By Maria Gainza; Ingram Publisher Services, April 2019
In reading Maria Gainza’s highly original new book, Optic Nerve, I was reminded of a quote I came across recently by Joan Miró: “You can look at a picture for a week and never think of it again. You can also look at the picture for a second and think of it all your life.” Time and again while reading this book, I was struck at how very personal art can be to each person; how its meaning can so drastically shift depending on the lens through which it is viewed. Any piece of art, at the right time or in the right context, has the potential to be profoundly impactful, and likely in ways never intended or even imagined by the artist. Optic Nerve is a novel about those intersections of art and life…but it is also so much more than that.
Referred to by many as an example of “autofiction” (a form of fictionalized autobiography), Optic Nerve narrator and author share many similarities: both are named Maria, both are Argentinian, and both are heavily involved in the world of art (Gainza is an art writer who has worked for multiple publications, including The New York Times, ARTnews, and Artforum.) This book, however, is in no way presented like an autobiography; instead, it skips and skims the surface of the narrator’s life, the depth and detail only appearing in conjunction with the art she describes. The connections she makes are eclectic: Rousseau in relation to her fear of flying; Rothko’s connection to her husband’s chemotherapy; Toulouse-Lautrec’s association with walking her dog as a child in Buenos Aires. Her viewpoint is expansive but esoteric; she speaks to those willing to delve deeper for a greater understanding and connection by revealing that exploration in her own life.
Optic Nerve doesn’t really follow a linear timeline; nor does it ever completely reveal the woman it describes. Gainza places a higher priority on describing the worldview of the narrator than in fully fleshing out the details of her life; you are meant to care more about how she thinks than who she is. The narrator also has an understandable affinity for Argentinian artists without as much name recognition as Rousseau & Rothko. I found myself researching several of the artists and their works in order to get a better understanding of the novel’s reference points; an enjoyable thing to do for someone who writes for an art magazine, but perhaps not so much for a casual reader. The depth of the novel, however, is part of the point: art becomes an optical illusion, endless layers of history and emotion spread a few millimeters thick across a canvas. I’ve never read a book that more accurately depicts the way that art can inveigle its way into the narrative of a life, given the chance; how, for someone who appreciates it, one painting can come to encompass, not just a feeling or a moment, but whole time periods and entire people. Those who understand that connection will find a like-minded friend in this novel; for those who don’t, Optic Nerve is a great place to start learning.
