
Monicas Catholic upbringing make her chronically mistrustful of
such excesses, but also the mingling of money and art, though necessary to her career, makes her queasy:
When I thought about money, I could see my brain turn from a healthy
white, a cauliflower, something steady and stable, to a writhing mess of
eels, blood red, or the color of intestines, the color of disease. Poussin
to Francis Bacon, in one quick leap. (238)
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The verbal echoes, first mark and irrevocable, suggest that Gordon had Woolf in mind when writing this passage. Lily, a landscape
painter and presumably a modernist, and Monica, a postmodernist
who devises ambiguous figure paintings, share exactly the same trepidations when it comes to the business of getting started on their
work. Making a mark on the canvas means laying a claim to the
space it represents and asserting ones right to do so. The metaphors
of swimming and diving employed by both authors also emphasize
the risks that the artist takes.
In the very early stages of her work on Spent Men, Monica spends
hours at the Metropolitan Museum arduously copying triangles
from a painting of Christ by Carpaccio. In contrast to the idea of
art as a difficult upward ascent, as represented in the novels of Iris
Murdoch and Jill Paton Walsh, Monica thinks of this kind of work as
a descent down into the cellar of her imagination to get at the genuine item, the ding an sich:
When I work the way Id been working at the museum, I feel like Ive
been in a filthy cellar with little puddles where God knows what might
be breeding, hidey holes thick in sooty dust. I have to go rooting in; I
have to come on all kinds of things. Bottles half filled with unrecognizable liquids, potatoes going soft, the carcass of a bird or rodent, then at
the bottom, I see the thing I was looking for. The thing itself. (61)
Monica adds that although the process makes her feel dirty, she also
feels incandescent. Amusingly hyperbolic, Monicas catalog of
rotten and distasteful items provides a psychologically accurate metaphor for the creative process. She is describing a feeling of disgust,
after exhausting and repetitive labor, at all the failed attempts, but
also a feeling of triumph like a bodily illumination when she discovers the thing she seeks, the genuine item. To go rooting in is
to delve into the creative self, for even the humble act of copying
triangles requires imagination. It is also a search for the roots of
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guage stopped and I would lose myself in pure color, pure expanse.
The silence itself took on color . . . (127). Like Marian Easton,
Monica trains herself in the art of looking. She is afraid of not looking at the world enough, afraid of not paying sufficient homage to
the things of the world and of allowing her attention to falter so that
she would fail to learn all that she should by looking. She is also
afraid of looking too much, of allowing herself to be so totally absorbed in the visual experience that she might lose consciousness of
everything else and neglect her art. If line is like a language that can
be spoken, color is a mysterious and silent kingdom to be entered.
While making marks on the canvasdrawing lines and sketching
in the compositionis a matter of some trepidation and anxiety,
applying color is for Monica more primitive and more playful:
When I give myself over to color, Im back in a time before words, a time
of childish delight. Who understands green better than a baby crawling
through grass, surrounded by green grass but without the words for either green or grass. When Im working with color, I become that child
without words. Everything is more alive; everything seems saturated with
and by color, and Im saturated. (133)
Like Virginia Woolf, Mary Gordon understands that color is the aspect of art most remote from language, that the word green cannot
invoke anything akin to the primitive, unmediated experience of the
color itself. Color enlivens the world and the onlooker. When Monica is working with paint she is most fully carried away into a silent
world of color that her narrative cannot truly describe; color saturates her imagination. Whereas the drawn line is amenable to metaphoric description in terms of the sentence, visual and literary
experiences become alien to one another when it comes to color.
Color separates the artist from the novelist. Monica adds that she
understands Rothko and is drawn to his work, although she could
never be an abstract expressionist herself because she is too interested in drawing figures and in the relation between subject and
form.
For Monica, as for Claire in Nothing is Black, Vermeer is the consummate artists artist who inspires her to discover what she wishes
to achieve in her own art. Through the influence of B, Monica is
invited to a private viewing of the 1996 Vermeer exhibit, and she
comes away feeling, not that she wants to imitate Vermeers techniqueshis use of perspective or his opalescences, for example
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but that she can learn from him about the representation of space
and about the presence or absence of the painter in the painting.
The uncluttered quality of Vermeers rooms appeals to her, along
with his representation of emptiness as volume. But what she especially derives from Vermeer is a desire to create paintings that somehow, seemingly magically, provide a space for the onlooker in which
to view the work, as if the artists hand, once having completed the
many gestures of the painting, were withdrawn forever without a
trace:
What I wanted was more an example of something I would have to call
moral; that sense of his getting out of the way of his own vision, of not
coming between the spectator and what the spectator wanted to see, the
graciousness of a withdrawal so complete that there was space between
the viewer and the image that made room for the whole world. I was
thinking about how to bring silence into my paintings. (162)
Thus, Monica describes two kinds of silence, the silence of color and
Vermeers achievement of silence. Vermeers silence sounds like a
visual equivalent of Keatss negative capability, a self-imposed absenting of the artist in deference to the subject. That Monica sees
this lesson learned from Vermeer as a kind of moral knowledge and
the artists act of withdrawal as a moral gesture implies that she
means essentially the same thing as Iris Murdoch does when she
speaks of the artists moral obligation to honor the presence of the
subject. Vermeer honors his subjects most fully by representing
them in works that seem untainted by the artists ego. Although
Monica shares Elaine Risleys desire for clarity, her aesthetic goals
are different from those in Cats Eye. Unlike Elaine, she wants her
paintings to be complete in the sense that the artists hand, eye, or
reflection cannot be detected in the work. In this sense her paintings do not represent the aesthetic of the unfinished, but they do possess a kind of doubleness and a unique suspended quality that is
consistent with the aesthetics of other fictional women painters.
