Holding Things, Holding On
Maira Kalman's new book, "Women Holding Things"; and men do, too
Some years ago I started painting small watercolors of all the clothes in my closet, one dress at a time. I didn’t get very far. Also for a long time I planned a series about women carrying things. But I was never curious enough to follow through with either of these projects.
I’ve found — in my hands — a book by Maira Kalman called Women Holding Things. She was curious enough. She followed through.
Open the cover. In these days of wide-spread unkindness, the words on the jacket might bring tears to your eyes. It was published late last year.
It’s hard to choose a few quotes from these pages because I trust the author’s judgment and she has decided to keep every word. But I will try.
She begins with,
What do women hold? The home and the family. And the children and the food. The friendships. The work. The work of the world. And the work of being human. The memories. And the troubles and the sorrows and the triumphs. And the love.
Men do as well, but not quite in the same way.
“Sometimes,” she says,
when I am feeling particularly happy or content … I can hold the entire world in my arms.
Other times, I can barely cross the room. And I drop my arms. Frozen.
Then I am brought back to my grandmother, my mother, my aunts, my sister, my daughter, my granddaughters, my cousins. The women who are my friends.
We have spoken to each other for thousands of hours. About all that can be held. And not held. … In my case it is good to hold all.
“It is good to hold all.” I accept her challenge.
I like Kalman’s free, colorful illustration style. It’s more about her subjects than about her own talent. The woman below who’s holding a bowl in her kitchen reminds me of my mother’s mother, a Hungarian.
I’m pleased to see that this woman is named Emilia, close to my grandmother’s name, Amalia. I wonder if papanasi is like spaetzle.
I see myself below, in fantastic clothes in an amazing setting. My middle name is Amelia (really).
I’m not alone with this book.
I’m in the same room with these women. It feels comfortable, below, with no famous painter husband in the room with us.
There are no book pages or generations between us. Virginia Woolf’s sister Vanessa must have designed her chair fabric, below. I almost could ask her.
As Woolf knew, and wrote down, the room we all share in this world is not guaranteed to be as pleasant or as safe as a room of one’s own.
Slightly after the middle of the book is a blank page. It is the only possible response to Kalman’s words about thirteen relatives previously pictured in a house in her mother’s village of Lenin, one holding a baby. “Here is the family in 1931. They also loved holding things …”
Their fate is the tragedy of the 20th century, or one of the fates, and belongs to all of us. “You are obliged,” Kalman writes, “to feel it reverberate through all things for the rest of your life.”
But we dream, says Kalman.
We act on our dreams.
As Kalman said earlier, men hold things, too.
Kalman is a well-known illustrator. I wrote a post about her a couple of years ago called “Maira Kalman On Happiness”. I say this because I don’t want to give you the idea that she gives in to sadness. She fights it. With creativity and confidence. She tells her story, which includes all of us.
On the page across from the bouquet above, Kalman says, “Objects around us hold our attention and our love. It is hard work to hold everything and it never ends.”
To anyone who holds this book, she offers honest reasons why it’s hard, continuous work to hold everything.
Then she gives you the bouquet to tell you why it’s worth a try.
Beautiful, Deda --- you lift us all up with your postings.
Hi, Deda, I was so intrigued by your postcard that I bought the book. It is lovely. I plan to gift it to a friend.