Beautifully written, meticulous in its detail for the first half of O'Keeffe's life and then frustratingly vague for like forty years. And yet you get the impression Robinson was morbidly fascinated by the relationship between Hamilton and O'Keeffe. She keeps returning to it in those last few chapters, analysing it over and over again, both horrified and weirdly sympathetic in the particular way a novelist is with human beings.
The descriptions really are lovely, how Robinson keeps using the word "melting" and talks about the "tenderness" and emotional content of O'Keeffe's paintings, how she mourns what she perceives to be the losing of emotion and gaining of tranquility in the later work. I was very much reminded that this isn't just a biographer, this is a powerful creative writer turning her powers of language and perception and description on another artist. Even though I've never read any of Robinson's novels, I could tell just from this what her own fiction would be like: hyperreal and intensely deep.
O'Keeffe died when I was six which now makes sense as to why I saw so much of her art in magazines as I was entering my teens. The flowers, the skulls, the iconography of herself in the landscape -- all those made a vivid impression on me. But it was only a few months ago when I dutifully followed my aunt around the Frida Kahlo immersive exhibition, taking like a hundred pix of her surrounded by the visuals of an artist she loves, that I realised: Frida Kahlo's work does nothing for me. It was always Georgia for me. And of course that's when my aunt told me they'd had an affair.
Roxana Robinson in this book first published in 1989 will have none of that. She allows for the possibility to show you that she is not queerphobic and then slaps it right down with two sources cited who might themselves be queerphobic but we can't know. And really I don't care whether O'Keeffe was or wasn't bisexual, who she did or didn't fuck. (There are other role models for that, I'm happy with them.)
But it is interesting to examine the very cohesive image Robinson builds of O'Keeffe: of a woman who puts all her energy into her creative work, and learning that the hard way, who allows for human connection but always in subservience to the work. Which is a completely wonderful thing to read when you yourself are a female-bodied person who would rather crochet alone at home rather than go out and socialise or date or, god forbid, engage in a romantic/sexual relationship with another human being capable of fucking your whole nice calm life up. And it's not hard to see the appeal of that myth for a female writer like Robinson, even though I know nothing about her own life.
What amused me greatly was when I realised halfway through that Robinson dislikes Steiglitz as much as I do. And perhaps it's because of her that I'm convinced he was a whiny infuriating emotionally manipulative Victorian creep. Worst kind of Capricorn, ugh.
And how typically Scorpio O'Keeffe was.
I love the synchronicity of having read this biography the very year that my aunt and I are going back to New York to see our relatives, and that the MoMA has an O'Keeffe exhibition on right now that will still be on when we're there. Also, we're doing an embroidery workshop this weekend, and I found myself night before last constructing a design in my head that would be all grand swoops and cascading centres. Hopefully I'll be able to Make It Happen.
It did take me a very long time to read this but that was at the beginning. I think I powered through the second half in like three days. And I'm so glad I read this in an era where I could switch from my Kindle app into Google and look at the painting or series of paintings in varying quality, to compare Robinson's hyperbolic descriptions with the digitally reproduced image and examine my own response. Copy of a copy of a copy.