Not only in the creative process but also in the presentation of the
subject, Monica encounters aesthetic problems and arrives at solutions similar to those of other fictional women painters. Like Yvonne
in Margaret Atwoods story The Sunrise, she is preoccupied, almost obsessed, with the challenge of painting male bodies. As she
begins to work on Spent Men, Monica observes that her subject was
the sexual male, the stilled male, the weighted male, the nondy-
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namic, postdynamic male (78). She wants to present men, not disrespectfully but at their most vulnerable, impassive, and lonely
moments. She wishes to cast a cold eye on the male body, rather like
Atwoods cats eye, although that task becomes difficult when she
takes her lover as her model. In the particulars of representation as
well as in the novel as a whole, Mary Gordon raises the question of
whether love and artistic expression are compatible or mutually exclusive, and she implies that they can be made to coexist, although,
again, the task is difficult. Monica questions the aesthetic position,
stated by Rilke among others, that art should somehow get past love,
into some further vision of the subject. Why, she wonders, should
there be anything beyond love?
In choosing to base her paintings of spent men on selected Renaissance paintings of deposed Christs, Monica runs two kinds of serious risks: the risk of being misunderstood and even reviled for
blasphemy and the risk of openly revealing her postmodern belatedness, as though she were reduced to playing tricks with images from
the great art of the past. Unlike Elaine Risley, Monica accepts the
term postmodern as applied to her work and acknowledges that
being postmodern means that you have to deal with the temptation
to be apologetic (80). On the one hand, she does not feel able or
inclined to try to invent genuinely new forms for art, and on the
other hand, she does not wish to resort to jokes or parody. The only
remedy for this dilemma is to focus on the process of art and to pursue her own visions without so much regard for the status of contemporary art. In another sense, though, Monica feels a deep kinship
with the great and nearly great artists of the past. Traveling to Milan
with B to examine a painting by Mantegna, a radically foreshortened
Christ, she begins to reassess the issue of postmodern belatedness:
And I was with them. I wasnt measuring myself against them. What they
did before me buoyed me up in the ocean of shared labor in which we,
separated by hundreds of years, yet breast to breast, dove, were overwhelmed, clung to the sides of a boat and had our hands beaten by oarsmen, and then, sometimes, occasionally, confidently, swam. (87)
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Like many of the events in this novel, Monicas greatest public triumph, a glowing four-column review of her show in the New York
Times, turns out to be double-edged. On the one hand, it is a coup
for Monica that such an influential figure in the art world as the
Times reviewer actually understands and describes her work more accurately than anyone else has done. On the other hand, Gordon
cannot resist satirizing what seems to be the inevitable pomposity of
the eminent journalists who write critiques of the gallery shows. The
review reads like a subtle parody:
In a time of postmodern emptiness, this painter dares to combine wit
and feeling, a line that takes it clarity from the Renaissance Masters, and
its intelligence from the best feminist revelations of the seventies. (178)
The reviewer gets its right: the yoking together of wit and feeling is
the aesthetic goal of Monicas paintings as it is of Gordons novel.
Still, the reviewers rhetorical flourishes, kind as they are to Monica,
give away the fact that he is in love with his own words yet careless in
his use of them. The slight but ludicrous hint of personification in
a line that takes its clarity from . . . seems pompous, even though
the reviewer has astutely discerned that clarity of line is exactly what
Monica is trying to achieve. More egregiously, the phrase best feminist revelations of the seventies is almost entirely devoid of meaning, since the reviewer does not specify what those revelations might
be or why they are best, nor does he explain how Monicas line
derives its intelligence from such revelations. Again, the parody is
humorous and double-edged: the reviewers allusion to feminism is
appropriate, since the underlying assumptions of Monicas work are,
in fact, profoundly feminist, especially in her claim of the right to
represent men in any way that pleases her. But the reviewer is obviously just tossing off a gesture in the direction of political correctness, and he muddies his sentence in the process. He is not
necessarily to be blamed for his shallow rhetoric, however; Gordon
implies that such language is the coin of the realm in the world of
art criticism.
The satire continues as the raggle-taggle group of picketers from
the Catholic right wing blocks the sidewalk in front of the gallery
and accuses Monica of blasphemy. Ironically, the protesters can do
Monicas show no real harm, since it is an axiom in the world of
contemporary art that any kind of publicity is good publicity, and a
public outcry of immorality is the best kind of all. Yet the appear-
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ance of the picketers forces Monica to defend herself and to reexamine her own conscience. A charge of blasphemy is no laughing
matter even to a lapsed Catholic. Monicas short-lived guilt turns to
indignation when she recognizes the leader of the group as Alice
Marie Cusalito, her old archenemy from parochial school who was
known as a self-righteous, mean little tattletale. Now a former nun
and foolish busybody, Alice Marie bears a physical resemblance to
Atwoods Mrs. Smeath. She has frizzy gray hair, dowdy clothes, and
a face that looks like a failed pineapple upside-down cake. She
carries a poster that says, Stand up to visual blasphemy. Jesus is not
a joke (181). The physical unattractiveness of Alice Marie and Mrs.
Smeath is meant to represent moral repugnance in keeping with a
satiric tradition that goes at least as far back as Chaucer. Whereas
Elaine Risley derides the Canadian Protestant middle class with her
ludicrous metamorphoses of Mrs. Smeath, Monica shocks the New
York right-wing Catholics with her images of Christ. Although Monicas subject matter is riskier than Elaines, it is not the purpose of
her art to give offense. She also believes that Jesus is no joke, but she
cannot give in to a view of art that is narrowly intolerant of playfulness and innovation. In fact, what Monica does with the divine image
is far less provocative to the religious right than many other works
that have appeared in the real world of art in recent years. Her quarrel is with the protesters smug self-righteousness and gloomy aura
of martyrdom.
When the sidewalk controversy escalates to a debate on a popular
television talk show, the Defense League wisely pulls Alice Marie off
the case and replaces her with the much more photogenic Regina
McArdle, whose attractive appearanceperfect hair and skin, size
five figure, preppie clothes, and good mannersdisguises the pettiness of a person who makes it her business to deprive others of pleasure. The mother of seven children, all of them wanted, Regina is
a late avatar of the Angel of the House. Monicas task is to appear
equally as attractive, feminine, and charming in her own way on the
television show while standing up to this formidable opponent. All
these years after Virginia Woolf s Professions for Women, creative
women are still having to do battle against the Angel and, if possible,
kill her. The debate appears to be a standoff between Reginas simple dogmatism and Monicas more complex but frustrated attempts
to explain and defend her art. Monica finally wins the day when the
host of the program, Charlie Rose, suggests that his viewers go down
to the gallery on Fifty-seventh Street and make up their own minds
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9
Servants, Housewives, Artists: A. S. Byatt, Tracy
Chevalier, Carol Shields, and Kyoko Mori
Well, it all just comes to me in a kind of coloured rush, I just like
putting things together, theres so much in the world, isnt there,
and making things is a natural enough way of showing your excitement.
