Move over Catherine and Heathcliff, Camille and Auguste have arrived. They now stand where you once did, on the summit designated for the most passionate lovers in the saddest love story of all time. This all-consuming, real-life affair comes to the page thanks to the sensitive and ruthless storytelling of Heather Webb. From the first sentence to the last we are absorbed in a world of over-heightened emotions, where sensory input arrives in 3-D. It is the artistic world of Belle Époque Paris with all the magical allure, prejudices and injustices of the time fanned out before us.
Despair hit her like an ocean wave, filled the hollow of her chest, her lungs, until she felt as if she would drown. She perched in the doorway of a condemned building and sucked in steadying breaths.
Camille’s journey to break through the glass ceiling of the Belle Époque art world is no small feat. In order to get to Paris, attain a tutor and an atelier of her own she must agree to meet with the suitors her mother chooses. To her credit she plays the respectability game only long enough to get herself rooted in the artistic world of her dreams. Camille Claudel’s passion and single-minded determination to excel may appear reckless at times (she alienates almost everyone she meets) but we can’t help admire her devotion and self-confidence.
She would fight the men controlling her fate the only way she knew how by creating more, by pushing harder, by leaving them breathless with emotion when they examined her sculptures.
We are never in doubt of Camille’s intentions. They drive her forward with enviable abandon. But the reason we fall in love with her and August Rodin, the reason we pray they can sort through the obstacles in their paths in order to enjoy the kind of relationship they both deserve is due to Heather Webb’s ability to place us inside the heart and soul of an artist. We are always looking through an artistic lens.
The afternoon sun slid from its pedestal in the sky, yet heat radiated from the paved walkway and muggy air stuck in their throats and clung to their clothing.
And with the eyes that see flowing fabrics, movement and emotions there is also confidence and insecurity—professionally:
Despite Auguste’s show of enthusiasm the familiar tide of yearning rushed over him each time a friend advanced and he ran in place.
Auguste released her as if she had bitten him. Embarrassment, then hurt crashed over him. She did not want him—and of course she did not! What was he thinking.
Passion and fury permeates Rodin’s Lover. This emotional messiness underscores the love affair, heightens the mood to build suspense and leads us directly into the pathway of Camille Claudel’s descent into madness. Her downward spiral is delivered with such beautiful complexity we are as confused as she and, like her, wish to deny what’s happening.
They argued, but their conversation muddled and sloshed in her mind. She envisioned their words as strings of pearls browning and disintegrating before evaporating out of her ears like a stream of smoke. What in the devil was the matter with her? She cursed herself for drinking too much.
Although I’ve coveted Rodin’s work ever since my first art history class in college, I knew nothing about his personal life, or Camille Claudel until I saw Midnight in Paris. The scene where Paul Bates argues with the tour guide over who was Rodin’s mistress is one of the reasons I wanted to read Heather Webb’s historical novel. Rodin’s Lover not only satisfied my curiosity about one of the most tumultuous relationships in the history of the art world, it made me long for the artistic world of Belle Époque, the way Midnight in Paris makes me long for Paris in the 1920’s.
Rodin’s Lover touches the artist within us all; the part of ourselves that refuses to fold silently into the mindset of the masses, and strikes boldly against the wind so our hearts might soar.