@bookstodon My full review of LANDSCAPES, by Christine Lai. 4 of 5 stars.

CW: SA and discussion of violence against women

(also, might be a touch spoilery, but no more than jacket copy)

From the prologue, we know that the author examines that tenuous place 𝒑𝒐𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒄𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒂𝒑𝒔𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒘𝒂𝒍. The setting is in the U.K. in a near-future state of climate collapse. The narrator, a private library archivist for a large country estate, hangs on to the touchstones of the past like secret talismans. The book opens with that panicky feeling that chaos brings to those who value order, safety, and dependability. The narrator is stuck in a chaotic spiral that never seems to end. Lack of control over a catastrophically changing environment is one thing, but it's quite another to feel as if the chaos is ever creeping closer, nibbling on the foundation of the world. There's something deeper that is haunting the narrator. This tension suffuses the entire novel.

The narrator is subconsciously trying not to drown in her own trauma, which would cause her to go into a kind of emotional paralysis. Instead of entering a complete fugue state, the author has consciously or unconsciously chosen to step back from her own reality and interpret everything, even her own experiences, through the prism perspective of an art gallery visitor. The world as a diorama, seen through a pinhole. The only ways she can function are through the remove of a detached observer, and through constant dedication to her archival project.

She and her partner, Aidan, have poured enormous effort into keeping the roof over their heads from collapsing, because they worry that without something tangible to save, they will have nothing left to salvage but themselves. They are dedicated to helping others survive, giving them shelter, and allowing them space to heal through their art.

Art does not have the same healing effect on the narrator, who we finally learn is named Penelope. She sees herself reflected in every painting that features violence against women. It is also not lost on us that a painting, like a house, is also vulnerable, like a body, subject to damage and decay. Just in case the meaning was not clear, the author adds a scene in which the archivist cuts herself on broken stained glass, which has fallen from an oculus. Lai loves metaphors. Even the narrator's name: Penelope, is specifically chosen. The mythological Penelope spent years trying to thwart the advances of men who tried to strip her of power, to take possession of her. The only way to shield herself was through art.

At the halfway point, I began to wonder if Penelope really was moving into a fugue state, due to both the unfolding environmental catastrophe, and the damage done to her emotional and mental health by the cruel Julian. She was predisposed to shrink herself before then, however. When she relates receiving a gift from a boyfriend whom she was always afraid of losing, she says this: 𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒎𝒆 𝒂 𝒑𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂 𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒏 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒊𝒕, 𝒇𝒐𝒍𝒅𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒂 𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒚 𝒔𝒒𝒖𝒂𝒓𝒆, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝑰 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒅𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒑𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒄𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒔𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒑𝒕. So, wait, she wasn't curious at all about what it said, and she didn't ask him?!? That sounds absurd. Maybe I'm missing something, but someone who obsessively catalogues the contents of an archive which is soon to no longer exist, seems like someone who would have a burning desire to decipher the writing. Maybe she was afraid to find out what he [Michael] really thought of her?

I buy the idea of the main character detached from the memory of her assault, who is haunted by the echoes of that violence in art, but I'm not sure I buy that she would ever have ditched her curiosity to avoid upsetting someone. The way she tries to collect people and catalogue their details, instead of developing relationships, seems destined to blow up in her face over and over. She can see patterns in art, but not patterns in herself. It does explain how she was drawn to the artist J.M.W. Turner, not just for how he saw into the bones of things rebuilt, but also his rather obsessive need to collect and keep his own work, even if he didn't take care with it. His art became representative of himself. His immediate environment, like hers, was also a place of disarray and decay.

In that kind of setting, a person can develop obsessive fears about what they can't control. Where is the line between possession and obsession?

It is clear that this character has always had an extremely neurotic personality. She becomes more and more unpredictable. At this point in the book, I had no idea what would happen next, but I really wanted something dramatic. I remember wondering whether Penelope was capable of going into a rage, maybe killing Julian. Only something like that would be truly satisfying for me. Maybe she could burn down the estate and make him watch. Could she do something like that? [spoiler alert: no]

Why does she even suggest that Julian should be invited to see the estate one more time, if he represents incredible emotional turmoil for her? That also seems unrealistic.

The intricate details of violence against women in art are somehow more disturbing than those in real life,and I am not sure how the author accomplishes this. It reflects the inherent dangers of not just what has happened, but what 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 happen in the limitless world of dark imagination. Penelope has created a connection between desire and fear, which is both palpable and disturbing. Penelope has to create three degrees of separation. That's why she focuses on a postcard, of a painting, of an actual place. And just as there is the subject, the art, and the viewer, there is the event, the subconscious memory, and the shadow memory.

Penelope sees figures captured in art as reflections of her being trapped in her own life. Yet, only once do we witness Penelope having a moment of realization about her own emotional detachment:

𝑷𝒆𝒓𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒔 𝒊𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒎𝒆, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒅, 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈.

She remains unaware that she has loosened her hold on the experiential, and locked on to physical ephemera to keep herself from falling, failing to realize that like her, those items are also falling apart.

We are all constrained in this one life, this one place, in this one time, but all of history is contained within us, which we recognize in our interaction with objects and monuments of the past. It is our way of reaching beyond our own boundaries, something Penelope is desperate to do.

The author is obviously using the relationship between art and the observer as a metaphor for how people approach the world. You'd think that the main differences between Penelope and Julian would be her compassion and generosity vs. his greed, selfishness, and cold affinity for violence. But there is one more marked distinction: she wants to possess people and things; he wants to 𝒐𝒘𝒏 them, and then discard them. Julian does not understand art for his own edification. He just doesn't want to be defeated by art, by not being able to discern its meaning. Everything for Julian is about conquest. He values people only in terms of what he can glean from them. He doesn't know how to value people because he doesn't know how to be a person. He can't stand to see his own reflection, which suggests that he is aware enough to despise something about himself, but not enough to change. Something happened to Julian in the past. It is buried deep, but we see it in glimpses: his fear of disembodied hands, his history of panic attacks, his need to carefully regulate his sleep. Julian is most afraid of seeing himself exactly as he is.

The whole book is moving toward a spectacular collision that neither Penelope nor Julian want to have. Will she have the strength to crawl out of her battered painful shell and leave it behind, and will he be able to shove the monster within him so far down that it will never surface again? It ends up that they have both been moving not necessarily toward this anticipated confrontation, but instead toward a reversal of direction. This is not about redemption, as much as it is a path to being able to live with yourself.

The author finishes the book by reemphasizing the circle of time, experience, and memory.