A. S Byatt, Art Work
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she realizes that serious aesthetic principles underlie her own work.1
All of these protagonists are to a greater or lesser degree transformed by discovering art. In recurrent tropes, all of these characters move from dark spaces into the light and they come to see with
renewed vision. These stories and novels carry forward Virginia
Woolf s suggestion, illustrated in Mrs. Ramsay, that there is not a
strict dividing line between the domestic arts and serious art; they
challenge the supposedly uncrossable barriers between traditional
domestic activities and high art, adding another chapter to the
story of women artists in fiction.
By coincidence, two works of fiction published within a year of
one another feature a real-life master painter of the seventeenth
century who befriends a servant girl possessing unusual skills and an
eye for aesthetic arrangements. In both A. S. Byatts short story
Christ in the House of Martha and Mary in her collection Elementals (1998) and Tracy Chevaliers novel Girl with a Pearl Earring
(1999), the girl who serves the painter becomes a model for a figure
in a well-known Baroque painting. In both works, the girl learns to
see the world with new eyes as a result of knowing the artist.
Byatts story, which she refers to in her acknowledgments as an
ekphrastic tale, weaves a short narrative around the creation of
Vela zquezs painting of 1618, Kitchen Scene with Christ in the House of
Martha and Mary, which depicts an old woman and a cook in the
foreground and a vignette of Jesuss visit to Mary and Martha in a
rectangle in the upper right rear wall. In Byatts story, the painter
befriends Dolores, a surly young cook, and uses her as a model for
the cook in his painting. As a result of the painters recognition of
her, Dolores undergoes a small but significant change, a shift in
status that brings her out of the margins of her worldliterally the
dark corners of the kitchenand closer to the center of creativity
and light.
Doloress anger at the beginning of the story is not, as the older
servant Concepcion believes, the stereotypical irascibility of cooks,
nor is it envy of the well-to-do family for whom she works. Rather,
Dolores is angry that God has made her overweight, unbeautiful,
and a servant. She thinks of herself as a heavy space of unregarded
darkness, a weight of miserable shadow in the corners of the room
that Vela zquez is painting.I want to live, she insists. I want time
to think. Not to be pushed around.2 In terms of class, gender, and
her station in life, Dolores is virtually the painters opposite, and yet
he takes notice of her, first by showing appreciation for her artistry
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The gist of the aesthetic ideas in the story, then, is that there is a
broad distinction to be made between those who take a lively interest in the world and those who do not, and that creative people who
belong to the group of the interested, like Virginia Woolf s great
clan of sensibility, are naturally attentive to the presences of things
and their multiplicity. In the story, Vela zquez tends to play down the
symbolic or hieratic aspects of his work, laying emphasis instead
upon the immediacy of the task at hand. He tells Dolores that the
objects he paints are not sacred to him because the eggs represent
the Resurrection and the fish represent Christ, but rather because
they are full of life and light.5 The painter works with the visual
but, as he reminds Dolores, she works with several other senses as
well: taste, smell, and touch. Although she is tempted to accept the
idea that her work as a cook is in some sense akin to that of the
painter, Dolores makes the objection that the results of her work disappear in a flash, at which point the painter reminds her of the
ephemerality of all life. Just as the cooks work disappears quickly,
so Byatts story is very shortit flashes by in a mere twelve pages.
The conclusion of the story is festive and communal, like a comic
ending. Viewing the finished painting in the artists studio, Dolores,
her friend, and the painter share tortillas and salad, wine, and laughter, a little celebration of life, art, and culinary art as well.
Byatts story is about the rootedness of art in the real world, its
people and objects, an idea consistent with the practice of much Baroque art. But it is also about a transformation, albeit a small one.
By meeting the artist, having him appreciate her cookery, and sitting
for him, Dolores is inwardly changed when her strength and her
skill are recognized. The story is artfully contrived. The narrative
within the story, the passages of ekphrasis, and the painting to which
they allude are interwoven, so that the verbal discourse and visual
images complement one another. The result is a story that is complex enough to preclude a restrictive, orthodox reading of the painting, a reading that would consign the cook to the inferior role of a
Martha.
Byatts fictional narrative interprets the painting in an effort to
explore its implications. The New Testament narrative of Mary and
Martha inspires the painting that inspires Byatts story, but the situation is made more complex in the story when, in the process of working on the painting, the painter tells Dolores the biblical story,
reinterpreting it, and then makes her the central figure in the painting. While Byatts story insists on a rather unorthodox reading of
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lical narrative, the two foregrounded female figures, and the still
life. The triangulation of the individual women servants, the theological vignette, and the beautiful culinary ingredients creates a tension between the sacred and the profane and foregrounds the
frustrations and the beauties of the cooks work.
Byatts entire story is ekphrastic, since it translates the painting
into a fiction joining together the artist, the models, and the finished work; the author extends her creative imagination into the
painting and retrieves a plausible, animated narrative. The story emphasizes the elements within the painting that lead the eye and
mind away from the biblical vignette and cause one to ponder the
portrait of the cook. These interpretive issues are significant because
the story brings out the beauty, rebelliousness, and challenge to hierarchic values that were incipient in the painting itself. The reallife painter has made the cook heroic, and the painter in the story
has named her an artist.
In Girl with a Pearl Earring, Tracy Chevalier recreates the milieu of
Johannes Vermeer through the first-person narration of a teen-aged
girl, Griet, who becomes a servant in the Vermeer household and,
eventually, a secret apprentice to the painter. The daughter of Jan,
a tile painter who has been blinded in an accident, Griet is sent into
service because of her familys extreme poverty. When Vermeer and
his wife first visit her home to engage her services, the painter observes that Griet has laid out vegetables for soup in the order of a
color wheel. As their servant, Griet enters an environment where
her status is anomalous: although she remains the lowliest person
in the household, suffering like Jane Eyre numerous humiliations
because of her low rank and poverty, Griet is secretly drawn into the
painters studio, becoming first his helper and then his model. Certain gestures and attitudes suggest that he is attracted to Griet, as
she is to him, but in the end his dedication to his work is stronger
and, in effect, he sacrifices her to his art. Although the plot follows
a familiar pattern in which Griets romantic attraction to the painter
overcomes, or is fatally blended with, the force of her awakening aesthetic sensibilities, she is above all a victim of circumstances as well
as of her own precociousness. Her native intelligence and unusual
aesthetic understanding set her apart from the rest of the household
and ally her for a time with the great painter.
