may-june 2021 books…

The January Man (Christopher Somerville): Somerville and I have a number of things in common… we were both born in 1949 (albeit it that his roots are much posher than mine), we both have three daughters (he also has a son), we share a love of nature, we live fairly close to each other (him: Gloucestershire; me: Bristol) and ‘The January Man’ title of the book relates to the song he first heard sung by Martin Carthy in a Birmingham pub (the city of my birth). This book is something of a dairy of walks he’s taken across the British Isles over the course of a year (in all seasons). I really warmed to Somerville by the end of the book but, initially, I have to say I was somewhat underwhelmed by his gentle accounts of a number of his walks (which seemed to consist of little more than long sentences describing all the trees he’d seen… and all the wildlife (especially the birds – and insisting on trying to describe the sound they made in words!). Far, far more interesting were his accounts of how, in his father’s later years, the two of them had gradually found a way of relating to each other – thanks to what became their fairly regular walking trips together (very poignant) – and also the incidental people Somerville met on his walks. However, I YEARNED for some maps outlining the walks described (all the book had was a single, small-scale map of the British Isles with ‘arrows’ pointing to each of the 17 walk locations)… I didn’t exactly expect a collection of Wainwright hand-drawn maps or anything particularly sophisticated(!), but I really did feel that this was a huge omission. Nevertheless, in the end, I very much enjoyed this evocative, heart-warming reminder of how lucky we are to live on these wonderful isles.
The Death Of Francis Bacon (Max Porter): I love Porter’s writing… but have always struggled to come to terms with Bacon’s art. This brief book is something of a brave experiment. Porter describes it as his attempt “to write as painting, not about it”. At the age of 15, in one of school art projects, Porter was pre-occupied by Bacon’s work (and pre-occupied by the business of writing about art). Francis Bacon died in April 1992. Against his doctor’s advice, he took a trip to Madrid to visit his last great love, the young José Capelo, the subject of his final triptych of paintings. A few days after arriving in the city, Bacon, aged 82, was taken by ambulance to a convent hospital, suffering from familiar kidney and breathing problems. For six days until his death he remained in intensive care, looked after by a nun called Sister Mercedes. In those six days, Bacon (an atheist) received no visitors and, with limited Spanish, spoke only a few words. His body was cremated two days after his death, according to his wishes, at a municipal cemetery, without ceremony or mourners – almost anonymously, in utter silence. Porter explores the mental state of an incredibly complex man, on his deathbed, through an attempt to convey the spirit of his paintings, his style, through words. I’ve only read the book once (so far) – it’s just 74 pages long – but I have to admit that I struggled with it. Despite its poetic/lyrical language, much of the writing went ‘over my head’. However, I did think it conveyed a real sense of a man on his death bed, trying to come to terms with his imminent death, essentially alone… conjuring/creating painted images in his mind of violently distorted bodies that are themselves seeming to represent isolated and tormented souls. I think I need to read the book several times before I begin to understand and appreciate it… but, over the coming months, I’ll keep trying.
One Good Turn (Kate Atkinson): Continuing my journey of consuming Atkinson’s Jackson Brodie novels! As you might recall, Brodie is a divorced ex policeman and now retired private detective and, in this story, is visiting Edinburgh with his girlfriend Julia (featured in the first novel), who is appearing in a Fringe production. People, including Brodie, are queuing for a lunchtime show witness a brutal road rage incident – an incident that changes the lives of many. Atkinson is a brilliant writer. She’s able to concoct a complex, page-turning thriller but, at the same time, combine it with wit, humour and thoroughly-believable characters. I absolutely loved this book and, despite the fact that it’s over 500 pages long, consumed it in 3 days. Can’t wait to read the next one!
Eric Gill (Ruth Cribb+Joe Cribb): Shockingly, Eric Gill (1882-1940) was a sexual abuser of his own daughters and so, inevitably, this scandalous behaviour colours our views of what many regard as one of the great British artists of the 20th century. Nevertheless, I’m a great admirer of Gill’s work and this short, illustrated book (some 112 pages) provides a useful reminder of his genius as a letter cutter, wood engraver, sculptor and artist. He was a man of contradictions; he was a Roman Catholic; he had a strong attachment to the Arts and Crafts movement; he was a vociferous advocate of Distributism (a back-to-the-land socialism); he was a disrespector of authority; and sex was a central force in many of his private and public art, his writings and his daily life. This is an excellent brief summary of both his wide-ranging work and his life.
Brown Baby (Nikesh Shukla): Essentially, this is a love letter from a father to a daughter. It’s a letter of hope, of fatherhood, of family, of grief, of race, of wrongdoings in the world, of passion, of justice, of politics… and of pride. It talks about what it’s like growing up being ‘Brown and British’ – about growing up as a brown child when the majority of her neighbours are white. It doesn’t shirk away from the difficult, frustrating stuff. Shukla’s writing has raw honesty that I found quite tender and moving… and also brilliantly funny. He now lives in Bristol and I’ve heard him talk a couple of times at our local Storysmith bookshop (he’s quite an inspiring character). I thought this was a beautiful, brilliant book… I loved it. Thoroughly recommend it.