Heidi Sopinka

More so than most novels, I think opinions on this one will depend upon the reader's reaction to the author's writing style. If the reader enjoys it, it will be given descriptors like poetic, lyrical, dreamlike, beautiful. If not, it will be florid, overbearing, incoherent, choppy. Here's a sample:

I think of this place. Full of its imagery. The poetics. The corners of antiquity. The disquiet. As though the city was invented for Tacita. And here I am looking for things elsewhere, like the crows that fly over it. It's ridiculous. Like saying yellow is the colour of that red painting. Tacita says we need relatively. How else can we measure? It is not new, the idea of the thing farthest away being the most desired. With longing there is velocity.

Keep in mind this style goes on for 300 pages...

If one enjoys the style, the weaknesses of the book can understandably be overlooked. The titular project of the book's protagonist - the dictionary of animal languages - which is her overriding obsession for 50 years of life, is pretty sketchily described. How do you keep notebooks of animal vocalizations? How do you describe them? How are these deciphered and organized into some sort of dictionary? Chapters of the book are named for animals and given italicized lines from what could be the notebooks, but often they focus on appearances rather than "languages", as in:

Dolphin. Ceta cea. 21" length of symphysis... 5'3" of ramus... 16'6" end of muzzle to palatal notch... 13'10" to preorbital notch... 85 teeth incurved, fang compressed... Habitat, unknown. Creates rings out of blow hole or creates water vortex ring and blows air in.

Well, ok, but if that's indicative of the notebooks, I understand why the museum conservatory, which is presented as the bad guys in the novel for cutting funding and other sins (after decades of funding her research! That's gratitude), doesn't really know what to do with this.

Ivory, our protagonist, had a serious flame as a young woman, a painter named Lev. He's a dark, mysterious, charismatic Russian. Women find him irresistible, being a dark mysterious Russian and all. If I recall correctly, he's even compared to Rasputin. We don't learn too much about Lev's character or inner world, or why he's so into her, but he's a dark star around which Ivory feels powerless not to orbit. The relationship feels unconvincing, certainly the depths of intensity it reaches feel unconvincing, even if it is partly during wartime, which can provide intensity where it wouldn't otherwise exist.

The front cover flap teases a shocking revelation: a grandchild! Despite Ivory "never having had a child of her own." First, this is pretty irrelevant to the novel. A letter informing Ivory of the grandchild is brought up on the first few pages, then ignored until close to the novel's end, and the grandchild's existence really doesn't matter, definitely not to a measure justifying the tease. Secondly, this is seriously problematic. We learn finally that Ivory did indeed give birth to a child, but she was told it died when in fact the child was given for adoption, evidently a policy for births to unmarried women at this hospital at the time. Does this mean Ivory really "never had a child"? Obviously she did. Does the qualifier "of her own" rescue the claim of the front cover flap? I don't think I'm inclined to think so; it's a lie, essentially. I don't like book descriptions lying to me.

If the novel's writing style doesn't work for you, and the book's plot is frustrating, there isn't a whole lot here to enjoy.… (más)

A special thank you to Edelweiss and Scribe for an ARC in exchange for an honest review.

Ivory Frame is a world-renowned painter now in her nineties. Fiercely private, she is still devoted to her work. She has never been married, has no family, and no children. When a letter arrives to notify Ivory that she has a granddaughter who lives in New York, her life is turned upside down and her painful past collides with the life she's built for herself.

Disowned by her bourgeois family, the young Ivory had gone to interwar Paris to study art. She discovered her calling with the avant-garde painters and poets who frequent the city's cafes and at the Zoological Gardens, the subject for her art. Ivory also found love in Russian painter, Lev.

When the Second World War claims the life that Ivory has carved out for herself, she turns back to the project that she began in Paris—the dictionary of animal languages—which will consume the rest of her life. The dictionary is both scientific and artistic.

Ivory fully withdraws into her work until one of Lev's paintings is discovered which is inscribed to her. It is now worth a fortune and it brings to light a secret from Ivory's time in Paris. Now in her nineties, she is forced to acknowledge what she has lost.

I had the pleasure of attending an author event with Heidi and she is articulate, gracious, and truly lovely.

Sopinka's novel is a slow burn with lyrical prose. She uses her words as a form of art in this solid debut about love, grief, and art. It is an emotionally charged novel that reflects a love of language with each beautifully written chapter named after an animal.

The vehicle to uncover Ivory's past is the letter that arrives informing her that she has a granddaughter. This information is shocking given that she has never married, or has any family. The reader is then taken on a journey through Ivory's memories in times of art, war, and her yearning for Lev.

The only thing I struggled with, and am unclear about, is why the choice to omit the quotations around the dialogue—this is a huge pet peeve of mine. I never understand why someone would willingly choose to confuse the reader. And who decides this? Is it the writer, or is it the editor? This is incredibly distracting and it detracted from what could have been an amazing story.… (más)

This book is for people who like writing that is a work of art rather than the telling of a story. Yes, it tells a story, but it is not the main point. The writing is the point - which isn't really my usual genre. I actually didn't finish this book. I got bored with it and skipped to the end. When I did, I felt I hadn't missed a thing.
Sopinka does write beautifully. An example of how she writes, "You know this valley has been called the Playground of Kings, I say. The Garden of France. Which makes you think it should be those things, but all I see are these hot yellow fields of sunflowers that will soon be cut, gleaming and bristling like a big cat's pelt."
Another thing that threw me off is that there are NO quotations to mark who is speaking when. It took me about 50 pages to get the rhythm of her writing and for it to not bother me.
Her writing reminds me of Flannery O'Conner - you know, that one author they make you read in college, ask you to write notes in all the margins, and nod your head and make astute observations that you don't even get. This book is like that.… (más)