Thunderclap by Laura Cumming

In this stunning, thoroughly absorbing book, the writer and art critic Laura Cumming weaves together three intimately connected strands in the most captivating of ways. Firstly, we have the life and work of the 17^th-century Dutch artist Carel Fabritius, probably best known as the painter of The Goldfinch, which is featured in Donna Tartt’s novel of the same name. Secondly, there are snapshots of the life and work of her artist father, James Cumming, who died in his sixties – a death precipitated by his failing sight. And thirdly, a series of reflections on the golden age of Dutch art, alighting on some of the most remarkable artists and artworks of the period. It’s an utterly captivating book, beautifully written and immaculately researched – like a love letter to the transcendent power of art to move us both emotionally and intellectually. I adored this one and feel sure it will reappear in my 2024 highlights.

Born in the village of Middenbeemster in 1622, Carel Fabritius studied art under Rembrandt in his Amsterdam studio at some point in the 1640s. He married young to a woman from a wealthy family, and children, coupled with tragedy, followed swiftly. Just like the existence and fate of his art, much of Fabritius’ life remains a mystery. A few key details have been gleaned from registers of births, marriages and deaths, but his time and potential output (prior to a move to Delft in the 1650s) remain sketchy at best. Barely a dozen surviving paintings have been officially attributed to Carel Fabritius – his brother Barent, also an artist, was more prolific but much less talented.

Carel Fabritius’ paintings are suffused with the sorrows and losses he endured during his short life. The untimely death of his first wife in childbirth (or shortly afterwards) and the death of the couple’s three children almost certainly left the artist devastated and depressed. His pictures speak of solitude and isolation, of withdrawal from life following this terrible period of loss so early in his twenties. Even his most famous subject, The Goldfinch, is alone, tethered to its perch by a delicate binding chain.

The beauty of the painting is in equal tension with its almost unbearable poignancy: the captive bird so enigmatic, a mortal being made apparent to us for all time yet forever imprisoned by the chain (and the picture frame). There is not another painting like it. (p. 201)

Cumming writes beautifully about Fabritius’ artworks, from the mysterious A View of Delft (an early touchstone for the writer), to the extraordinary, enigmatic The Sentry, a painting that seems not only outside of time but ahead of its period.

Dutch painters lived fragile lives, unpredictable and prone to fluctuations. Fabritius and his contemporaries were almost constantly in debt, hovering on the edge of destitution, often relying on the generosity of patrons, sometimes having to sell their works for less than their true value to provide for their families. Frans Hals was at the mercy of the bailiffs; even Vermeer earned little during his lifetime leaving his wife in debt. Like Fabritius, some of these painters endured terrible personal losses – Rembrandt is a notable example here, also losing his wife and three children tragically before their time. But somehow, these artists managed to cut through their inner sorrows, channelling their energies into some of the world’s finest art.

Even now, many artists struggle to make a living solely from their craft. Cumming thoughtfully argues the case for our need to value art at its true worth, to recognise what it costs to create and to reward this creativity accordingly.

The fragility of life is a key theme in the book, rippling through each of the threads like a portent warning. There are parallels to be drawn between Fabritius and Laura’s father, James Cumming – both men were artists who died before their time, cruelly depriving the world of the works they planned to create.

Cumming writes lovingly of her father’s dedication to art, his lifelong passion and reason for being. A travelling scholarship from the Edinburgh College of Art proved pivotal to James Cumming’s early development as an artist, enabling him to live, teach and create on the island of Lewis, where he captured the island’s culture in his striking paintings. This immersion in the world of Lewis became an invaluable source of inspiration for Cumming, influencing his artworks in the years following the visit. The Brahan Seer, one of the key paintings from this Lewis period, captures the islanders’ gifts for foresight, their ability to see and predict the future in uncannily prescient ways.

He is of the landscape, one with it, made of the island itself. […] The painting glows, the figure shines, as if surrounded by St Elmo’s fire, the great boots grow from the rocky shore. (p. 98)

(Last seen at a show in the 1960s, the painting has now disappeared from view, living a life of its own in some unknown location, tantalisingly out of the author’s reach.)

