Still Life

By Sarah Winman

Love is the most wonderful discovery in the pantheon of human existence.

This is a book of delicately and intricately interwoven themes. Winman has used words to create a still life painting with objects representing love. Surely scores of artists have attempted such a thing using oils, pastels, acrylics. But Winman attempts to accomplish the unlikely task by painting with word images which evoke the imagination.

She would say, I guess, that she has filled the story with particular, well wraught, moments. A character describes them for us: “There are moments in life so monumental and still that the memory can never be retrieved without a catch to the throat or an interruption to the beat of the heart. Can never be retrieved without the rumbling disquiet of how close that moment came to not having happened at all.

Some activities are exalted, she says, others dismissed as lowly or humble or trivial, she thought. So who is it who decides?

The power of still life lies precisely in this triviality. Because it is a world of reliability. Of mutuality between objects that are there and people who are not. Paused time in ghostly absence….

Objects representing ordinary life reside in this space—plates, bowls, jars, pitchers, oyster knives. The shape of these objects has remained unchanged, as has their function. They have become fixed and unremarkable in this world of habit and we have taken them for granted. Yet within these forms something powerful is retained: Continuity. Memory. Family.

How did she do it? By introducing us, first to the mundane. The chance meeting of a soldier and an art historian in wartime Florence, Italy. A chance sexual encounter under a bridge in London resulting in an unwanted pregnancy. The meeting of two lovers, the pensione guest, and the laundry girl. A parrot and an old rusted out ambulance. A cherry tree and enough cigarettes to burn Rome. All of these mundane encounters and objects set beside renaissance treasures rescued during wartime, the sensual experience of eating and drinking in Florence, the poetic explorations of the heart.

Winman is saying, and I agree with her, that the most sublime aspects of life live right alongside and within the most mundane. When we can be present enough within that mundane space, and allow the continuity its place, we can engage with the infinite flow of love and beauty. Because every great work of art is really just stopping long enough to be present with the mundane and find it’s sublime expression.

And there are themes. Themes as old as humanity, but revived once again in this magic of her story.

Theme: Love

In the time it took for them to return to the pensione, the most extraordinary shift had taken place within those tired, judgmental walls: that of love preceding them. It had crept ahead, scattering benevolence and joy. The heavy mahogany furniture acquired an Italian flair, and the cockney signora’s aitches, as rare as a Marian apparition, made an unexpected appearance. Stew had been taken off the evening menu once again, and even Reverend Hyndesight practiced compassion by including Mr. Collins in an upcoming visit to the opera. And Miss Everly? Simply put, she wrote her best poem in years. The weather, too, was affected by the tenderness of that sweet embrace. The sun was reenergized, and the warmth of its long arm encroached upon autumn’s flimsy grasp; stars shone brighter, and even a full moon declared itself a honey

Love was resplendent that day. And when the light was angled right across Piazza Santa Croce, one could almost believe that Dante smiled when he heard a young woman called Evelyn whisper to one called Livia, You are my teacher and my author.

Theme: Elusive beginnings and endings.

It’s always been quite hard to know—to pinpoint, let’s say—where one’s unique story really begins. Does it really start at the moment of birth, or with those who came before? Instilling, distilling, in one’s veins the lived life, the unlived life, the regrets, the joys, as effortlessly, as dubiously one might say, as they hand down a certain walk (you to me) or a frown (you to me) or limp, mousy hair (Mother to me). If this is so, then my story starts with you. What I want to say is, you have handed me your affliction and its accompanying power.

Theme: Florence the city. Florence the character. Florence the impression and imprint.

Arnolfo di Cambio’s final communal circuit of walls to enclose the city. Follow my finger, Miss Skinner. Over there, over there, down…An enclosed city was his dream. His insieme. What the Italians call a togetherness. Of course, it was a masterpiece of defense, and yet, so much more. It shaped the city. Made it a direct descendant of Rome, and that made people believe its destiny was golden. He created a knowable city, Miss Skinner. And knowable it remains. It’s how the city becomes part of us forever. Never lets us go. Pulls us back time after time.

Theme: The historical denial of the feminine.

You said Suor Plautilla was prolific.

Oh she was. Fell into oblivion because of gender. It’s a tired old story, that one, I’m afraid, my dear. I am one of the few who have ever seen her painting of the Last Supper, which was a first. For a woman, I mean. Largest painting in the world by an early female artist. Nearly as big as Leonardo’s. Top left-hand corner her signature and also the words: Orate pro pictora—”pray for the paintress.” A simple acknowledgement of who she was.

Theme: Good men inhabiting the feminine space. In this quote from an interview at theflorentine.net, Winman talks about another theme she wanted to bring into her story:

I feel strongly about women having the right not to be mothers, a space that Peg would inhabit. What was important was that the men would walk into that space, something else I feel strongly about: good men inhabiting the feminine space, which is what this book also focuses on. The men bring up the kids, the men are in the kitchen. This isn’t an issues book, by any means. It’s organic, but these characters reflect the things that I want to say at that moment.

Theme: What Is Art.

And the ultimate question, never explicitly expressed, but invoked by every word-painted image in this book - what is art? And who gets to decide?