Griet feels estranged in the large Catholic family whose house is
filled with sacred paintings, and she senses the hostility of Vermeers
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wife Catharina, an ill-tempered Angel in the House whose only satisfaction consists in having children; she eventually has eleven. Griets
duties include cleaning Vermeers studio, where no one else is allowed, not even Catharina. Griet shows her ingenuity by taking precise measurements before she moves objects, so as not to disturb the
artists still life arrangements by her cleaning. She becomes intrigued by the mysterious and distant painter who works so silently
and slowly, and she is dazzled by his work. Vermeers patron van Ruijven, a fictional character, begins to show an erotic interest in Griet
and eventually sexually harasses her in secret; this interest causes the
painter to become more distant with her, as if angry.
In the second year, Vermeer orders Griet to assist him, first by
fetching colors from the apothecary and later by grinding the colors
for him. She sleeps in the attic in order to have access to the studio,
and for a time her work as an apprentice is kept strictly secret from
the rest of the family, although eventually they get wind of it. Only
Vermeers mother-in-law, the real-life figure Maria Thins, is savvy
enough to see the possible usefulness of Griet, that she could speed
up the meticulous painters work and thus indirectly help with the
familys debts. The closest Griet comes to having an effect upon Vermeers work is when she rearranges a cloth on a table in order to
bring an element of disharmony into a painting that is otherwise
highly ordered; Vermeer accepts the rearrangement, expressing
wonderment that he could learn something from a maid.
A radical reversal takes place in the second year, when Vermeer
requires her to sit for his famous painting. Although she is flattered
to have his gaze upon her, Griet loses somethinga slim chance, at
least, to have become an artistwhen she becomes his model.
There were, after all, a few successful women artists in the seventeenth century, such as Artemisia Gentileschi and Judith Leyster,
and Griet has revealed a sharp eye for aesthetic arrangements as well
as a fascinated interest in the work. The painters strong will and the
force of erotic attraction quickly overshadow those interests, however. Griet feels exposed when the painter accidentally sees her hair,
which is usually hidden under a cap, and she feels violated, if excitingly so, when he forces her to pierce her ears and wear his wifes
earring. Vermeers friend, the optician van Leewenhoek, warns her
that Vermeer will sacrifice anything for his art, dramatically adding,
The women in his paintingshe traps them in his world. You can
get lost there.7 Although she poses for a great work of art, that
event leads to her downfall, as she knows it will. Once Griet becomes
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meers interior scenes with figures of solitary women take the viewer
into a space that is different from ordinary reality, a place of harmony, order, and mystery, reminiscent of Woolf s silent kingdom.
Chevalier picks up on that effect by describing Vermeers studio as
a similarly special space, as though it were part of some other house
than the one it occupies. Going in and out of the studio is almost,
for Griet, the equivalent of entering a painting, and, in fact, her firstperson ekphrastic passages show her engagement with and understanding of Vermeers art.
The ekphrastic passages, direct and unembellished, link the novel
to Vermeers works, without naming titles, and they show the advancement of Griets aesthetic understanding. The first painting
that she sees is Woman with a Pearl Necklace, in which a woman
dressed in a yellow satin jacket trimmed with ermine gazes at herself
in a small mirror as she ties on a string of pearls. Familiar with the
objects on the table in the painting, items which she has been dusting, Griet is transfixed by the painting and sharply observant of it.
She sees not just what is painted, as an inattentive viewer might, but
also how the subject is represented in terms of composition and
light. For example, she sees the light falling across her face and
tracing the delicate curve of her forehead and nose.8 This kind of
observation is simple enough to be plausible, but it shows that
Griets untrained eye is learning to look, a skill seemingly elicited
by the painting itself. Contemplating this painting within the setting
where it was painted, Griet observes, Everything seemed to be exactly the same, except cleaner and purer. It made a mockery of my
own cleaning.9 Griet would not understand the Neoplatonic idea
of transcendent harmony and order that art historians have
glimpsed in Vermeers work, but she intuitively grasps the pure intensity and radiance of the painting. The rueful reference to her
own work of cleaning in connection with the painters cleansing of
the worldor, more accurately, of the observers eyecreates a
haunting though ironic metaphor in which acts of earnest work are
momentarily brought together in a single thought. The metaphor
connecting art and cleaning as two kinds of work recalls Byatts
more whimsical metaphor connecting painting and cooking.
The seventeenth-century fascination with eyesight and optics is reflected in the novel with repeated references to eyes, beams of light,
bright jewels, the camera obscura, and above all, Griets learning to
see as an artist might see. On Sundays at home, Griet describes Vermeers paintings to her blind father. In the work called Young Woman
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with a Water Pitcher, which she knows only as the painting of the
bakers daughter, Griet remembers primarily the light, the girls posture, and the colors of her clothing. She tells her father that the
white in the girls cap is actually a composite of other colors, including blue, yellow, and violet, a fact that she has learned first from Vermeer himself and then simply by looking. The tile painter, who
always worked with flat colors, does not understand, nor does it
make sense to him that Vermeers paintings do not tell stories. It is
evident that Griet has a keen visual memory. But her greatest
involvement with a painting comes when she deliberately disarranges the cloth on the table that appears in A Lady Writing, thus
indirectly having a hand in the composition of the work. As she explains to Vermeer, such an orderly work should contain some disorder, and, indeed, the arrangement of the tablecloth provides one
of the few diagonal lines in the painting. Through this gesture of
disarrangement, Chevalier cleverly creates a nexus between her
novel and the painters work, at the same time allowing Griet to
enter Vermeers world in a more radical, if minor, way. Chevaliers
novel constitutes a tribute to a great artist while at the same time
offering a feminine perspective on his world. The ingenuity of the
novel is evident in Chevaliers own carefully researched view of
Delft, her blending of fact and fiction, her invention of stories and
imagined moments to go with individual paintings, and, above all,
her creating the life and words of the girl with the pearl earring.
