I love Robert Nathan novel(la)s for when I need something simple and lovely. He is best remembered now for the film adaptations of his works – The Bishop’s Wife, The Preacher’s Wife, and Portrait of Jennie – and far easier to find in the US than the UK, but I snap up any I come across. They are never at all demanding, and have no claims to being great literature. But there is something refreshing about spending time in one.
The Colour of Evening (1960) came towards the end of his long and prolific career. (Incidentally, it was also filmed in 1990.) It concerns an old painter called Max Loeb who lives south of Santa Monica, painting portraits and getting enough interest from the public to get by, just barely. He is filled with disdain about modern art – which seems to encompass artists who were well past being ‘modern’ by the time this book came out – and Nathan seems to assume his readership will have the same outlook. This disdain stretches out to include the idea of realism in art and literature, as opposed to anything idealised or beautiful.
“Realism,” grumbled Max, sketching away. “You call it realism what we get? Is a bone with gristle on it realism? Maybe – for a cemetery. Do you know what true realism is? It is the bone inside the flesh, under the living tissue: paint that, or write about it! Even in the newspapers you can find out what is going on with our artists, or sometimes in a magazine at the barber shop. Do you know what I think about these books you read? They are not like life, because in life everybody is not such a good-for-nothing.”
Alongside Max is his landlady, Mrs Hermione Bloemendal, and Jon Kuzik. Or sometimes ‘John’, which I think was a failing in the copyeditor, rather than a deliberate trick. Mrs Bloemendal sometimes poses for portraits; Jon is Max’s pupil, and pays him in money or, more often, in kind. They have a quiet, contented dynamic between the three of them. They care for each other, but in a calm way.
Into this world comes Halys – a young woman in a dirty dress, desperate for any work or way to keep going. Well, desperate in the sort of picturesque way of a Robert Nathan novel, which will never get too unpleasant. She moves into this delicate ecosystem, earning her keep by cleaning and posing for portraits. Only things start to go awry when Max wonders if he is in love with her, and the careful balance of the existing friendships get challenged…
This sort of plot could make for a very dramatic novel, but The Colour of Evening remains quiet and contemplative even when Nathan is infusing it with event. I think that’s largely because characters are often given to philosophising, or exchanging moral conclusions that are a little bit saccharine. The sort of tropes that might belong in a chatty magazine.
It’s all perfectly enjoyable, though I think Nathan is better when these maxims and pronouncements about life and love are offset by his quirky plots. In other books of his I’ve read, there is often a fantastic streak – a girl whose ageing is off-kilter, a character who comes to life, a boat that sails through roads to the sea. Without that whimsy or fantasia, it feels a bit fey. He needs to add in the strange and unworldly to balance out his sentimental tone.
But I still always enjoy my time with Nathan. I wouldn’t recommend this one to start, but it was what I needed today.
Sounds a lovely comfort read Simon!
He is very reliable for that :)