"I set aside Hemingway’s Islands in the Stream. The jacket copy said it was about an artist. What I really wanted was a book about an artist and how that artist went to his work every day and wrestled with his demons. I longed for a blow-by-blow account of what really happened when he was in there by himself, without any romanticizing, or skimming over or faking."
~Violet Clay, from the novel of the same name.
By the time we read these lines on page 264 of Gail Godwin’s Violet Clay (1978, 339 pages), we know that we are holding in our hands the very book this protagonist longed for: a blow-by-blow account of one woman’s attempt to realize herself, as a person and an artist. Published in 1978, it appears to be among the first of its kind, a story in which a woman artist stops “waiting for something to happen, for the phone to ring, for help to come from outside” and brings it about herself, without salvation in the form of an erotic relationship. In 1981, at least one reviewer seemed to agree, calling Violet Clay “a deeply moving, brilliant novel that is the first real female kunstlerroman.” I am amazed that, while Fear of Flying became a feminist classic, I had never even heard of this book.
If anything seems dated about Violet Clay, it is perhaps the “pace and space” Godwin gives herself to spin out her characters and their backstories, at times simply for the pleasure of reveling in their creation, it seems. Our attention spans have grown shorter; fast cuts, speed and change are what we have grown accustomed to, what we crave, and I wondered about the purpose of numerous scenes, asking myself, “do we really need Minerva’s backstory?” until I realized that they add to the work as a whole; they color in Violet’s world. This novel is more of a painting you spend hours looking at, not a fast, titillating ride.