CSotD: Portraits of Artists
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Since reviews often include disclaimers, like admitting that the book was provided for free, in order to establish the reviewer's neutrality and objectivity, let me start with a sort of opposite "claimer:"
I bought this book and anticipated liking it and probably — if only in deference to the Prime Directive — would have maintained silence had I been disappointed, rather than saying that I didn't like it.
I became a fan of Sarah Laing's blog a few years ago, so that, when she let it fade while she worked on "Mansfield and Me," I wanted to see what could be more demanding and important than that.
Which this is. So let's get beyond the claimers and disclaimers and talk about that.
Two things an American reader needs to know is that New Zealand is a small enough country that, like Ireland, people feel that they know their famous people on a personal basis, even though, as with Canada, they're far enough apart geographically that they may never have seen even their living celebrities in real life.
Which leads to the other thing, which is that, while Katherine Mansfield is known and respected by English majors in this country, she is much more dominant a figure in New Zealand, where there aren't so many world-famous authors for literature teachers and young writers to fixate upon.
Which then mutates into the fact that there were enough personal touchstones between Laing's family and Mansfield that, while a connection was not forced upon her, it was made readily available, as she describes early on in this graphic memoir. (click on the images to embiggen)
I mentioned recently that one problem I have with young graphic memoirists is that they aren't yet old enough and experienced enough to have anything to remember and recount, that their stories, however attractively illustrated, fall short because, in Gertrude Stein's words, "There is no there there."
And there are some older graphic memoirists who seem to prove that nothing much happens to you if you remain barricaded behind your drawing board.
Laing's memoir avoids this problem not only because she lived her life as a young person (you may not want to give this book to your 12-year-old, but your 17-year-old would love you forever), but because she has reflected upon it from her current perspective as a mature artist.
There is a faux-philosophy in both memoir and novel writing that goes "I just put the facts out there and let the reader draw the conclusions," which occasionally works when it is genuinely done on purpose but is, on the whole, a load of crap.
In 95% of cases, the author who puts out the facts and expects you to draw the conclusions hasn't figured it out and hopes you'll have better luck.
Laing presents her life as a young person trying to figure out what she's supposed to do with that life, but, being no longer the clueless kid she was while going through it, interweaves all sorts of her experiences together with those of Mansfield, who seems to have gone through much the same process.
And please refer back to the two points above to recognize why that is not vainglorious on Laing's part: It is almost inescapable for a prospective writer in New Zealand to compare herself to Mansfield, and she didn't pluck the name out of a hat to begin with.
In fact, one of the cultural shifts I had to make was not from Yank to Kiwi – her writing is far more accessible than that — but from Boomer to Gen-X, because her heroes and role models are drawn from a different hat entirely.
Which is significant because she grew up in that era and that becomes far more central than the fact that she grew up in New Zealand, which in turn makes this story far more accessible.
And, again, she lays it all out in a way that is clear even to those of us who had children of our own before Olga Korbut appeared on the scene or Frieda Kahlo became a "thing," though, if you didn't learn about the Smiths and Morrissey through your kids, you'll have to just accept that they mattered.
It is not necessary to know exactly how or why, which, again, is a strength of her storytelling.
What matters is that she uses her fascination with Mansfield to track their respective lives and their respective development as artists.
This could have been terribly pretentious, but, to begin with, she doesn't think she's Katherine Mansfield, simply that they had some parallels that she can draw upon to understand her own growth as an artist.
Nor does she force these parallels, but, rather, picks them up as they become relevant, starting with a shared sense that you can't become world famous if you don't get out of New Zealand and into that world.
And she maintains that gentle, but insistent, touch throughout.
Parallels that genuinely work without being overplayed are at the heart of this memoir: For example, while she does construct parallels between her own oddly uncomfortable living arrangements and those of Mansfield, difficult housemates are difficult, even if one of them happens to be D.H. Lawrence, particularly if he's still in the process of becoming D.H. Lawrence.
Nor does going to Paris instantly transform you into a writer, though it may expose you to people who will enlighten you in one way or another on the topic.
Laing and Mansfield both discovered this and it is not pushing things as long as you let their separate stories play out, as she does.
I instruct my young writers that, in book reviews, they should probably not tell anything specific that happens after the first third.
It's a good rule, because it's unfair to both author and reader, and so enough about what happens.
But it was appropriate that, as I was reading along and just began thinking of Persepolis, she mentions Marjane Satrapi's work as a source of inspiration.
The difference is that "Persepolis" is based on how massive, external events shaped the author's life, while "Mansfield and Me" is about an intensely internal process and is thus closer to "Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man," though with a greater emphasis on artistry itself and not nearly so much religious and cultural repression.
Which would be a good place to stop, except that I want to make a further point, which is that, while "Mansfield and Me" is, by its nature, introspective, Laing is too intellectually focused to let this slide into an exercise in sensitive navel-gazing, and, while her work offers a much more accessible, welcoming approach than Joyce's, I did not draw the parallel with "Portrait" lightly.
I wish her publisher would make "Mansfield and Me" more readily accessible to a global audience because it is inviting and fun and important.
As it is, you need to order it from New Zealand and it will cost you about US$40 and you won't feel your money was poorly spent.
In fact, you may find yourself going back when various people in your life have birthdays.
And one more disclaimer: I snagged most of the pages above from this article at Radio New Zealand, because I didn't want to flatten out my copy of the book — which, by the way, is a meaty 348 pages — for scanning.
You will also find an interview there with Sarah Laing which lasts about half an hour and is well worth the time.
Finally, something else I stole, this time from her Facebook page: A portrait of the artist sitting in Katherine Mansfield's diningroom.
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