Although the servant girls in Christ in the House of Martha and
Mary and Girl with a Pearl Earring are touched by the genius of the
artists whom they encounter, both of them end up as models, not
artists, beautiful and dignified as their images may be. In sharp contrast, the image of a servant cleaning and dusting in the artists studio undergoes a surprising and comical transformation in A. S.
Byatts Art Work, in which a cleaning lady becomes a highly acclaimed artist in the trendy London art scene, creating a spectacular
installation by using her talents for sewing and working with textiles.
The story is darkly comic, but not because the idea of a cleaning lady
succeeding as an artist is funny; Byatt does not condescend to her
character. Rather, the story is comical because of the sudden reversal
of fortune and because of Mrs. Browns flamboyance and largerthan-life appeal.
Having been their cleaning lady for ten years, Mrs. Brown virtually
holds together the London household of Robin and Debbie Den-
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Up and down the stairs, joining all three floors, surges a roaring and
wheezing noise, a rhythmic and complex and swelling crescendo, snorting, sucking, with a high-pitched drone planing over a kind of grinding
sound, interrupted every now and then by a frenetic rattle, accompanied
by a new, menacing whine. (38)
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her success in selling her first work, he is grateful that she does not
call her workroom a studio or, worse, an atelier. He inwardly manufactures preposterous reasons to feel condescending about her art,
claiming that she is hopelessly materialistic, since she makes things
while he deals with ideas. Jack will not listen to Brendas friend Hap
when she describes to him the Van Gogh-like qualities of Brendas
prize-winning quilt. Jack refuses to acknowledge that the battle has
already been won and that by 1978 traditional womens crafts, especially quilting, have come to be considered serious art. A turning
point came in 1971, when the Whitney Museum of American Art
launched a dramatic exhibition of quilts hung on walls like paintings, emphasizing their graphic rather than functional qualities. But
Brenda herself is just coming to the revelation that she is an artist.
Brenda has a buoyant, cheerful spirit, appropriate to a modern
Angel in the House, but underneath there lies a streak of cynicism
and unrealized passion. Her story has a series of events in common
with Cats Eye, Spending, and Art Work: the preparation, the show,
unexpected success, and an interview with the media. Shields even
includes some light satire on academic quilt theory, especially of the
Freudian variety. Happenstance also tells a rather gentle love story in
which through a series of comic circumstances Brenda is thrown together with Barry Ollershaw, a metallurgist attending a conference
in the same hotel. Shut out of her room because her roommate, the
famous quilter Verna of Virginia, is entertaining a lover in bed,
Brenda ends up spending a romantic interlude with Ollie. Because
Verna has taken Brendas coat, she must walk through the street to
an interview wearing only her prize quilt. She gets very drunk at the
interview, but in the end she remains faithful to Jack, returning to
her normal life more confident and with her work honorably mentioned.
The title Happenstance links together the political and aesthetic
implications of Brendas story. Happenstance, in the sense of accident, is the machinery that drives the plot of the situation comedy,
and in this way Brenda is tested and tempted in a variety of trying
and embarrassing circumstances while away from the shelter of her
home. Happenstance, in the sense of historical circumstance, also
does much to determine the nature of Brendas experience. As a
forty-year-old housewife in the late 1970s, she is aware of having
missed out on the social upheavals that took place during her youth,
but recent changes in the status of women make it possible for her
to be taken seriously as an artist. Happenstance is also an element
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in her aesthetic. Brenda makes the point that her art is unpremeditated, relying upon elements of chance and sudden inspiration. Her
stitching seems to spring from her hands rather than from her head.
Brendas transformation from a seemingly ordinary suburban
housewife, an Angel in the House, into an artist takes place gradually and, ironically enough, before Brenda herself is fully aware of it.
Like Helen Cuffe and Marian Easton, she undergoes stages of transformation. Brendas Polish mother, poor and unwed, taught her to
sew out of necessity, though always emphasizing fashion and quality.
Brenda studies to be a typist and, a child of the 1950s, she gets married because she longs for a pink kitchen. In the 1970s she begins,
like many women, to feel unfulfilled with a new sense of growing,
unspecified anger; at this time she turns from the domestic craft of
sewing to the art of quilting. She converts the guest bedroom into
her studio and decorates its walls in the colors of Van Goghs bedroom. Later, at the crafts convention, Brenda learns that many other
serious quilters have undergone a similar transformation, and they
pay appropriate tribute to Virginia Woolf:
I finally laid down the law and got myself a studio. What about you,
Brenda?
Well
A room of ones own. Good old Virginia. She had her head screwed
on right.12
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such blank spot. Gamble writes, this quilt remains a piece forever in suspension between language and form: it will either remain
unfinished, in which case it will not really be a quilt, or it will be
finished, and thus exceed the linguistic parameters set by its designation.13 If the name of the quilt causes it to be perpetually suspended between the word and the form, then Shieldss description
of this particular work of art stands out as an example of the kind of
ekphrasis that creates a black hole effect in the narrative, as in To
the Lighthouse.
Brendas aesthetic of the unfinished is shared in a different way by
a very elderly Eastern Kentucky quilter at the conference, Dorothea
Thomas, who makes narrative quilts, an old and distinctly American
art form. Dorothea has come to realize that there are at least four
endings to every story, the real one, the one hoped for, the one
dreaded, and the counterfactual might-have-been. Having arrived at
an aesthetic of the unfinished, she regrets having given a single ending to so many of her earlier story quilts. Shieldss use of the back-toback alternate narratives in her novel would appear to add further
endorsement to this aesthetic principle.
In a more tentative and problematic way, Kyoko Moris novel also
portrays a craftspersons gradual recognition of herself as an artist.
