At first glance Tove Jannson's Fair Play is simply a collection of stories about two female artists living together in their old age. It is semi-autobiographical, with Tove being the fictional Marie, and her lifelong partner, graphic designer Tuulikka Pietelä, being Johanna. Tove is of course the author and creator of the Moomin series of childrens' books, which spawned a large number of television programmes popular in the 1970s and 80s, and to this day.
Marie and Johanna divide their time between a large apartment in Helsinki and a tiny island of the coast of southern Finland, across the channel from Estonia. Both women have a strong commitment to their work, and while living as partners, they also create plenty of personal space for their artistic preparation and reflection.
As in Tove's books, The Summer Book and A Winter Book, on the face of it, nothing much happens. However it is in the minutiae of their daily life together that forms the real core of the book and if there is a message at all, it is about making the most of each moment of the day, and appreciating everything that is around you - this almost Buddhist message comes across strongly in these simple stories.
The two women generally get along and share much of their lives together, but they also argue, they get jealous, and they often irritate each other. On the other hand, they both understand the rhythms of each other's lives, and they both understand the creative process and its tensions.
Each chapter is a little vignette of an episode in their shared lives. In the chapter "Videomania" we read of Johnanna's passion for films on video, and the way she decorates the slip-case with text and pictures, with a little flag on the edge showing the country in which the film was made. After watching each film, the two women discuss its meaning in detail, "really good films don't diminish anything, they don't close things off. On the contrary they open up new insights, they make new thoughts thinkable".
In another chapter, The Fog, the two friends are out in a little boat
when a fog comes down. While waiting for it to clear, "a vertical
tunnel opened directly above them, leading up to an annoyingly blue
summer sky". The two women find their conversation turns to their
mothers, and an old resentment is brought to the surface. When
eventually the fog clears, they find themselves far from their normal
route home and "they came back to the island from a totally new
direction, and it didn't look the same". You have to read Tove Jannson
carefully so that the little nuances of meaning in her simple stories
don't escape you.
Towards the end of the book, a 92 year old marionette master comes from Poland who has been helping with the realisation of some of Marie's illustrated stories (presumably the Moomins?). He tells her that "the simple line is utterly ignorant of the sculptural" and then unpacks a set of hands he has been making, "shy hands, greedy hands, reluctant, pleading, forgiving, wrathful, tender hands". Marie says, "Yes, I understand", and Wladyslaw says, "Just one thing. Now, my friend, you must give me your complete attention. It is simply this: do not tire, never lost interest, never grow indifferent - lose your invaluable curiosity and you let yourself die. Its as simple as that".
The translation from Swedish is (by Thomas Teal) reads naturally and flows well. The forward by Ali Smith offers useful scene-setting, and I think I agree with her that this is "a novel with a profound sense of discretion at its core" - a lot isn't said, and a lot of conversation between these women doesn't need to be said out loud. They understand each other and realise that sometimes when up against a brick wall, you don't have to keep battering your head against it, but can simply walk around the side of it.
I can't say this is a great work of literature, but I do know that sometimes it is good to read the words of people like Tove Jannson who lived the life they were meant to live with uncompromising artistic integrity.
By the way, I'm sort of pleased that these women smoke cigarettes. On Wednesday I listened to BBC Radio 4's Front Row, and heard Mark Lawson speaking to the playwright Simon Gray as he publishes the third of his Smoking Diaries, The Last Cigarette (which I shall shortly be reviewing). Gray explained his refusal to quit smoking and I think I understand this small act of subversion which strikes against all good advice in a way we almost find shocking in these days of a vigorous health lobby. Smoking is a "disgusting habit" of course, but its almost impossible to think of so many great writers of the past without also picturing them with a cigarette between their lips.
