Equinoxes by Cyril PedrosaMy rating: 2 of 5 stars
I want to say I'm floored and overwhelmed by what I have just read, but honestly, the entire book kind of escaped me.
Got this off Netgalley, believing it to be some fantastic tale pegged on the affects of the equinox. In actuality, the title is a misnomer, as the Equinox doesn't affect the actions or situations of the characters. While the book is a startling representation of daily life, it is slow, meandering and verbose.
The verbosity is due to the book being a translation. Thoughts and emotions that could have been encapsulated in a word or phrase, wind themselves through the page. A number of pages are starkly absent of text, yet the others make up for the loss by adding more and then some.
I like that the story follows several average-Joes (though not Janes) as they survive each day. We have an ageing, dying old man, in love with a painting, but still getting over the loss of his son. Another man is coming to terms with his teenaged daughter, his predictable life and unpredictable brother. To top it all, the central plot device is a photographer capturing images of random people and attributing stories to them.
I think the concept is innovative, yet the execution is lacking. It is mentioned in the beginning of the book that each of the four seasons are represented in separate artistic forms. Yet, each one had so many art styles in them, that even had they deviated from each other with every different season, I couldn't spot it.
There are distinctive styles of art, but it's hard to make out what the purpose is. I think my lack of artistic knowledge is playing a part here, but the cartoon-ish scribbles didn't lend themselves well to a rather grave story. I prefer my comic art to be well-defined and fulsome - more Leonardo Da Vince than Degas. Here, you would admire the sketch-work of a landscape in one panel, and find yourself unable to decipher two characters from each other in the next.
It's also telling that the women - the few who show up - are all drawn with the same or similar shape. Yet, the male characters come in a variety of shapes and existential crises. Why does this keep happening?
I was looking forward to reading this book, and am disappointed that in the end it felt underwhelming. The general idea is good, yet it seems to, quite literally, get lost in translation.
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