Years later, when Laura and her brother were youngsters, a family trip to the Netherlands marked another crucial period for James Cumming, granting him the opportunity to study the Dutch artworks he so clearly revered.

When they married in 1953, Laura’s parents had little money. Her father taught at public evening classes, and her mother worked at a private school near Edinburgh until Laura and her brother came along. As the family’s diaries show, the little income they earned was rarely enough, the fortuitous sale of two paintings to a passing American proving crucial just when the Cummings’ money had run out.

The author’s description of her father’s final years, his sight failing due to the rapid spread of cancer from his lungs to his brain, is almost unbearably moving to read. A loving, heartfelt tribute to a life painfully cut short.

Alongside these threads, Thunderclap is also a love letter to 17^th-century Dutch art, a paean to the beauty and dignity of these luminous artworks and their magical creators.

The sense of order and beauty is death-defying, to me; their energy resurgent. Dutch art is a buoyant ship, a rising wave, a soaring tree, dazzling blue ice; unexpected conversation in a parlour, the echo of light around a whitewashed church, the luminous apricot and the departing soldier, the complexity and strangeness of the world. It is Rembrandt in the night and Fabritius in the shadows. Dutch art: so familiar and yet so unfathomable. (p. 154)

Cumming writes beautifully of Pieter de Hooch’s graceful artworks, many of which seem to feature doorways, windows and apertures, encouraging us to glimpse the scenes unfolding inside – often featuring women absorbed in their daily rituals, which they conduct with great dignity and care. Meindert Hobbema’s The Avenue at Middelharnis is another touchstone for the author, a remarkable painting unlike any other from that time.

Cumming also makes a passionate case for the beauty and value of still life, a specialism often unfairly maligned compared to portraits, landscapes and narrative paintings in the hierarchy of artworks. Exquisite still lifes by artists such as Adriaen Coorte, Rachel Ruysch and Maria van Oosterwijck are cited as crucial examples here. Coorte’s artworks are extraordinary, like beautifully lit revelations, the ‘light striking out of darkness’ to wonderful effect.

An apricot lingers unnervingly close to the edge. Blackcurrants roll towards it in a darkening tide. Copper-coloured medlars dangle like Christmas decorations from a branch suspended by some unseen hand, while a dragonfly looks up, startled. Coorte’s art is a high wire, performance of tension and magic. (p. 141)

Also under challenge is the misguided notion that Dutch artists merely replicate the images they see before their eyes – a view that Cumming passionately disagrees with. Take Jacob van Ruisdael, for instance, ‘a master of the unexpected’. Imagination plays a role in this artist’s paintings, creating scenes that feel both faithful and real yet also part imaginary. Van Ruisdael’s first landscape – painted at eighteen – is a remarkably textured piece of work, a ‘thrilling play-off between light and dark’.

A dense, black mass of houses, trees and mills blocks out the setting sun on the right, which suffuses the left of the picture with opalescent radiance. Flakes of gold light glimmer through the leaves. Water lies in bright traces on the darkening fields and, in the murky foreground, a second mother-of-pearl sky appears, reflected and miniaturised bright in a pond. Two figures hurry home before night descends. It is always later than you think. (p. 66)

No other writer conveys art quite as inspiringly as Laura Cumming. Her descriptions sing with intelligence, grace, insight and beauty, inviting us to seek out these artworks to study them ourselves. Fans of the art critic’s columns in The Observer will find much to appreciate here.

This is a book about looking, not only at art but also at life itself. It’s about ways of seeing – contemplating and imagining the various rituals depicted in these artworks and the stories they tell. Art enhances our ability to look, ‘gives us other eyes to see with’ and other perspectives to view. It broadens our outlook and widens our world, prompting meaningful connections that enrich our lives. Cumming’s prose style is intimate, poetic and energising, inspiring us to reflect on art’s place in our lives.

