Providence - Leigh Hays
Let me give you the blurb first, because it mentions elements of photography both literally and metaphorically quite a lot, and this is important.
Rebekiah Kearns’s passion is photography—erotic images of sex, love, and the boundaries between them. Still wounded by the death of her best friend, she’s locked her heart away and forges her only meaningful connections through the lens of her camera.
Lindsey Blackwell never stops. Her work as a wealth management consultant takes her all over the world, and she just doesn’t have time to make a relationship work. Women always end up asking for more than she can give.
When Rebekiah receives a huge inheritance, all she wants to do is get rid of it, but Lindsey has other ideas. Their professional relationship quickly turns personal when Lindsey agrees to pose for Rebekiah. With every click of the shutter, Rebekiah finds it harder and harder to keep Lindsey in focus without getting too close.
There’s an efficiency in Hays’ writing. Sparse. She places the words deliberately, without fanfare. It is an unusual style, and because of it, we’re not able to insert ourselves into the lives of Rebekiah and Lindsey. We are kept at arms-length, so we watch, voyeuristically, much like the cinematography techniques employed in European films.
In ‘Providence’, we are invited to view the story through a lens. This is not our story to join, unlike many books where we are expected to become as one with a protagonist. I don’t think Leigh Hays wanted us to do the latter. Instead, Hays invited us to the movies.
Throughout the novel there are time jumps, moments of stillness where only the emotions are given permission to speak, and long stretches of prose where we sit behind our camera as the details of a single event unfold. Just like those European films.
The personal baggage that both Rebekiah and Lindsay carry is weighty. The heaviness in their backpacks of life causes them to stagger and occasionally list sideways, and when they set their packs down, and sift through the memories, it’s as if a burnt filter is placed over the camera lens. We sit in the cinema as the screen becomes grainy and the soundtrack falters, because every time Rebekiah and Lindsay reflect on past events, it is reminiscent of those scenes in films where breathing is given aural space.
Noted American critic Andrew Sarris once said that the difference between American movies and European films is that American movies tend to correspond to reality, while European films tend to comment on reality. Rebekiah and Lindsay’s story is complex without needing the entire story to be told. Hays does this with her words. They are contained. We are plucked up and out of the independent plots, and the plot of Rebekiah and Lindsay’s developing relationship, and made to hover expectantly, then dropped into the next moment. We are expected, perhaps, to fill in the spaces of time ourselves. This is an aspect that will either attract or repel readers.
‘Providence’ comments on Rebekiah’s dubious actions as a boudoir photographer, as she beds her clients. ‘Providence’ comments on Lindsay’s inability to trust. The flaws are not even attempted to be fixed, and therefore it is commenting on reality. There is a rawness, a darkness, to this story, like careful lighting in a film, despite the massive theme of high-flying wealth and glitz. Or perhaps that’s the point. ‘Providence’ feels gritty.
Cinematography and lighting is about drawing the eye to the place that the story needs you to be looking. If a character picks something up and that object is important to the story, the viewer must see it. It’s part of the storytelling. It’s about moving the story forward. The light, represented by Hays’ succinct words, that is focussed on the food that Lindsay bring to Rebekiah’s studio is important because otherwise the food doesn’t exist.
The BDSM aspect, the sex scenes, are dealt with intricately, for both the characters and the readers. We are invited to step forward and look over the character’s shoulder to watch. Then Hays pulls us out and into a montage of scenes, brief shots, that mix together to move passages of time, often highlighting one of the themes of the book; Childhood trauma. Parental conflict. Death. Grief. Distrust. Inability to commit. Then we are back, peering over the character’s shoulder as sex becomes the tool to strip away every lens.
I’m not sure that ‘Providence’ is for everyone. The writing style is distinctive, polarising. The novel is certainly not as immersive as others in this genre, so the connection between readers and the main characters is lacking. The ending is not a pair of sneakers with the laces all nicely tied up, and it may not sit well with some. Readers are certainly not told how to react emotionally to the conclusion. You are expected to make up your own mind. I enjoyed the book because I think I understand what Hays was trying to achieve. I felt like I’d watched a cool film, wandered out of the cinema, and over to a funky cafe to drink espresso and mull over the plot.