I was recommended this book by my first musicology teacher, Dr. W., at The Juilliard School, where I was pursuing my Master's degree in Composition. She mentioned it in an email after reading my first research paper, Women Composers: Past, Present, Future, in which I opened with the question: "Why were there no female composers?" Perhaps it was that very line that reminded her of this book and its question: "Why have there been no great women artists?"
I only finished reading the entire book almost two years later. The dreamlike prose of Lipton sometimes made me a little dizzy, yet there was so much that resonated with me, so much that I sympathized with. Her journey to Paris as a researcher, the years of digging through archives in order to reclaim a woman, to recover her from the paintings of her and the descriptions of her written by men—as Lipton suggests, none of these portray the real woman, but rather reflections of the men themselves.
Through Lipton I came to understand the struggle, the apparent purposelessness, and the constant self-doubt of research. I followed as she traced the history of this woman—this seemingly ordinary woman whose image shook her heart once, and whose fate thereafter became so intimately intertwined with her own. Is there really such a thing as reincarnation? Was the author, in some sense, searching for evidence of a previous life, as she occasionally hints? In any case, Lipton never seemed to achieve her original purpose of fully justifying Olympia. Yet perhaps the journey of research itself became that justification. Or perhaps, in the process of searching for Olympia, she herself became Olympia.
Now I understand why Dr. W. handed me this book in the first place. Perhaps I also understand why it took me until now to truly read it. Maybe I could only understand it now.
The delays inherent in education! Sometimes we laugh at them. Sometimes we sigh at fate's delicate design.