As this marvellous book draws to a close, we home in on the cause of Fabritius’ tragic death, the Thunderclap of the title. Alongside many others in the city that day, Fabritius perished in the enormous explosion in Delft in 1654 when a large stockpile of explosives, dangerously stored in a city cellar, accidentally blew up. The exact cause of the blast was never determined – possibly a metal spark or a carelessly placed lantern – but many lost their lives as buildings collapsed and the fires took hold. Fabrituis was pulled from the wreckage six hours after the blast and removed to a makeshift infirmary nearby, only to die later the same day. In a poignant final chapter, Cumming wonders about his final hours, whether he realised what had happened and what, if anything, was flitting through his mind.

When I think of Fabritius lying in the devastation of his house, I wonder if he had the capacity to understand what had happened in that deafening flash or how injured he was. Or did he just have unspent hope; did he wait for the rescue, believing in nothing but his continued existence, patient, incredulous, unimploring. (p. 254)

It’s a deeply moving finish, rounded off by a crucial finding about The Goldfinch and its whereabouts that fateful day. If you have any interest in art (especially Dutch art) and its relationship to life, this sublime, inspiring book is for you.

Thunderclap is published by Chatto & Windus; personal copy.

Mothers in Literature – a few favourites from the shelves

With Mother’s Day coming up on Sunday, I thought it would be fun to put together a post on some of my favourite mothers in literature. Naturally, several classics spring to mind, such as Mrs Bennet from Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice and Marmee March from Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women, but I’ve tried to go for more unusual choices, all highly recommended and reviewed on this site.

Realisations and Revelations – mothers trying to do their best

Territory of Light by Yūko Tsushima (tr. Geraldine Harcourt)

I loved this. A beautiful, dreamlike novella shot through with a strong sense of isolation that permeates the mind. Originally published as a series of short stories, Tsushima’s novella focuses on a year in the life of a young mother recently separated from her somewhat ambivalent husband. There’s a sense of intimacy and honesty in the portrayal of the narrator’s feelings, something that adds to the undoubted power of the book. Themes of isolation, alienation and disassociation are heightened by the somewhat ghostly nature of the setting – an apartment located in a commercial building where the mother and child are the sole occupants at night. Strangely unsettling in tone yet thoroughly compelling.

Elena Knows by Claudia Piñeiro (tr. Frances Riddle)

Every now and again, a book comes along that catches the reader off-guard with its impact and memorability. Elena Knows feels like that kind of novel – an excellent example of how the investigation into a potential crime can be used as a vehicle in fiction to explore pressing societal issues. When Elena’s daughter, Rita, is found dead, the official investigations deliver a verdict of suicide, and the case is promptly closed by the police. Elena, however, refuses to believe the authorities’ ruling based on her knowledge of Rita’s beliefs, so she embarks on an investigation of her own with shocking results…In short, the book is a powerful exploration of various aspects of control over women’s bodies, particularly the extent to which women are in control (or not) of their own bodies in a predominantly Catholic society. It’s also a striking portrayal of a mother determined to discover the truth.

Forbidden Notebook by Alba de Céspedes (tr. Ann Goldstein)

Published in Italy in 1952 and freshly translated by Ann Goldstein, Forbidden Notebook is a remarkable rediscovery, a candid, exquisitely-written confessional from an evocative feminist voice. The novel is narrated by forty-three-year-old Valeria Cossati, who documents her inner thoughts in a secret notebook with great candour and clarity, laying bare the nature of her world with all its preoccupations. The act of writing becomes an outlet for Valeria’s frustrations with her family, her husband Michele and their two grown-up children, both living at home. Through the acting of writing the journal, Valeria learns more about herself, experiencing a gradual reawakening of her own yearnings and desires. In short, this is a wonderfully transgressive exploration of a woman’s right to her own existence in the face of competing demands. (It could also neatly fit into my next category as the relationship between Valeria and her daughter, Mirella, is particularly fraught!)

Fractured Mother-Daughter Relationships

Iza’s Ballad by Magda Szabó (Georges Szirtes)

Set in Hungary in the early 1960s, Iza’s Ballad is a heartbreaking portrayal of the emotional gulf between a mother and her daughter, two women with radically different outlooks on life. When her father dies, Iza decides to bring her elderly mother, Ettie, to live with her in Budapest. While Ettie is grateful to her daughter for this gesture, she struggles to adapt to modern life in the city, especially without her familiar possessions and the memories they represent. This is a novel of many contrasts; the chasm between the different generations; the traditional vs the new; the rural vs the urban; and the generous vs the self-centred. Szabó digs deep into the damage we inflict on those closest to us – often unintentionally but inhumanely nonetheless.