Stone Field, True Arrow is about a weaver who is deeply dedicated to
her creative work but feels herself unworthy to be a pure artist
like her father, a painter, and sees herself as a humble artisan, a Martha. Moris semiautobiographical novel is the story of Ishida Mayumi, called Maya, a Japanese-born American living in Milwaukee
whose occupation is spinning, dyeing, and weaving cloths for the
garments that she makes. In Japanese, the pictorial figures that spell
out Mayas name have the meanings of stone, field, true, arrow, suggesting the hardships she suffers all of her life and the possibility of
a new direction for her life at the end of the novel. At the beginning
of the novel, Maya at age thirty-five is trapped in a dismal, burnt out
marriage with an English teacher, Jeff. The nearly total lack of communication between the couple is at least half Mayas fault, for she
has always been an extremely solitary, silent, inward person and she
sometimes retreats to her studio for days. Like the Lady of Shallott,
Maya does her weaving in a state of loneliness and isolation manifested by her physical surroundings:
Mayas weaving studio is upstairs from the boutique where she works
during the day. The building is a remodeled barn twenty minutes north
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duces in her garments the colors of the European landscape paintings that she viewed with her father in the museums of Kyoto.
In part, Maya is deeply troubled because she holds contradictory
ideas in her mind: the idea that she is unworthy to be an artist like
her father and her emerging sense that she is worthy. In art school,
her senior show, consisting of small oil paintings of bare fields and
rocks, was awarded second prize; nonetheless she used the prize
money to buy a loom and a sewing machine so as to pay tribute to
her father by engaging in more humble work than he. Later she
thinks that it was cowardly of her to choose not to paint, that she has
chosen a comfortable craft rather than doing the work which would
allow her to return to the moment of departure from her father and
meet him again on some level. She also imagines that the products
of her work are somehow less truthful than the art of her father: the
garments she makes cover up the sadness he laid bare in his drawings and paintings (96).
At the same time that she supposes her work to be less worthy,
Maya acknowledges that her father taught her to see as an artist sees,
he taught her the language of colors and light, of shapes and lines
and angles (205). That legacy remains with her: she never looked
at any landscape without noticing the fields of color, the shapes of
light, the alignment of the world (205). Since Mayas father sent
her away while she was still a child and never communicated with
her thereafter, except to leave her one drawing, the reader may feel
justified in wondering whether Mayas obsession with this silent artist is a projection of her own needsa need to be loved and to look
up to a master as well as some deep-seated, shameful need to feel
herself unworthy. Minoru seems like an emotional cipher. To the
reader of Moris memoir he is a figment of the imagination, yet
these mysteries add to the psychological richness of the novel.
When Maya concentrates on her weaving, her thoughts about her
work and about the creative process reveal her sophisticated sensibility as an artist. On her loom she weaves wool for a jacket in colors
that will move in subtle transitions from blue to purple to pink. The
jacket she plans to make reminds her of a Japanese fairy tale, told by
her father, in which a magical garment gives a female spirit the
power to fly home to heaven, leaving her earthly lover behind as she
dances her farewell to him in the air:
The colors move in fine increments, each bar the width of a piano key.
If the shades could make music as they moved toward pink, they would
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sound like the waves of the sea. The notes would glide across the blue
silence, one wave overlapping the next until they reached the shore and
found the pale pink of seashells. . . . the jacket is already flying in her
mind. In time, her fingers will set it free into the sky over the sea. (26)
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Like the song of a bird she recognizes before dawn or when the bird
is hidden in thick summer foliage, the combined images announce the
presence of something she cannot see or fully understand. Familiar and
yet mysterious, the shapes from their separate pasts intertwine. . . . (273)
Rather like the painting Unified Field Theory, described at the end of
Margaret Atwoods Cats Eye, the collage includes symbolic fragments of Mayas life story: a map, drawings, birds, a letter in Japanese, and a piece of cloth. The ekphrasis is clear enough, but even
so, the reader has difficulty seeing exactly what this complicated,
multilayered piece looks like, as in Mayas metaphor of the song of
a hidden bird. It is a personal and intimate message rather than a
work to be viewed by strangers. Along with the pictorial letter to
Eric, Maya also puts into the envelope extra, unattached pieces of
paper and cloth that did not fit into the collage, suggesting an aesthetic of the unfinished, but also hinting at the hope that pieces of
the past may somehow be retrieved and made to fuse.
While gazing at the night sky, Maya remembers the story of the
weaver star. In a Japanese folk tale told to her by her father, Vega, a
weaver, and Altair, a farm worker, neglect their work because they
are too much in love. As punishment they are placed as stars on opposite sides of the River of Heaven (the Milky Way) and they are
allowed to meet only once a year by crossing the river on the wings
of a swan; on this occasion they have the power to grant human
wishes for happiness. The story reflects the emotional tensions of
Mayas life. When she thinks of the figure of Vega, Maya emphasizes
Vegas loneliness along with her heavenly artistry: Separated from
her lover for an eternity, the weaver is still at her celestial loom.
Maya imagines her weaving a silver cloth of starlight, an indigo garment of the night (218). Yet the starry lovers are granted their annual meetings after all. Maya, although she will always remain a
lonely soul, is left at the end of the novel on the threshold of a surer
art and a deeper love. In this bleakly beautiful novel, in which loneliness seems so much like a natural condition of humans, especially
artists, Kyoko Mori is, like Virginia Woolf, Mary Gordon, and others,
holding out the possibility that art and love are compatible in the
end.
A domestic artist is apotheosized in Moris tale of the weaver who
becomes the star Vega. In fact, all of these stories and novels about
housewives and servants feature striking and vibrant images of
women: Byatts powerful cook; the servant Griet arrayed in her tur-
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Epilogue
The ku nstlerroman is especially well suited to women writers and
their feminist concerns because, as a record of someones efforts to
become an artist, the genre necessarily involves moments of transformation and growth. Where the protagonist is a visual artist rather
than a writer, the interactions of the two art formsthe implied dialogue of the writer with the painterenrich the theme of creativity
in the novel. The novels and stories in this study dramatize an ongoing struggle against obstacles and a gradual throwing off of constraints. Historically, these obstacles included the interruption of
the creative process by suitors, the trivializing of womens art, and
the difficulty of combining a professional career with womens domestic duties. Acquiring a studio of their own is a serious practical
matter as well as a symbolic attainment, signifying artistic autonomy.
Recent novels and stories have shown women artists still confronting
the Angel in the House and still occupying a liminal position vis-a`-vis
their society. Liminality itself can offer a kind of freedom, however,
when the artist experiences a sense of openness and possibility.
