I am going to start off with a straightforward statement
about Swimming with Tigers, the debut novel by Kathy Hopewell. Read it. If you enjoy the fictionalised literary
history of the likes of Pat Barker and Hilary Mantel, then Kathy Hopewell is
the next, best author to add to your reading list. I’m not even sure that Swimming with Tigers
can be classified as a historical novel, per se, as it begins in 1938. Does setting a novel less than a century ago
classify it as historical, necessarily?
Regardless, the novel opens in the Paris of January, 1938
(it ends in September 1940 so covers almost three years). We are quickly introduced to the dual
protagonists (whose novel it really is, I will deal with later). At the forefront, there is the
post-debutante, neo-artist Penelope, an English rose with more than a few
greenfly. Then, there is Suzanne, a young woman with little balance (physically
and emotionally), returning to Paris to confront her past. Their chance meeting
initiates the narrative drive of the novel, the beginning of a long and layered
awakening for both. As the story quickly unfolds, we learn that both are part
of (or rather caught up in) the surrealist movement and the men who dominate
and distort it.
Now, I have set myself an aim to exclude any spoilers from
this review – which is going to prove challenging. However, there are plenty of
jaw-dropping revelatory moments in the first hundred pages of this novel -
about both the past and the present - that would make wonderful cliffhanger
episode endings should (and it should) this novel ever be made into a TV
series. We learn much through Penelope’s eyes during this part of the novel –
and these oh f**k moments are very skilfully dropped into the story by Hopewell.
Although these moments are usually event-driven they reveal as much if not more
about the nature of the men in and out of the lives of the two women as they do
our protagonists.
One of the early highlights of this part of the story, for
me, is the free indirect discourse Hopewell uses to develop Penelope’s
character – the moments we see things through her thoughts as words rather than
those of the narrator’s. Hopewell’s dialogue
sparkles; the first meeting of the two protagonists is a joy to read for this
alone. Suzanne’s blunt, cryptic and often obfuscatory answers frustrate
Penelope while intriguing the reader.
She’s a mystery and Penelope is determined to discover more.
While I have to admit I didn’t really like Penelope for... quite a while, her frustrated asides about Suzanne’s inability to
straightforwardly and honestly explain her history, had me smilingly nodding in
agreement. As her character develops,
through her experiences, I did begin to like her more but couldn’t quite
dissipate the 1930s “entitled trust fund baby” smoke she emanates almost throughout
the novel and which enables her to get by on a number of occasions. However, her financial dependence on her
father does mean she can make unselfish decisions at important moments; this is
delicately counter-balanced by the male artists’ willingness to take advantage
of Pubol’s (a Dali-esque figure in the novel) wealth, despite their disdain for and jealousy of his commercial success. As a quick
aside, is it accident or design that Pubol’s name so closely resembles the
French for garbage can (pubelle)?
Penelope scintillates despite my initial misgivings; she is
very much the heart of this novel. And if she is the heart, then Suzanne
is its soul, bringing depth and resilience (however fragile) to the story. As opposites attract, these two characters are
drawn together like magnets even if their relationship is hardly “smooth
sailing” all the way. Of the two, I have to say that it was to Suzanne I was
most drawn. That isn’t to say I rushed
to the end of each “Penelope chapter” in order to get to the next one about
Suzanne (once they are separated by both geography and events). However, I did engage with her travails
significantly more than I did with those of Penelope! My sympathies always rested with her one hundred
percent, while with Penelope they vacillated a little. Yet the novel is owned by both equally.
Surrealism is an essential part of this story but if that
might put you off, don’t allow it to.
The “casual” reader doesn’t have to have knowledge of the movement – it
is introduced and so explained organically to the reader through the fictional
characters and scenes therein. I was half expecting extensive passages of
explanatory exposition around the movement but they are mercifully absent.
I think if the novel is about anything, it’s about the
exclusion of women from some thing (in this case surrealism) based
almost solely on their gender and how they go about getting themselves
included. Or, rather how they go about
evolving themselves to the point where inclusion is irrelevant, unnecessary –
unwanted even; they have moved on. This
movement of character within the novel is, I think, its greatest
achievement: its subtle, refined and
beautifully poised development of the two female protagonists.