My Phantoms by Gwendoline Riley

A brilliantly observed, lacerating portrayal of a dysfunctional mother-daughter relationship that really gets under the skin. Riley’s sixth novel is a deeply uncomfortable read, veering between the desperately sad and the excruciatingly funny; and yet, like a car crash unfolding before our eyes, it’s hard to look away. The novel is narrated by Bridget, who is difficult to get a handle on, other than what she tells us about her parents, Helen (aka ‘Hen’) and Lee. This fascinating character study captures the bitterness, pain and irritation of a toxic mother-daughter relationship with sharpness and precision. The dialogue is pitch-perfect, some of the best I’ve read in recent years, especially when illustrating character traits – a truly uncomfortable read for all the right reasons.  

(Needy or neglectful mothers also feature strongly in Richard Yates’ best novels e.g. The Easter Parade and Hanne Ørstavik’s piercing novella Love tr. Martin Aitken.)

Oranges are Not the Only Fruit by Jeanette Winterson

Perhaps the quintessential ‘bad mother’ novel, Oranges is a semi-autobiographical narrative, drawing on Winterson’s relationship with her own mother, and what a fractious relationship it is! Jeanette’s adoptive mother is heavily involved, obsessed even, with the local Pentecostal church, grooming young Jeanette for a future as a church missionary. In one sense, Oranges is a coming-of-age novel, the story of a young girl trying to find her place in a world when she seems ‘different’ to many of her peers – different in terms of her religious upbringing and to some extent her sexuality. But the novel also explores how difficult it is for Jeanette to live up to her mother’s expectations, especially when these demands are so extreme. 

Motherwell: A Girlhood by Deborah Orr

Ostensibly a memoir exploring Orr’s childhood – particularly the fractured relationship between Deborah and her mother, Win, a formidable woman who holds the reins of power within the family’s household. Moreover, this powerful book also gives readers a searing insight into a key period of Scotland’s social history, successfully conveying the devastating impact of the steel industry’s demise – especially on Motherwell (where Orr grew up) and the surrounding community. This is a humane, beautifully-written book on how our early experiences and the communities we live in can shape us, prompting us to strive for something better in the years that follow.

Missing or Absent Mothers

On Chapel Sands by Laura Cumming

This absorbing memoir revolves around the story of Cumming’s mother, Betty Elston – more specifically, her disappearance as a young child, snatched away from the beach at Chapel St Leonards in 1929. What I love about this book is the way Cumming uses her skills as an art critic to shed new light on the unanswered questions surrounding her mother’s childhood. More specifically, the importance of images, details, perspective and context, alongside hard evidence and facts. A remarkable story exquisitely conveyed in a thoughtful, elegant style.

Foster by Claire Keegan

A beautiful novella in which a young girl blossoms while in the care of distant relatives, effectively acting as foster parents for the summer. As the story opens, a young girl from Clonegal in Ireland’s County Carlow is being driven to Wexford by her father. There she will stay with relatives, an aunt and uncle she doesn’t know, with no mention of a return date or the nature of the arrangement. The girl’s mother is expecting a baby, and with a large family to support, the couple has chosen to take the girl to Wexford to ease the burden at home. Keegan’s sublime novella shows how this shy girl comes to life under the care of her new family through a story exploring kindness, compassion, nurturing and acceptance from a child’s point of view. A truly gorgeous book.

Cold Enough for Snow by Jessica Au

At first sight, the story being conveyed in Cold Enough for Snow seems relatively straightforward – a mother and her adult daughter reconnect to spend some time together in Japan. Nevertheless, this narrative is wonderfully slippery – cool and clear on the surface, yet harbouring fascinating hidden depths within, a combination that gives the book a spectral, enigmatic quality, cutting deep into the soul. Au excels in conveying the ambiguous nature of memory, how our perceptions of events can evolve over time – sometimes fading to a feeling or impression, other times morphing into something else entirely, altered perhaps by our own wishes and desires. A haunting, meditative novella from a writer to watch.