Chopin, Woolf, Johnston, Madden, Paton Walsh, and Gordon all
portray artists painting at the seashore. Perhaps writers choose to
describe painters facing the panoramic vastness of an ocean because
it implies a continuing expansion and enlargement of vision; the
seashore setting can suggest liberation as well as liminality. Carolyn
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Notes
Introduction
Epigraph. Mary Gordon, Spending (New York: Scribner, 1998), 80.
1. Virginia Woolf, A Room of Ones Own (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich,
1929), 80
2. Laura R Prieto, At Home in the Studio: The Professionalization of Women Artists in
America (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2001), 5.
3. Ibid.
4. Rachel Blau DuPlessis, Writing Beyond the Ending (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1985).
5. Virginia Woolf, Professions for Women, in The Norton Anthology of English
Literature, ed. M. H. Abrams et. al., 7th ed, vol. 2 (New York: W. W. Norton, 2000),
2216.
6. Ibid., 2217.
7. Carolyn G.Heilbrun, Womens Lives: The View from the Threshold (Toronto: Toronto University Press, 1999), 3.
8. W. J. T. Mitchell, Picture Theory (Chicago: University of Chicago Press), 152.
9. Ibid.
10. David Lodge, The Modes of Modern Writing: Metaphor, Metonomy, and the Typology of Modern Literature (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1977), 37.
11. Mitchell, Picture Theory, 158.
12. Linda Nochlin, Women, Art, and Power; and other Essays (New York; Harper and
Row, 1988), 98.
13. Gail Godwin, Violet Clay (New York: Ballantine, 1978), 33738.
14. Whitney Chadwick, Women, Art, and Society, 3rd ed. (London: Thames and
Hudson, 2002), 379.
15. Joyce Cary, The Horses Mouth (New York: Harper and Brothers, 1944),
15556.
16. Ibid., 179.
17. A. S. Byatt, Portraits in Fiction (London: Chatto and Windus, 2001), 70.
18. Cary, The Horses Mouth, 26263.
19. D. H. Lawrence, Women in Love (New York: Viking, 1920), 424.
20. Ibid., 421.
21. John Fowles, The Ebony Tower (New York: New American Library, 1974), 50.
242
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NOTES
1. Rachel Blau DuPlessis, Writing Beyond the Ending (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1985), 84.
2. Laura R. Prieto, At Home in the Studio: The Professionalization of Women Artists
in America (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2001), 4.
3. Whitney Chadwick, Women, Art, and Society, 3rd ed. (London: Thames and
Hudson, 2002), 41.
4. Anne Higgonet, Secluded Vision: Images of Feminine Experience in Nineteenth-Century Europe, in The Expanding Discourse: Feminism and Art History (New
York: Icon Editions, 1992), 171.
5. Linda Nochlin, Why Have There Been No Great Women Artists? in Women,
Creativity, and the Arts, ed. Diane Apostolos-Cappadona and Lucinda Ebersole (New
York: Continuum, 1995), 58.
6. Deborah Barker, Aesthetics and Gender in American Literature: Portraits of the
Woman Artist (Lewisburg: Bucknell University Press, 2000), 17.
7. Jane Austen, Emma, 1816 Norton Critical Edition (New York: W. W. Norton,
1972), 1. Further page references are cited in the text.
8. Charlotte Bronte , Jane Eyre, 1847 (New York: W. W. Norton, 1993), 162. Further page references are cited in the text.
9. Sandra M. Gilbert and Susan Gubar, The Madwoman in the Attic: The Woman
Writer and the Nineteenth-Century Literary Imagination (New Haven: Yale University
Press, 1979), 158.
10. Susan Morgan, Emma and the Charms of Imagination, in Jane Austens
Emma, ed. Harold Bloom (New York: Chelsea, 1987), 71.
11. Park Honan, Jane Austen: Her Life (New York: Fawcett Columbine, 1987), 354.
12. Christine Roulston, Discourse, Gender, and Gossip: Some Reflections on
Bakhtin and Emma, in Ambiguous Discourse: Feminist Narratology and British Women
Writers, ed. Kathy Mezei (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1996), 45.
13. Honan, Jane Austen, 352.
14. Ibid.
15. Henri Bergson, Laughter, in Comedy, ed. Wylie Sypher (Baltimore: Johns
Hopkins University Press, 1956), 105.
16. Virginia Woolf, A Room of Ones Own (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich,
1929), 7172.
17. Morgan, Emma and the Charms of Imagination, 69.
18. Carol T. Christ, Imaginative Constraint, Feminine Duty, and The Form of
Charlotte Bronte s Fiction, in Critical Essays on Charlotte Bronte, ed. Barbara Timm
Gates (Boston: G. K. Hall, 1990), 65.
19. Elizabeth C. Gaskell. The Life of Charlotte Bronte (London: Oxford University
Press, 1951), 275.
20. Christine Alexander, The Early Writings of Charlotte Bronte (Buffalo: Prometheus Books, 1983), 234.
21. Ibid, 237.
22. L. E. Moser, From Portrait to Person: A Note on the Surrealistic in Jane
Eyre, Nineteenth-Century Fiction 20 (Dec. 1965): 279.
23. Enid L. Duthie, The Brontes and Nature (New York: St. Martins, 1986), 138.
24. Gilbert and Gubar, The Madwoman in the Attic, 433.
25. Sally Shuttleworth, Charlotte Bronte and Victorian Psychology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), 181.
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NOTES
1. Virginia Woolf, The Diary of Virginia Woolf, ed. Anne Olivier Bell, vol. 3 (1925
1930) (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1980), 132.
2. Cheryl Mares, Reading Proust: Woolf and the Painters Perspective, in The
Multiple Muses of Virginia Woolf, ed. Diane F. Gillespie (Columbia: Missouri University Press, 1993), 58.
3. Ibid., 61.
4. Christopher Reed, Through Formalism: Feminism and Virginia Woolf s Relation to Bloomsbury Aesthetics, in The Multiple Muses of Virginia Woolf, ed. Diane
F. Gillespie (Columbia: Missouri University Press, 1993), 11.
5. Roger Fry, Vision and Design (Cleveland: Meridian Books, 1965), 12.
6. Ibid., 239.
7. Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse, 1927 (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1981), 209. Further page references are cited in the text.
