4.5 stars
“I woke up with you the next morning, and I thought, Found. I remember it, Found – as if a string had been plucked in the midst of great silence. I heard the note, then the overtones washed over us, not dying but continuing out there in space. I’ve never heard it that way again with anyone, though God knows I’ve listened for it.”
This is a wonderfully nostalgic story of a great love affair set in Greenwich village during the 1960s. But don’t be fooled. This isn’t just some twee romance. It’s written with smart,literary prose, a good dose of melancholy, and a dash of humor. It’s about abandonment, art, loss, and discovering who you want to be. Don’t expect any answers to life’s big questions though, because there aren’t any, are there?
“It’s a good name, you once said, for a vanishing act. To be called Tom Murphy is to be about as ordinary as grass. America has Tom Murphys everywhere.”
Joanna is twenty-six years old and would need four or five hands to count how many lovers she’s had when Tom walks into her life at an end-of-the-world party. It’s not a clichéd love at first sight sort of thing though. She feels an almost magnetic pull towards Tom, and due to the intimate nature of the first person point of view, we get sucked into his orbit as well. From the beginning, the reader immediately feels an impending sense of loss which carries throughout the entire narrative. Tom’s father walked out on his mother when he was just a baby, never to be seen again. Tom in turn has left his wife and children, but still longs for his son in particular to remember him. These facts never stray too far from Joanna’s mind, always haunting her.
“My mind would start searching for you, trying to force up other pictures. I’d suddenly think you could be anywhere. I think I knew you were in danger, that I’d somehow left you exposed to yourself.”
As a child, I knew all too well that feeling: wondering if someone you love will one day not be there. If they could harm themselves or disappear never to be heard from again. I could empathize with both Joanna and Tom. That threat of loss never quite leaves you. I had a hunch that author Joyce Johnson knew this rather personally. You can’t write such feeling without firsthand knowledge of it. You can’t quite evoke such a response from a reader unless you have been to the heart of the matter yourself. After a bit of investigation, I see that I was correct. There’s an autobiographical nature to this novel. Johnson was married to artists and suffered great loss. In this novel, Joanna was also married to an artist whose story eerily parallels that of Johnson’s first husband.
If you enjoy stories set in New York City, particularly 1960s NYC, as well as the artist’s life, with all its trials and torments and occasional glimpses of joy, then this book should really appeal to you as it did me. I’m holding back on half a star only because the last two beauties are still lodged very firmly in my mind. I can’t quite shake them enough to give this a place next to them. While those set me right in the moment along with its characters, this put me at a further distance due to the narrative style, looking back in time as if through a haze, perhaps. Still a great story and one I would highly recommend!
“If I were a painter, I wouldn’t paint empty chairs. Instead I’d paint windows of places I’ve left, places where I no longer live – the way they look when you see them from the street and you know you can’t go up there, can’t even cross the threshold. The key is lost. You know someone else is inside there, taking your place.”