Different Facets of Motherhood

Intimacies by Lucy Caldwell

A luminous collection of eleven stories about motherhood – mostly featuring young mothers with babies and/or toddlers, with a few focusing on pregnancy and mothers to be. Caldwell writes so insightfully about the fears young mothers experience when caring for small children. With a rare blend of honesty and compassion, she shows us those heart-stopping moments of anxiety that ambush her protagonists as they go about their days. Moreover, Caldwell captures an intensity in the characters’ emotions through her stories, a depth of feeling that seems utterly authentic and true. By zooming in on her protagonists’ hopes, fears, preoccupations and desires, Caldwell has found the universal in the personal, offering stories that will resonate with many of us, irrespective of our personal circumstances.

Dandelions by Thea Lenarduzzi

(I’m bending the rules slightly with this one as it focuses on a grandmother, but I couldn’t bear to leave it out!)

The Italian-born editor and writer Thea Lenarduzzi has given us a gorgeous book here – a meditative blend of family memoir, political and socioeconomic history, and personal reflections on migration between Italy and the UK. Partly crafted from discussions between Thea and her paternal grandmother, Dirce, the book spans four generations of Lenarduzzi’s family, moving backwards and forwards in time – and between Italy and England – threading together various stories and vignettes that span the 20^th century. In doing so, a multilayered portrayal of Thea’s family emerges, placed in the context of Italy’s sociopolitical history and economic challenges. A book I adored – both for its themes and the sheer beauty of Lenarduzzi’s prose. (Hadley Freeman’s thoroughly absorbing memoir, House of Glass, is in a very similar vein, also highly recommended indeed! And for novels featuring motherhood across three generations of women, see Audrey Magee brilliant novel The Colony and Maria Judite de Carvalho’s quietly devastating Empty Wardrobes, tr. Margaret Jull Costa.)

Do let me know what you think of my choices, along with any favourites of your own, in the comments below.

Two Recent Reads – On Chapel Sands by Laura Cumming and Girl, Woman, Other by Bernardine Evaristo

Thoughts on a couple of recent reads – both excellent, both published this year.

On Chapel Sands by Laura Cumming (2019)

I’ve been reading a few memoirs recently. Rather unusual for me as my preferences lean quite heavily towards fiction, often from the mid-20^th-century. Nevertheless, I found myself drawn to this book when it came out earlier this year, prompted by a flurry of positive reports and reviews. Now that I’ve read it, I suspect it may well end up being one of the highlights of my reading year; it really is very good indeed.

In brief, On Chapel Sands is the story of Laura’s mother, Betty Elston – more specifically, her disappearance as a young child, snatched away from the beach at Chapel St Leonards in 1929. Five days later, Betty was found safe and well in a nearby village. She remembers nothing of the incident, and nobody at home ever mentions it again. Another fifty years pass before Betty learns of the kidnapping, by now a wife and mother herself with a rich and fulfilling life of her own.

The book combines the threads of a tantalising mystery – who took Betty from Chapel Sands that day and why? – with elements of memoir. Together they provide a fascinating insight into the various members of Laura Cumming’s family, their personalities and motivations, their secrets and personal attachments. It also raises questions of nature vs nurture. How much of Betty’s character was there from birth, a sense of coming from within? And how much was shaped by the attitudes of her parents (in particular, her dictatorial father, George, with his controlling manner)?

The failings of human nature constitute another key theme here – a fear of shame and the desire to maintain appearances both play their part in dictating Betty’s path in life.

One of the most fascinating aspects of this story is the way Cumming uses her skills as an art critic to shed new light on the unanswered questions surrounding her mother’s childhood. More specifically, the importance of images, details, perspective and context, in addition to hard evidence and facts.

