Nicole Mary Kelby


De Amerikaanse schrijfster Nicole Mary Kelby groeide op in Florida en studeerde er creatief schrijven en literatuur. Ze schrijft romans en kortverhalen, en gaf al les aan universiteiten in Ierland, Florida en Minnesota. Kelby is ook lid van PEN American Center.

Nicole Mary Kelby debuteerde in 2001 met In the Company of Angels (Hyperion). In deze roman beschrijft ze het verhaal van enkele zusters die een Joods meisje in bescherming nemen aan het begin van de Tweede Wereldoorlog. Het boek werd genomineerd voor verschillende internationale prijzen, en werd onder andere vertaald naar het Nederlands (De Geus, 2002) en het Italiaans. Sinds haar debuut publiceerde ze nog enkele romans en kortverhalenbundels, waaronder Theatre of the Stars (Hyperion, 2003), A Travel Guide for the Reckless Heart (Borealis Books, 2009) en White Truffles in Winter (W.W. Norton, 2011). Haar werk werd vertaald naar onder meer het Pools, het Russisch en het Noors.

Kelby's meest recente roman, The Pink Suit (Little, Brown and Company, 2014) werd lovend onthaald en verschijnt eind mei in Nederlandse vertaling (Uitgeverij Karmijn). In dit op historische feiten gebaseerd fictief verhaal, krijgt de lezer inzicht in het leven van president John F. Kennedy en zijn vrouw Jackie Kennedy vanuit het standpunt van een Ierse immigrante. Deze jonge vrouw krijgt de opdracht het beroemde roze mantelpakje te maken, dat de toenmalige First Lady droeg op de dag dat haar man neergeschoten werd. De roman is een weerspiegeling van de American Dream en van de collectieve fascinatie van de Amerikaanse bevolking voor de figuur van Jackie Kennedy.

Nicole Mary Kelby verblijft in mei in het schrijversappartement aan de Oude Graanmarkt. Tijdens haar residentie zal ze onderzoek doen naar het leven en werk van de Belgische surrealistische kunstenaar René Magritte, die een prominente rol speelt in het manuscript van haar nieuwe roman.

Lees meer op de website van de schrijfster.


Foto © Ann Marsden



Nicole Mary Kelby

Months later, I am sitting at my desk and all I can think about is the soft shy sunlight and persistent shimmer of the moon. The light of Brussels is difficult to forget. It's not just how it feels, cool as rain against the skin, but it's the gentleness of it. The painter René Magritte captured it so very well. The light in his paintings made everything, every joy and every sorrow, seem vibrant and profound.

This was my mother's light. She was born in Brussels and fled when the Germans invaded. The war caught up to her eventually. There was a bomb. All she remembers of the moment was that the sky suddenly went very dark.

The first day I arrived in Brussels, I walked through the streets looking for a sign of her, just a glimpse of her eyes in the eyes of another. She was in the soaring voice of the woman singing Verdi outside of St. Nicholas Church. She was in the laughter of the fishmonger at the outdoor bar at De Noordzee serving seafood soup and white wine to a young Japanese tourist who thought she'd ordered shrimp croquettes and Coca-Cola. She was in the homeless woman sleeping in the crook of building on a stained mattress with her small apricot dog watchful at her feet.

My mother could be seen in the elegant chocolatier who placed a single red heart in a jewel box at Pierre Ledent and nodding knowingly when I told her that this was for a man who confuses me. She was in the artist who sold me a raw silk scarf that was the same sparkling green of the sea but shot through with burnished gold--"It matches your spirit," she said. And she was in the woman at Bruxells-Central who sold me my ticket, and told me where to catch the train to the airport, and said, "You look as if you've lost your heart here in Brussels." And when she said that, it felt true.

I spent weeks searching for a version of my mother who was not half-mad, not damaged by war, and not slipping in and out of life like a high thin cloud. While I found her everywhere, it was difficult to imagine her actually living here. I could not see her walking the alleyways filled with tourist cafes, one elbowing another, with their fireplaces burning even on hot days and their fresh fish on display, slowing flapping their tails against the ice, wondering why the waves no longer move beneath them, why the water has frozen into so many dull diamonds.

She must have walked the Grand-Place often, but to me it was like a dream of Cocteau: golden and filled with people speaking in tongues that I do not understand. In 1695, a French army of 70,000 men burned it to the ground. Its beauty now is Baroque in style. Although, in some corners, it is so very Belle Époque that even the gargoyles are not without vanity.

In the center of it all, there are painters en plein air and crying children who have had one too many chocolates or frites or waffles. There are the watchers drinking beer at cafes, the giggling groups of schoolgirls in their matching jumpers, the pink Hare Krishna dancing like dervishes, the honeymooners who hold hands and idly trace each other's lifelines, and the pensioners who part the crowds following their tour guide's umbrella like goslings.

One Sunday, in the corner of this massive square, a group of draft horses snort at a vintage Bugatti circa 1938, and I stop to watch the theater of the moment. It was the type of car my mother would have seen. Built for speed, it idles roughly outside of the elegant Hotel Amigo. Gawkers lift their cellphones for a photograph. It is low and sleek with wire spoke wheels and waves of red metal set against the soft blue sky. It seems cartoon-like. That's not unexpected, comics are not just honored here; they are part of the landscape. Famous cartoons serve as official graffiti, painted along the side of buildings. Tintin, of course, is everywhere.

The car doors open and out of the hotel come a handful of women all dressed as if it is, indeed, 1940. Wearing white gloves and smart hats; the petticoats under their swing skits bounce as they walk. They are smiling and waving, tossing cards to the crowd. It is a stunt, an advertisement for the vintage clothing market."Follow me!" they shout in three languages and so I do.

The Brussels Vintage Market happens once a month at Halles Saint-Géry. It's mostly clothing, mostly 1960-80s. I rummage through the racks but see nothing like what the models were wearing. No pillbox hats. No opera gloves.

The building itself was a marketplace until WWII, and as I leave I notice that there's a photographic exhibit hung along the walls behind the racks and tables. All the pictures depict one thing--the moment the Nazis invaded Brussels. There are crowds standing on the street corner as the tanks roll in; they are throwing rocks at the soldiers. There is a woman wearing a comic mask of Hitler with her hands on her hips. There are riots and parades. There are festivals where the revelers ignore the invaders completely.

Brave. Beautiful. The photos are amazing.

I have no pictures of my mother; she burned them all. I take my camera and photograph each one of these images. That night, I search the grainy shots for her face. It is an impossible task, but it comforts me. I feel like a pilgrim who has journeyed very far to find the spirit of a beautiful terrible god who lived through a darkness that she could not explain. Even though I cannot find her in any of the photos, I know that she is there, somewhere. She is wounded and mine. And so my heart remains in Brussels--although it is not lost, but finally found. And it will remain in this city until the light fades, until the world grows dark.

Passa Porta
27.04.15 > 25.05.15

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