Henry
James loved the story about his friend the novelist Anna Thackeray Richie who
wrote a much-admired novel about French Protestant youth. When asked how it was
she knew so much about this group of people, Anna Thackeray Richie said that
once in Paris, as she ascended a staircase, she passed an open doorway through
which she saw that ‘some of the young Protestants were seated at table round a
finished meal.’
That was
as much knowledge as she had; it was either a little or a great deal. James,
fascinated, wrote of ‘the power to guess the unseen from the seen, to trace the
implication of things, to judge the whole piece by the pattern.’
Is that
how novels begin? In the Louvre, there is an enormous queue, like something in
a busy airport, with barriers and security people, to see the Mona Lisa. Until
recently, hanging precisely behind it was Titian’s painting ‘A Young Man with a
Glove.’ By any standards (or in my opinion), this painting is much better than
Leonardo’s portrait. It has now been moved over to the side in the same large
room that houses the Mona Lisa.
No one
looks at it, or no one did when I was there earlier this year.
The
novelist George Eliot made two visits to the Louvre, one in 1859 and another in
1864. She saw Titian’s painting then and used the figure, the young man with a
glove, in the making of the Jewish hero in her novel ‘Daniel Deronda’. Daniel
is described in Chapter 17: ‘Look at his hands: they
are not small and dimpled, with tapering fingers that seem to have only a
deprecating touch: they are long, flexible, firmly-grasping hands, such as
Titian has painted in a picture where he wished to show the combination of
refinement with force. And there is something of a likeness, too, between the
faces belonging to the hands — in both the uniform pale-brown skin, the
perpendicular brow, the calmly-penetrating eyes.’
In that gallery, George Eliot learned as much about Deronda as she
would need to know. It might have happened in a second, one glimpse, and then taken
longer to soak in. In the young man’s gaze, his face, his pose, she sensed,
perhaps even grasped, what would amount not only to a character but a moral
universe, and also, because Deronda becomes an early Zionist, of destiny in
history.
I wonder how much this happens, how often a book begins in a
moment when you see something, catch a glimpse of something, or see a moment
composed in a photograph or arranged in a painting. And that becomes enough,
like Anna Thackeray Richie seeing a group of people through a doorway, and that
becomes all the research you need to do.
I am sure that some of the momentum for my novel ‘The Blackwater
Lightship’ came from seeing a photograph of three women somewhere in rural
Ireland, three generations of the same family standing at a gate. I might have
imagined that the light in the photograph was light from the sea. But whatever
was in the faces, I had what I needed. Just from looking at the photograph.
A single visit to the Four Courts in Dublin offers scenes that
could nourish a number of novels. I have a vivid memory of being in the front
hall in 1983 and witnessing Judge Declan Costello walking by. But ‘walking by’
is hardly the term. The judge was on his way to court in his full regalia, proceeded
by a tipstaff. His eyes were cast down. His aura suggested power, distance from
the rest of us. Yet he was a mortal too, indeed had once been a politician.
That glimpse of him gave me some of the inspiration for my novel ‘The Heather
Blazing.’
On Fridays in the early 1980s I would often take the evening train
from Westland Row to Enniscorthy. And one evening – could it have been 1980? –
there was a woman in a seat on the other side of the aisle who looked unusual.
She was in late middle-age, maybe older, wearing faded tweeds, good shoes. She
was alert, unsmiling. I wish I had kept a diary so that I could be more precise
about her. I don’t even remember at what station she left the train.
She became Katherine Proctor in my first novel ‘The South.’ I
don’t think I ever heard her speak. I caught a glimpse of her then and it
stayed with me.
So, too, one night in a cheap hotel room in Buenos Aires, I saw
someone talking on television. That was all. He was not a well-known figure but
someone involved on the margins of the film world. Something about his look,
his tone, interested me. Within a few years, he had morphed into Richard Garay
in my novel ‘The Story of the Night.’
This idea that something fleeting and casual can be transformed
happened, then, mysteriously, as it moved from image to book, but it occurred
more intensely for me when I worked with a photographer, when we both looked at
the same scene and I got nothing except some notes and he (I am thinking
specifically about Tony O’Shea with whom I worked first at ‘In Dublin’ magazine
and later on two books ‘Walking Along the Border’ and ‘Dubliners’) got an
astonishing image, with a richness in its ambiguities and a sort of fierce
theatricality that had not been pre-arranged, had instead been captured and
framed.
Tony O’Shea’s retrospective is running at the Photo Museum Ireland
until 18 February, and a book ‘The Light of Day’, a collection of his best
work, has been published. In 1982, when I was Features Editor of ‘In Dublin’,
Tony O’Shea would deliver his commissioned work once a fortnight, coming into
the office where ‘The Winding Stair’ is now, with a box of black-and-white
prints.
He had a smile that could hover between warm and wintry. He did
not want his photographs cropped, and he had strong views on where and how they
were to be used. He spoke softly; he meant every word.
One week, as a way of getting him to stop complaining about how we
had used one of his photos, I suggested to him that he should simply get on a
double-decker bus, go upstairs, and take pictures of people. It was not an
inspired commission. He surely would have done it anyway.
In any case, Tony O’Shea managed to take pictures of people
upstairs on Dublin buses that others will still be wondering at when the rest
of us are long forgotten.
O’Shea is interested in
the moment where the ritual and the casual face each other. He likes gatherings
and public spaces. And he is watching for the second when a guard has been let
down.
In some
of his photographs there is a tension between the ordinariness of the scene and
the intensity of the image. The old man in the front seat of the upper deck of
a bus, for example, in one of the most iconic of his photographs has cleared
some of the condensation away and now stares through it. The image is stark,
severe. It is not merely a portrait of old age, however, or the implacable
human spirit. It is not a photograph of something that can be easily
summarized. The camera has captured the man himself in all his particularity and
physicality. And then it has moved the image out of time, away from what is
simple and can be seen, towards mystery.
In
another bus photo, a young man with a bird in his hand is looking directly at
something outside the frame; his gaze is open, free of shadow or suspicion. His
companion is engaged in a different way; his gaze is slanted, he is amused. The
third gaze belongs to the bird; it is sharp and focused. Beyond the window of
the bus is a house and a small tree; pasted on the glass is a sign prohibiting
smoking.
Photo credit: Tony O'Shea
The rich
energy in the image comes from the attention paid to different perspectives,
the refusal to settle for one single, stable meaning.
Many of O’Shea’s
photographs happen when people are about to do something else, when symmetry is
about to appear. He composes his image before the image has composed itself. He
captures the scene in a sudden moment of unexpectedness.
If you
were to write a story or a novel based on one of Tony O’Shea’s photographs, you
would have to be sure you could match the intricacy of his textures, the
ambiguity of his vision, the suddenness and surprisingness of what he creates.
It would be an interesting challenge. I must go down and look again at the
exhibition of his work.
Colm Tóibín (December 2022)