What I wanted, desperately, was a flash of objectivity, to encounter my face with the novelty of a stranger’s gaze. And so I started in profile and turned slowly, trying to erase my sense of anticipation. Could I gaze on the scar lightly — could I experience my reflection as a surprise?
I think it’s a fairly common experience for someone approaching thirty to have a major identity crisis; to wonder, “Who am I really and am I living as my most authentic self?” My Face in the Light ramps up those questions with a main character who, as a talented actress weighted down by unique and various forces, begins to wonder if she has ever lived authentically; and when an opportunity arises for her to escape her life, she sets off on a journey of self-discovery. Author Martha Schabas has written a quiet and thoughtful novel here, and as particular as her characters and their situations are, she explores the crisis of identity in a relatable and astute manner. A lovely, thought-provoking read. (Note: I read an ARC through NetGalley and passages quoted may not be in their final forms.)
My mother is an artist and I am a liar. Or, if I scratch the surface, my mother is a sick woman and I am an actress. How different is that from saying my mother is a sick woman and I am a liar? My mother will not act and I have given up on art.
Raised by her single mother (a respected if impoverished Toronto-based painter), Justine discovered as a teenager that she had an uncanny talent for stage acting. Despite a disfiguring scar (a “deep, twisting mark that traversed the skin between her temples”; the irreparable reminder of a childhood accident), Justine enjoyed a successful career; and as she approached the tenth anniversary of her early marriage to a handsome, loving, deep-thinking lawyer, anyone on the outside would think that Justine had it all. But just as Justine could very nearly cover the scar on her forehead with bangs and makeup, and just as she could easily slip into the personas of other women — real and fictional — as she approaches thirty, she begins to wonder if anyone has ever seen, let alone loved, the real Justine.
I loved Elias and he loved me desperately. Or, if I scratch the surface, I loved the rule of law and he forgave my misdemeanours. How different is that from saying I longed for exposure and he saw the good in everything? I was a great actress and Elias worshipped a pitiable fraud.
The breaking point seems to be when Elias wants to reopen a conversation about having children someday, and when Justine decides to go to London on her own (for reasons that are ultimately vague even to herself), her meditations on growing up with the impulsive, sexual, unmatronly Rachel as a mother reveal much about what forced her to sublimate her own personality.
In that moment, I could have choked on the fear of my inadequacy — the premonition that my life would consist of half loves and false passions, and that I was doomed to watch people the way I was watching Rachel now: a curious observer of other people’s desires but never quite sure how to plant the seeds of my own.
This is not an action-packed novel, so I don’t want to spoil anything by talking specifics about the plot, but I will say that Schabas imagines a wide range of interesting scenes for her characters to live through, and as I found Justine to be really likeable — hers is not a petulant or immature response to ordinary life; this is an honest search for meaning and identity — I was rooting for her to find her way to meaning at every step. This might be quiet but it’s not silent and I enjoyed the whole thing.
