This slim, beautifully produced book, which includes illustrations of the key paintings, sparkles with brilliant observations on art and architecture, friendship and loss. Matar’s prose is exquisitely measured and precise – not unlike one of the paintings from the Sienese school that he has admired for so many years.
Fifteen short chapters of this slender memoir take us from Duccio, to Siena the city, to Ambrogio Lorenzetti’s allegories of good and bad government, to Caravaggio and Poussin, to a chance meeting with a Jordanian, a walk in a cemetery, the Black Death and back to Lorenzetti and his ‘Madonna del latte’. These external stimuli give rise to a fluid series of meditations on big questions of life, on love, faith, time and on the nature and purpose of art, the influence of architecture and, most important of all to this author, grief, mourning and memory... After the hope beyond hope of The Return, that somehow his father might still be alive, this is a sobering moment, and would have been a dark finish to this little, essentially life-affirming, book. So how splendid that its conclusion whisks the reader away from Siena, though not away from the Sienese School, to Giovanni di Paolo’s ‘Paradise’ in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. This paradise is the paradise of reunion, and in this painting, at last perhaps, Matar has found a new way to think about his great loss.
Matar is a master of pellucid statement that seems simple yet is exactly right. He describes the city beautifully, saying of Il Campo, for example: “To cross it is to take part in a centuries-old choreography, one meant to remind all solitary beings that it was neither good nor possible to exist entirely alone.” He is ever sensitive to space... This is an exquisite, deeply affecting book, one in which an experience of dislocation and loss is conveyed in prose that flows so clearly and gracefully it finds continuities and connections all the time. It is also, although Proust is not among the many artists directly cited here, profoundly Proust-ian, many sentences actually adopting his syntax, becoming themselves acts of comprehension and recovery.