This leads me to the men! I guess I have to think of the
time in which the novel is set but even for 1938 the fictional artists featured
here seem somewhat retrograde. Preoccupied
with the unshackling of cultural chains that their artistic movement demands of
them, they overlook to include both genders as equal in their experiment.
Indeed, they actively subvert any progressive role that gender equality might
have in surrealism, veering dangerously in their art towards a sexually-based
fantasy version of women that serves to silence, shift or suppress the artistic
female and deny women entry to this particular club.
Oh, and it’s an only boys allowed club in essence and in
reality. At first I found it difficult
to distinguish between the more peripheral of the male artists that Hopewell
introduces in quick succession. It occurred to me that perhaps it was
deliberate on the part of the author, as they seem to form into a collectivised
multi-limbed creature that excuses and revels in the “joint enterprise” of
demeaning and degrading the female gender – without it ever occurring to them
that this is exactly what they are doing.
This extends into their personal lives with both Penelope and Suzanne
(who receive very different treatments, but are still made less than who they are by
their respective men). The phallocentric
pursuit of artistic freedom we witness at the Paris Exhibition thoughtlessly
places the other gender into objectified bondage (sometimes literally). It’s redolent of some of the court cases that
we still witness today where groups of men are collectively accused of crimes against
women that as individuals they would be too scared or cautious or powerless to
attempt.
Rolf, Penelope’s lover is initially something of a guiding
father figure, even if Penelope doesn’t fully realise or acknowledge that she
is substituting one pretty useless “daddy” for another. There is a contrast, later in the novel, when
Suzanne forms a close bond with Isaac, an elderly Dutch Jew which demonstrates
that the desire to have a male parent figure in one’s life does not have to
result in personal damage. Penelope’s
final realisation about why she stayed with Rolf for so long is a revelation to
her but not really the reader. Despite
Rolf’s positive traits (he does have some!), he is unwilling to change –
perhaps incapable of it. Even after his own tribulations, his first thought is
to rejoin, regroup and revivify the boy’s club elsewhere.
As beautifully as the main characters are drawn, I have to
take a little time to rejoice in the way that Hopewell depicts some of the
minor characters. Following the sub-theme of creating one’s own family, I just
loved the character of the kindly and wise Isaac, who takes in Suzanne when she
arrives in Amsterdam. Then there are
Eduardo and Llucia, who virtually adopt Penelope during her Spanish sojourn but
who know that her destiny lies elsewhere. This closeness is in contrast to the
vicious and exclusionary matriarch Hopewell creates in Suzanne’s paternal
grandmother as well as the never-seen but often mentioned father of Penelope
who judges her and distances himself simultaneously. And then, and then… there is lovely, dear,
fated Freddie. How could you have done that to him, Hopewell?
The late introduction of James MacConnell is a deft deus ex
machina – and not an obtrusive one, helping to more than satisfactorily tie up
some questions about our protagonists’ future that readers might have. Perhaps, perhaps… MacConnell could have been
Jemima rather than James? Or would that be too trite? Is character gender irrelevant by this point?
As gorgeously written as the novel is, with its evocations
of a number of European cities (researching the 1930s geography of which must
have been a labour in itself) and their populations, the wonderfully drawn
characters and the inner lives of the protagonists, it is only “beaten” by its
structure – which is flawless. Swimming with Tigers pivots between Penelope and Suzanne, as you might already have
gathered. It shifts location on a
number of occasions, allowing us the opportunity to learn more about them (the
weather is very cleverly used, too). Subplots and themes are interwoven, adding
layers to the main story, with short chapters that help to maintain its pace. Yes, even what happens to Freddie makes perfect sense structurally,
dammit.
Swimming with Tigers is a remarkable novel, simply put. I enjoyed it immensely and was immediately
drawn into the world that Penelope and Suzanne inhabit. Their final exchange might have you reaching
for the hankies. You have been warned.
You can buy Swimming with Tigers at:
Amazon
Blackwells
