2.5 Stars
This novel is a translation from the French Les Yeux de Mona
written by a French art
historian.
Ten-year-old
Mona has a brief episode of blindness and there is concern that she
might suffer permanent vision loss. Her grandfather Henry, whom Mona
calls Dadé,
is
supposed to take her for weekly visits to a psychiatrist but he
decides “he would administer a therapy of a totally different kind,
a therapy capable of compensating for the ugliness inundating her
childhood.” He decides
that, each week over the course of a year, he will take
her to
see a work
of
art
“to lodge in her memory all the art offered in terms of beauty and
significance” should she lose her sense of sight. For
each of the 52 works, he
tells
Mona about the artist’s background, discusses artistic techniques,
and concludes with the life lesson suggested by that piece.
The
novel’s structure is repetitive. Dadé
and Mona study a work of art in
one of Paris’ galleries and
she then applies the lesson learned from the art to her daily life.
For
instance, a painting by Raphael, Henry claims, instructs that people
cultivate detachment, “not being the slave of one’s emotions, and
of knowing to keep them at a respectable distance.” In the next
chapter, Mona sees her mother’s fear and “reckoning she’d gain
nothing from increasing it by expressing her own, she kept it to
herself.” Likewise, a painting by Marie-Guillemine Benoist exposes
“the demons of segregation” so in
the
following
chapter Mona is inspired to tell a classmate that “’the
[school]yard belongs to everyone.’” This structure is repeated
52 times!
The
book strains credulity. Has the author ever met a 10-year-old child?
In my 30 years of teaching high school, I met some very intelligent
students who have gone on to great success, but I never encountered
one who was as precocious as Mona. The way she speaks and thinks
“about complex readings, learned interpretations, bold
decipherments, and hypotheses” suggests a maturity and
understanding well beyond her age.
There’s
also the issue of how Henry speaks to Mona. Much is made of his
“determination
to talk to her like an adult,” but his vocabulary is much too
sophisticated
to be understood even by a precocious child. More than once, Henry
senses that, because of “the dreadful complexity of his words,”
Mona “couldn’t understand a word of this explanation” but he
just plows on. His tone is also overly pedantic. He makes
statements like “’this heightened pointillism is similar to the
effect of those fragments known as tessellae” and “Whistler’s
favorite artist was actually Hokusai, the famous creator of The
Great Wave’”
(as
if Mona would know this Japanese artist) and Goya maintained “’a
keen
complicity with the great Spanish thinkers, such as Gaspar Melchor de
Jovellanos and Martin Zapater, who wanted to be free of religious
obscurantism’” (as if a 10-year-old would be familiar with
Spanish philosophers).
There
is no doubt that the author is an intelligent and learned man, but
some of his references, via
Henry who acts as his mouthpiece, just
seem intended to impress readers with his eruditeness. There are
statements like “Henry thought of Werner Herzog, the director of
the film Aguirre,
the Wrath of God,
in which the opening shot of Machu Picchu, with its mountains in the
mist, was an image worthy of Friedrich or Turner” and “This
curious approach . . . had come to him from a Japanese animated
movie, My
neighbor Totoro,
one of Hayao Miyazaki’s marvels” and Vienna in the early 20th
century “was promoting the atonal music of Schoenberg, the
disruptive architecture of Adolf Loos, the critical journalism of
Karl Kraus, and the pictorial folly of Schiele and Kokoschka” and
“Henry was thinking of all the artists, immersed in hybrid,
intentionally immoral visions, belonging to that tendency dubbed
‘Decadent’: Gustave Moreau and Odilon Redon in France, James
Ensor and Fernand Khnopff in Belgium, Max Klinger in Germany.” Is
is necessary to drop in names all the time: Degas was “admired by
the poets of his time, notably Stéphane
Mallarmé
and Paul Valéry”
and a Rosa Bonheur painting recalls “George Sand’s descriptions
in The Devil’s
Pool,
a novel published in 1846, three years before the success of Plowing
in the Nivernais
at the Salon”? Do
we really need to know that Gustav Klimt “lived at No. 19 on the
Berggasse” in Vienna or that the Bazar de l’Hôtel
de Ville is at No. 52 Rue de Rivoli in Paris? Henry
is able to quote from memory fairly lengthy quotations from Charles
Baudelaire, Théophile
Gautier, Cézanne,
Niki de Saint Phalle, and Louise Bourgeois?
The
author also assumes the reader has a certain familiarity with art and
its terminology. Each work of art is described, often using terms
like “mise en
abyme”
and “pentimenti” and “barycenter” and “contrapposto pose”
and “chevet” and “apsidiole” and “cuisse
de nymphe”
and “parallelepipeds” and “coronal suture” and “nuagiste”
and “alizarin crimson.” I
understand a photo of each piece of art will be included in the print
text; since I was sent an eARC I had to do an online image search.
The
book is marketed to art enthusiasts and fans of literary fiction, so
I am the target consumer, but I was disappointed.
I’m
an art enthusiast: I make a point of going
to
art galleries in the cities I visit and I enjoy reading art history
texts and
have taken an art history course.
I
read primarily literary fiction so I
am
aware of the qualities of that
genre.
In this book, however, there
is in fact little fiction; there’s only a simple, predictable
plot,
and
the characters are unrealistic and so
unrelatable.
Literary
fiction focuses on themes, but the
themes in
the novel are
not profound. Who
would dispute the power of art/beauty to edify and influence? And
the
lessons Mona learns are just
clichés
mentioned in the chapter titles: Know yourself and Respect humble
folks and Let feelings be expressed and All is but dust and Less is
more. The book is an art history tome. If
I had approached the book at a leisurely pace as an art history text,
I would perhaps have enjoyed it more, but
it is marketed as a novel. This
hybrid of art history text and fiction does not work for me.
The
publisher suggests Life
of Pi,
The Kite
Runner,
The Little
Paris Bookshop,
and
The Storied
Life of A.J. Fikry
as
comparable titles. I beg to differ; I enjoyed all those titles, but
Mona’s Eyes
is not in
the same category.
This
book might appeal to those who loved
Sophie’s
World by
Jostein Gaarder. I
would not recommend it to anyone looking for a work of fiction with
believable characters, a compelling plot, and
profound themes.
Note:
I received an eARC from the publisher via NetGalley.