lydia cassatt reading the morning paper

I let his words float in the air, fall around me, like cherry blossoms. N'importe quoi, I would say to anyone else, at any other time, but in this dream-like moment, in this desert, blooming, I accept the words as an unanticipated gift.

I thought I might return to the original, stated purpose of my blog by writing about a small book I read last month, Harriet Scott Chessman's novel Lydia Cassatt Reading the Morning Paper. I finished it in one sitting, I believe, but its length should not diminish its consequence. Chessman tells the story of five paintings that American Impressionist Mary Cassatt completed of her older sister Lydia from 1878 to 1881 while their family lived in France. The voice of the account, the older Cassatt is dying of Bright's Disease but feels compelled to continue to pose for her talented sister. Chessman has certainly done her research, but the narrative is fictional. As she explains, "I have thought, imagined, and dreamt my way into her world." And the results are lovely, lyrical, luscious. Plus, Chessman opens with an epigraph by Wallace Stevens, a favorite poet of mine. (My Plan II freshman English teacher was a thoughtful old man, now Professor Emeritus, called Thomas Whitbread. He wrote his dissertation on Stevens at Harvard in 1959 and connected all the literature we read to one of his poems. "As the great twentieth-century poet Wallace Stevens wrote," he would begin, and then at least 10 lines of verse would follow.)

The slim volume features each of the five works on a full-color plate, a prerequisite, in my mind, for any book that explores art. Through the perspective of the model, Chessman brings the paintings to life by expounding on detail--such as color, light, or pose--the full visual impact of which might otherwise be missed. Lydia's struggle with her health is as moving as her imagined analysis of her sister's work; I even cried a little at the end, and I usually don't cry at books. But it's not all serious illness and slaving over the easel: there is a nice frisson of sexual tension between Lydia and Edward Degas, who is having an affair with Mary. But Lydia mostly just yearns for Degas's vigor and vitality, qualities she herself regrettably lacks. "[H]e seemed to offer me a picture of myself, one to strive towards. In this picture, I possessed grace and strength and valor," she says.

Lydia's voice, although earnest and genuine, became slightly jarring for me when I realized that it emanated from a 40-year-old woman. Her insecurity and uncertainty about everyday affairs, though possibly the result of her disease, more readily befit a woman half her age. Nevertheless, I highly recommend this beautiful novella.

"curled up with a good book" review

26 November 2005 UPDATE: Two days after I posted my take on this book, this cartoon ran in the Washington Post. Talk about apropos! (Syndication restrictions prevented me from adding it until now.)