8. Fry, Vision and Design, 51.
9. Ibid.
10. Studies of the sister artists include Jane Dunn, A Very Close Conspiracy: Vanessa
Bell and Virginia Woolf (Boston: Little Brown, 1990); Diane Filby Gillespie, The Sisters
Arts: The Writing and Painting of Virginia Woolf and Vanessa Bell (Syracuse: Syracuse
University Press,1988); and Panthea Reid, Art and Affection: A Life of Virginia Woolf
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996). A useful study of Woolf s aesthetic influences is David Dowling, Bloomsbury Aesthetics and the Novels of Forster and Woolf (New
York: St. Martins, 1985).
11. Gillespie, The Sisters Arts, 8.
12. Ibid.
13. Letter cited in Lisa Tickner, Vanessa Bell: Studland Beach, Domesticity, and
Significant Form, Representations 65 (Winter 1999): 75.
14. Virginia Woolf, The Question of Things Happening: The Letters of Virginia Woolf,
vol. 2, 19121922, ed. Nigel Nicolson (London: Hogarth, 1976), 400.
15. Virginia Woolf, Pictures, in The Moment and Other Essays, (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1948), 176.
16. Virginia Woolf, Walter Sickert: A Conversation, 1934, limited ed. (Letchworth,
Eng: Richard West, 1979), 26.
17. Ibid., 9.
18. Gillespie, The Sisters Arts, 89.
19. Virginia Woolf, Diary, 3:287.
20. Ibid., 106.
21. Geoffrey Hartman, Virginias Web, in Virginia Woolf: A Collection of Critical
Essays, ed. Margaret Homans (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice Hall, 1993), 37.
22. Marianne Hirsh, The Darkest Plots: Narration and Compulsory Heterosexality, in Virginia Woolf: A Collection of Critical Essays, ed. Margaret Homans (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice Hall, 1993), 208.
23. Ibid.
24. Hermione Lee, The Novels of Virginia Woolf (New York: Holmes and Meier,
1977), 136.
25. Quoted in Tickner, Vanessa Bell, 65.
26. Frances Spalding, Vanessa Bell (New Haven: Ticknor and Fields, 1983), 126.
27. Ibid., 171.
28. Ibid.
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NOTES
29. Virginia Woolf, A Sketch of the Past, in Moments of Being: Unpublished Autobiographical Writings, ed. Jeanne Schulkind (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich,
1976), 72.
30. Fry, Vision and Design, 33.
31. Jane Goldman, The Feminist Aesthetics of Virginia Woolf: Modernism, Post-Impressionism and the Politics of the Visual (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998),
185.
32. Virginia Woolf, Walter Sickert, 22.
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NOTES
23. John Bayley, Elegy for Iris (New York: St. Martins, 1999), 120.
24. Ibid., 120.
25. Ibid., 122.
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NOTES
3. Ibid., 226
4. Ibid., 228.
5. Ibid., 226.
6. Jonathan Brown, Vela zquez, Painter and Courtier (New Haven: Yale University
Press, 1986), 16.
7. Tracy Chevalier, Girl with a Pearl Earring (New York: Penguin, 1999), 186.
8. Ibid., 36.
9. Ibid., 36.
10. Virginia Woolf, Mr. Bennett and Mrs. Brown, 1924, in The English Modernist
Reader, 19101930, ed. Peter Faulkner (Iowa City: University of Iowa Press, 1986),
128.
11. A. S. Byatt, Art Work, in The Matisse Stories (New York: Vintage, 1993), 78.
Further page references are cited in the text.
12. Carol Shields, Happenstance (New York: Penguin, 1980), 80. Further page references are cited in the text.
13. Sarah Gamble, Filling the Creative Void: Narrative Dilemmas in Small Ceremonies, the Happenstance Novels, and Swann, in Carol Shields, Narrative Hunger, and
the Possibilities of Fiction, ed. Edward Eden and Dee Goertz (Toronto: Toronto University Press, 2003), 51.
14. Kyoko Mori, Stone Field, True Arrow (New York: Henry Holt, 2000), 13. Further
page references are cited in the text.
15. Kyoko Mori, The Dream of Water: A Memoir (New York: Fawcett Columbine,
1995), 99.
16. John Hollander, A Circle of Representations, in The Eye of the Poet: Studies
in the Reciprocity of the Visual and Literary Arts from the Renaissance to the Present, ed.
Amy Golahny (Lewisburg: Bucknell University Press, 1996), 224.
17. James A. W. Heffernan, Museum of Words: The Poetics of Ekphrasis from Homer to
Ashbery (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993), 6.
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Index
Alpers, Svetlana, 111, 122
Angel in the House, 1718, 239; in Atwood, 170; in Chevalier, 219; in
Chopin, 70; in Gordon, 209; in Johnston, 140; in Murdoch, 12223; in
Shields, 22930; in Woolf, 9192, 97,
239
Arnold, Matthew, 69
art and Eros, 17; in Anne Bronte ,
5255; in Atwood, 16465; in Banti,
115; in Chopin, 7072; in Gordon,
198200; in Murdoch, 124; in Woolf,
93
Artemisia (Banti), 15, 19, 26, 10920
Art Work (Byatt), 213, 22228, 239
Atwood, Margaret, 15273; Bodily Harm,
153, 161; Cats Eye, 15354, 15773;
echo of Woolf in, 159; Surfacing,
15455; Survival, 15253; The Blind
Assassin, 168; The Edible Woman, 152
53, 161; The Handmaids Tale, 153,
16162; The Sunrise, 15457
Austen, Jane: Emma, 16, 3542
Awakening, The (Chopin), 6484, 107
Banti, Anna (Lucia Lopresti): Artemisia,
15, 19, 26, 10920
Barker, Deborah, 36
Bayley, John, 131
Bell, Quentin, 102
Bell, Vanessa, 85, 8990, 1023; The
Conversation, 90; The Tub, 102
Bergson, Henri, 42
Bissell, R. Ward, 112
Bloomsbury group, 89
Bronte , Anne: The Tenant of Wildfell Hall,
3334, 5056
Bronte , Charlotte: Jane Eyre, 34, 3637,
4350, 1078
255
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INDEX
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