It’s probably no surprise that an art critic would smuggle art into her fiction. I’m certainly not the first. Artists and writers have long been borrowing from one another, their work intertwining like ribbons. In the 19th century, the relationship deepened: art fired the imagination of French novelists Honoré de Balzac, Marcel Proust, Émile Zola.
My first novel, Wet Paint, began with an image, too. I first saw Édouard Manet’s A Bar at the Folies-Bergère in the flesh while I was studying at the Courtauld Institute of Art. The barmaid, Suzon, has been with me ever since, and she’s also a constant companion for my protagonist, Eve, who visits her once a week. Eve’s eyes snag on her pink cheeks, heavy eyes, pressed-together lips. She’s trying to work out how she’s feeling: sad, tired, stuck, the kind of lonely that can gnaw even in a crowd. When Eve becomes a barmaid herself, and a life model, the two women’s lives begin to blur.
My first novel, Wet Paint, began with an image, too. I first saw Édouard Manet’s A Bar at the Folies-Bergère in the flesh while I was studying at the Courtauld Institute of Art. The barmaid, Suzon, has been with me ever since, and she’s also a constant companion for my protagonist, Eve, who visits her once a week. Eve’s eyes snag on her pink cheeks, heavy eyes, pressed-together lips. She’s trying to work out how she’s feeling: sad, tired, stuck, the kind of lonely that can gnaw even in a crowd. When Eve becomes a barmaid herself, and a life model, the two women’s lives begin to blur.