The mystery of what happened, how it changed her, and her own children, has run through my days ever since I first heard of the incident on the beach thirty years ago. Then it seemed to me that all we needed was more evidence to solve it, more knowledge in the form of documents, letters, hard facts. But to my surprise the truth turns out to pivot on images as much as words. To discover it has involved looking harder, looking closer, paying more attention to the smallest of visual details – the clues in a dress, the distinctive slant of a copperplate hand, the miniature faces in the family album. (pp. 12–13)

Only by repeatedly sifting these details, returning to them again and again, is Cumming able to come to some kind of resolution about the nature of her mother’s past. The need to consider all the alternatives, to view the situation from various perspectives, is crucial to unravelling the enigma at its heart.

When viewed as a whole, this book is a loving testament to Laura’s mother, a woman whose warmth, generosity and compassion shine through the text. This deeply personal story also conveys a vivid portrait of a small, close-knit community in the early 1930s, the sort of place where everyone knows everyone else’s business – except, perhaps, the central individual concerned. All in all, this is a remarkable story, exquisitely conveyed in a thoughtful, elegant style.

Girl, Woman, Other by Bernardine Evaristo (2019)

This book caught my eye when it ended up on the Booker shortlist, largely because it was one of two contenders that seemed to be attracting the most positive reviews at the time (the other being Lucy Ellmann’s Ducks, Newburyport). So, when Girl won the Prize itself – a controversial decision as we know – I felt I had to read it.

In short, Girl, Woman, Other is a vibrant portrayal of twelve different characters – mostly black, mostly women – who together offer an insight into a sector of British society over the past hundred years. Here we have women spanning a variety of ages and walks of life, from nineteen-year-old Yazz, a street-smart young woman just starting out at University, to ninety-three-year-old Hattie, keen to remain self-sufficient in her home on the family farm. In between there are mothers and daughters, cleaning entrepreneurs and theatre directors, teachers and bankers, many of whom are forging unfamiliar paths in life – hopefully for others to follow suit.

Over a sequence of thirteen chapters – one for each character and a final after-party scene – Evaristo teases out the connections between various characters, some clear and direct, others more tenuous.

These women are bright, dynamic, resolute and determined, largely irrespective of the hand they’ve been dealt by society at large. Perhaps unsurprisingly, many have encountered abuse and prejudice over the years, and yet they have managed to find their own ways through it, often with the aid of sheer grit and perseverance. I suspect there is more than a hint of Evaristo herself in Amma, a fifty-something director of ground-breaking feminist theatre. Having lived most of her creative life on the radical fringes, Amma now finds herself joining the establishment with her new play due to open at the National, hopefully to great critical acclaim.

What I love about this book is the way Evaristo prompts readers to look beyond the traditional stereotypes of black women typically presented to us in films, TV and other cultural media, encouraging us to see her characters for who they really are – rounded individuals with a multitude of thoughts and feelings.

Yazz wishes the play had already opened to five-star universal acclaim so that she can watch it stamped with pre-approval, it matters because she’ll have to deal with the aftermath if it’s slagged off by the critics and Mum’ll go on an emotional rampage that might last weeks – about the critics sabotaging her career with their complete lack of insight into black women’s lives and how this had been her big break after over forty years of hard graft blah di blah and how they didn’t get the play because it’s not about aid workers in Africa or troubled teenage boys or drug dealers or African warlords or African-American blues singers or white people rescuing black slaves

guess who’ll have to be on the end of the phone to pick up the pieces?

she’s Mum’s emotional caretaker, always has been, always will be

it’s the burden of being an only child, especially a girl

who will naturally be more caring. (pp. 49 – 50)

The narrative explores many themes of relevance to our society over the past century, delving into class, race, gender, sexuality, feminism and social mobility, with some of the dialogue in the novel offering a vehicle for raising key issues and prompting debate.

In summary, this is a thoroughly absorbing, cleverly-constructed novel featuring a myriad of interesting voices – by turns exuberant, striking, funny and poignant. There is a richness of experience on offer here which makes it feel highly pertinent to our current times. In spite of the diversity of modern multicultural Britain, Evaristo shows us that maybe, just maybe there is more that connects us as individuals than divides us. A thoroughly inspiring story in more ways than one.

On Chapel Sands is published by Chatto and Windus, Girl, Woman, Other by Hamish Hamilton; my thanks to the publishers for kindly providing reading copies.