Books for Troubled Times
It’s going to be a long four years of non-stop chaos (and worse). In addition to daily walks in nature and escaping to my art studio, I’ve spent more time in recent weeks immersed in books. Books that celebrate beauty. Books that expand my world view rather than contract it. Books that give me hope, including hope that art and beauty will endure.
My tastes are eclectic, so this little selection of favorites is, too.
Pádraig Ó Tuama, Poetry Unbound
This is a selection of poems that would drive the anti-DEI crusaders crazy, as it’s all about listening to historically marginalized voices. The subtitle is an entirely accurate descriptor: “50 poems to open your world.” I’m still working my way through this one, absorbing it slowly, by intent, as poetry is meant to be savored. I like to pick up this book as I’m getting ready for bed and read one chapter a night (a single poem, plus the backstory on the author and the poem, and a personal essay by Pádraig Ó Tuama’s on why the poem spoke to him).
The poems are about displacement, colonialism, grief, belief, wonder… which Ó Tuama sums up as “the art of being alive.” Oh, and here’s a devastating poem about complicity in the face of evil, written by a Ukranian refugee, that somehow seems perfect for 2025:
We Lived Happily During the War, poem by Ilya Kaminsky, from Poetry Unbound
Sarah Winman, Still Life
The novel opens in Italy during World War II, where a young British soldier named Ulysses encounters an art historian searching for masterpieces that have been hidden from the invading Germans. Their discussions -- and one of the recurring themes in the book -- center on the value of art and beauty even in times of destruction and tragedy. “Beautiful art opens our eyes to the beauty of the world, “ she tells him, “It repositions our sight and judgment.” He carries those words home, where we watch him rebuild his life after the war.
The novel revolves around the small moments of life, and the joy of sharing them with our chosen families, which can often be the only families we have. Ulysses saved a man’s life in Florence during the war, and is repaid for his kindness years later with the gift of his apartment, which Ulysses converts into a quirky pensione after relocating to Florence with his daughter. Throughout the course of the book, we learn much about the history of Florence, including details of the 1966 flood, where the raging waters of the Arno caught the city unaware, destroying countless art masterpieces and books, as well as over a hundred lives. But art and beauty, somehow, always endure in this book and (hopefully!) in real life.
Floodwaters rushing through a square in front of the Basilica of Santa Croce in Florence after Arno overflowed in 1966. Photo Credit: Associated Press
Louise Erdrich, The Night Watchman
This novel, which won a well-deserved Pulitzer in fiction in 2021, centers on the federal government’s attempts to terminate Native American rights in the 1950s. It is based on a stash of letters that Erdrich’s grandfather wrote highlighting his role in saving the Turtle Mountain Reservation in North Dakota from displacement and elimination. Reading this book is a painful reminder of the historical and ongoing mistreatment of Indigenous people. A disturbing thread running through the novel is the plight of missing Native American women, and their entrapment into sex trafficking; this is sadly relevant today, with Indigenous women comprising an estimated 40% of sex trafficking victims in 2023.
After reading this book, I happened across a Radio Maine podcast interview with Lisa Sockabasin, a member of the Passamaquoddy Nation and co-CEO of Wabanaki Public Health and Wellness (WPHW), an organization addressing health and cultural restoration for indigenous communities in Maine. The Wabanaki people – “the people of the first light, the people who greet the rays that touch us first” -- encompass four tribal nations who have been connected to Maine for well over 12,000 years. The Wabanaki culture and language has been under assault for generations but remains resilient. Yet, as Ms. Sockabasin put it, quite diplomatically: “we hold a lot of trauma resulting from, well, our government not wanting us here.” Ms. Sockabasin describes her culture’s connection to the land and with tribes across the border in Canada, as well as her organization’s focus on seven generational thinking -- the idea that our decisions today should consider the potential benefits or harm that would be felt by seven future generations. Really, it's beautiful, just watch the podcast: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S5BZASIDwks
Louise Erdrich, winner of the 2021 Pulitzer Prize
Michael Finkel, The Art Thief
This entertaining romp through some of the smaller art museums in Europe is based on the true story of Stéphane Breitwieser, a prolific art thief who, over the course of eight years, stole more than 300 paintings and artifacts worth more than $2 billion. Breitwieser stashed all this stolen loot in his attic apartment in his mother's home. He wasn't motivated by money, and never sold a single item he stole; he rationalized it all by saying he simply wanted to wake up surrounded by art and beauty. He also claimed he wanted to rescue the pieces he coveted from the "prisons for art" that he considers art museums to be.
Breitweiser isn't the most likable of characters, and his rationalizations are both self-serving and far-fetched. Still, one of his defenses was rather interesting: Many great artists, including Picasso, were also art thieves. The author, Michael Finkel, included a section on famous art thefts, stating that one of the first people arrested following the 1911 theft of the Mona Lisa from the Louvre was Picasso, then twenty-nine years old and living in Paris. Picasso was accused by the police of masterminding the Mona Lisa heist with a Belgian con man named Géry Pieret. While the two men were innocent of this particular theft, Picasso had commissioned Pieret to steal from the Louvre a few years earlier. According to Finkel: “In 1907, Picasso had reportedly offered Pieret fifty francs, or ten U.S. dollars, to steal a pair of ancient stone figurines from Picasso's native Iberia that the painter had seen on display at the Louvre. Pieret filled the order, smuggling the carvings out under his coat. The figurines had distorted faces, and Picasso kept them in his studio as templates, he admitted in his autobiography, for the groundbreaking Les Demoiselles d'Avignon, a painting that had inaugurated cubism.”
One shocking takeaway from this book is how poorly guarded many small museums are (or at least were, at the time of the crimes). Breitweiser's thefts were all very low-tech affairs, mostly accomplished with the aid of a Swiss army knife while his girlfriend served as his lookout/spotter. Some of the thefts were also insanely brazen, including stealing objects while participating in a guided group walking tour of a museum, as well as stuffing a 10-foot long tapestry into a duffel bag, tossing it out of a castle window, and then hauling it away in broad daylight.
I’d love to know what you’re reading these days. Comment here or email me at marcia.crumley@gmail.com Happy reading!
Reading is a great escape, but there’s nothing as good for the soul as a long walk outdoors, even if the weather is a little nippy! The image below is from one my daily walks. Sign up for my monthly newsletter to receive more Maine images, insights into my studio practice, releases of new works, and, on occasion, special pricing for subscribers only.
Sign up here: https://lp.constantcontactpages.com/sl/4V6bXBh
Sunset at Two Lights State Park, Cape Elizabeth, Maine, on a 7 degree day (and that’s before wind chill) in February.
