reviewed by Stephanie Stubbs, Assoc. AIA
Managing Editor

It would be easy to tout acclaimed novelist Gail Godwin’s Evenings at Five as a perfect beach-trip summer story—easy, and not quite right. This obviously autobiographic tale of a writer who muses back on the 30-year marriage to the music composer husband she just lost is instead an hour’s respite from chores on a rainy day, an under-a-pine-tree fictional retreat, or a quietly contemplative evening when the reader will be drawn to savor the good bits and pieces of her or his own life.

Evenings at Five draws its name from the couple’s sacrosanct cocktail hour, during which they interwove their separate creative pursuits with ensuing triumphs and travails over the decades. Following on the heels of the husband’s death, the book could have been very depressing. Godwin’s gentle touch, however, elevates it to poignant, even delightful. We know from the start that protagonist and alter-ego Christina will prevail, despite skirting despair courtesy of the blue Bombay Gin bottle and the seemingly immutable five o’clock ritual. The tale is, in fact, uplifting in its recognition of the miracle of common, day-to-day objects and desires and uses that we quite unconsciously swirl and blend over the years to create our lives—together and apart.

Christina often contemplates “presence in absence” and “absence in presence” as she comes to realize that in some ways her late husband, Rudy, is more there now that he is gone. She hears what he was/is saying more clearly, because she is listening harder, perhaps no longer overwhelmed by his larger-than-life, boisterous persona. This dichotomous concept seems to me linked to architecture in some ineffable way—is architecture become more “space” if it less present? Can it, like a person, exude a more powerful “presence in absence”?

Perhaps this line of thought spun from the delightful line drawings by Frances Halsband, FAIA, principal of New York City’s R.M. Kliment & Frances Halsband Architects. It is quietly astounding to see that art could match prose so well, like words can be written to match a melody. They are clean single-line sketches that capture in their simplicity the rightness of ordinary objects: Rudy’s chair, Christina’s desk with its ever-present raggedy thesaurus, and—a favorite—the bedroom nightstand with a tall glass of water for the person and a short glass for the cat.

Halsband’s drawings greatly enhance the cadence of Godwin’s story. As famed novelist Kurt Vonnegut wrote: “With words alone, Gail Godwin has created an important piece of music about a love which death can only increase and deepen. Yes, and Frances Halsband’s illustrations are a haunting countermelody.” Together, author and artist have illuminated a very human truth: We all face loss. We plunge through despair and emptiness, and, eventually, love and the myriad simple details of life buoy us up and point us in the direction to carry on.

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