Maybe they just don't like talking about it... in semi-public places... sitting around in a circle... facing each other... and openly sharing... dare I say... feelings!
According to tabulations on my calculator, the female-to-male ratio at the gathering of The Artist's Bookshelf last night sat squarely at 25:1. I'm not complaining, just facing the reality of the powerful presence of female energy in the room. Given the vast gender imbalance of our group, I suppose it only natural that a good deal of our conversation tilted towards issues of gender, as reflected in the drastically differing voices utilized by author Nicole Krauss in her compelling novel, The History of Love.
We all expressed awe at her ability to articulate so poignantly visions of the world as seen through the eyes of a 14 year-old girl and an 80 year-old man, with equal degrees of conviction, worldliness, and compassion.
Some of us struggled with the intricacies of plot and the complexities of multiple narrative voices. Some of us read it twice out of necessity, some of us read it twice for the sheer pleasure of losing ourselves in the lyrical prose, some of us skimmed it lightly, and as always, a few of us, despite the very best intentions, hadn't yet made it beyond the dust jacket. But hey, that's okay. We came to share.
We approached the book in conjunction with the current Heart of Darkness exhibition, and as always, managed to mine at least a few interesting links. Perhaps installation artist Kai Althoff's statement summed it up best:
"I think my work is much more about 'love,' if I dare say that: things that I don't get from love, things that I love or want to love, or that I want to love me."
Wait a minute... he's a man... isn't he?
Point taken, Roger. Kai Althoff is a man, apparently willing to address the topic of love. Perhaps his being an artist as well a man heightens his sensibly and ability to do so, at least in his art. I wonder, though, if like most men I know, he shudders at the words, “We need to talk,” when uttered by a lover.
You asked at the Bookshelf how Althoff’s piece compares to Krauss’s History of Love. [Sorry, I do not know how to access boldface and italics in this format.]
In his quote that his installation is about love, Althoff describes “things” that h does not get and wants from love. For the sake of argument, I assume his “things” includes intangibles as well as tangibles. To me, his work is an expression of love sought and not found or if found, lost in a confusion of abuse, abandonment and betrayal.
Krauss’s novel, on the other hand, seems to be a story or stories of love found and sustained despite long separations and near starvation; at times despite the death of the beloved. Although the person dies, the love survives because it continues to be nurtured by the one who remains alive.
How ennobling this form of grief seems compared to, say, our present culture in which people live longer and divorce more often - A situation in which the people remain, but the love between them dies. I wonder which would be more painful or harder to bear: Never finding love, finding love and losing the beloved or being with the person and losing the love?
I wish I could remember who refers to love as “sweet misery.” While I look for that quote, could you or any of your readers recommend a novel that addresses the predicament of being with the person and losing the love? Thank you.
Comment by Bambi — 12/10/2006 @ 1:40 pm
Bambi does a nice job of articulating crucial differences in the approaches to “love” offered up in the novel and the installation in question.
In answer to searching for novels that address the predicament of “being with the person and losing the love,” it seems American fiction has a long and sordid history of addressing that topic, going all the way back to Henry James. For more current fair, I’d recommend WE WERE THE MULVANEYS by Joyce Carol Oates, THE PROFESSOR OF DESIRE by Philip Roth and IN THE LAKE OF THE WOODS by Tim O’Brien.
Comment by roger nieboer — 12/11/2006 @ 12:19 pm
I admire those of you who thought this was a perfectly crafted novel. I guess my perfectly crafted novel is the one I can read in bed on Christmas day with a fever singeing my brain and still understand it the first time through (the third Harry Potter book for example).
Why is Leo’s glass part his (ahem) derriere? He meant that part of the book to be funny, but why the backside — one of the most used body parts?
And who is Alma Singer - his step great-granddaughter?
And why was the book written in Spanish?
After hearing the artist’s description of his art, I too, had a greater appreciation of his intent if not for the art itself.
As for love, I think finding it and losing is the most painful. Being with a person and losing love — easier to get rid of a person than to rid oneself of love. Never finding love — very, very easy to forget why it was ever sought in the first place…….
Comment by Trish — 12/24/2006 @ 4:07 pm
Heart of Darkness: I guess I just needed to see it again with the artist’s perspective in mind; I totally got it and I liked it and enjoyed it as well.
Comment by Trish — 1/12/2007 @ 11:15 am