Books: Painting the town

Hannah Rothschild’s debut novel drops the reader into the madcap London art scene.

By BETH KISSILEFF
London art scene (photo credit: Courtesy)
London art scene
(photo credit: Courtesy)
The central figure in Hannah Rothschild’s first novel is not even a person. Rather, it’s a painting, a fictional piece done by a real painter – the French Jean-Antoine Watteau.
In The Improbability of Love, Rothschild – a descendant of the famed wealthy Jewish banking family – gives the reader a glimpse into the lives and artworks of the rich and famous, a trip always more pleasurable when the tour guide is an insider.
Since not much was known about Watteau, Rothschild said, he was the perfect real- life artist on which to hinge an imagined and fantastical plot.
Rothschild imbues her fictional painting with a rich history: it passed from the hand of the impecunious painter, who created it to win over a woman, to a friend of his, to the French Enlightenment philosopher Voltaire, who gave it to his lover. She sent it to a lover of hers, who sent it to the future Madame de Pompadour and on to Catherine the Great and Frederick the Great, king of Prussia.
The painting ends up in the hands of the Winkelmann family of German Jews, whose only survivor, it seems, is their son Memling, who moved to England after the war and founded a large and flourishing business to sell art to London’s finest collectors.
The painting that starts it all is bought by caterer Annie McDee in a London junk shop as a birthday gift for a man who never shows. McDee keeps it, and it grows on her over time.
“The picture was important in many ways: its subject matter, the juxtaposition of hope and despair, encapsulated the feelings of requited and unrequited love... But above all, it was also capable of inspiring love.”
Rothschild’s insider view on the London art scene – she currently chairs the National Gallery – allows her to draw a realistic portrayal of both the setting and the cast of characters.
The role of the Winkelmann family auction house in creating an aura of value around its art is described well, as well as how objects play a role in both showcasing emotion and preserving memories. Memling Winkelmann presents his mistress with the painting because it “said everything he believed but could never articulate about love.” For Annie, “authenticating the picture meant validating herself,” and helping her gain the things she was seeking.
Where the novel struggles is its minor characters and plot, which can be hackneyed and stereotyped. The son of Memling Winkelmann is brought in for a significant plot point, but the reader hasn’t learned much about him, so we can’t be expected to care in the way the plot needs us to. Other minor characters are flat, such as one so addicted to television that she can’t be bothered to open her mail. Still, the subplot of a Russian oligarch in exile in England being tutored in the ways of the nouveau riche class by a flamboyant gay man who rose from the provinces is amusing, albeit also prone to stereotype.
The strongest parts of The Improbability of Love are the descriptions of art and the food that Annie prepares. In particular, two elaborate banquets staged as paintings come to life – a birthday dinner for an art historian staged like a fête galante at the court of Louis XIV and XV and one for the Winkelmanns, to help sell a painting. One of the guests says the banquet is so wonderful she would buy the picture just to remember the meal staged around it. Shopping at an outdoor market for ingredients, Annie says, “For both the chef and the painter, creating tastes or scenes from an assortment of base ingredients was a way of navigating the world.”
This novel is as good evidence as any for its closing words.
“All that matters is that artists keep reminding mortals about what really matters: the wonder, the glory, the madness, the importance and the improbability of love.”