Walls, Old and New: the Pandemic and 19th Century Literature

As a teenager, I devoured novels by Jane Austen, DH Lawrence and Charlotte Bronte. Their stories made it clear which characters to root for, and against. How gratifying it was to arrive toward the delicious end, when karma plays out! Generous, kind female protagonists win all the love and acceptance, while selfish, manipulative characters meet with humiliation, or even ruin. I was a girl who had to create my own life of structure and societal cues. These novels were my compasses. I loved the justice of it all.

But there is one book that left me uneasy. For most of the pages of Bronte’s Jane Eyre, Mr. Rochester hides his insane wife, Bertha, in his attic. Once Bertha burns down his estate and dies in the fire, Mr. Rochester is finally free to wed the devoted governess, Jane. A happy ending for all, I suppose. But this book hit me as more terrorizing than satisfying.

The character of Bertha haunted me, and not because she is a lunatic. What frightened me is that society rendered her invisible because of her uselessness. Her failure as a devoted wife and member of the community landed her behind walls, which kept her separate from the world.

Today, the pandemic has erected walls which separate us from the world. As so much has shut down, our roles in society are on pause. I am an educator and an activist, so engagement with my community is a big part of who I am. My sense of self depends on feeling useful, and standing against injustice. I thrive on the affirmation that comes from human reciprocity. Covid put up walls which prevented me from these interactions, leaving me untethered. When I’m not engaging with people, and seeing my value through their eyes, do I matter?

With so many empty days, I began devoting much more time to making art. The hours alone in my studio provide me with the space and time to think about who I am when I am not reflected by the mirror of my interactions with the world.

Art is in my bones. I’ve made it since my fingers could hold a crayon. In college I majored in fine arts, and I have an art studio which I converted from a shed, filled with my paintings, drawings and sculptures. And yet for most of my life, I’ve created my artwork after I have done everything else, for everyone else. Art has been my reward, just for me. The world teaches us that women are most valuable to society when we are sacrificing our time and energy — like Jane Eyre or Emma. So, I have kept this part of me separate, behind the walls of my studio.

The pandemic walls keep me from my community, but they also block out distractions. The glare of isolation forces my gaze toward walls that preexist Covid. In noticing these old walls for the first time, I realize that I built them long ago, to hide the self-indulgence of my art. I’ve been tucking away the part of myself that I’ve learned is unfit for society, like Bertha. And in doing so, I have been allowing this part of myself to weaken.

This revelation is exciting, but I intend to remain watchful of my default. In these days of isolation, I don’t experience the guilt of spending time on my artwork, because I am not opting to do it in place of answering to others. So I must face the question: when the world opens up again, will I give in to the role of a 19th Century female protagonist? Will I again relegate my art to a lower status, hidden away?

If I am lucky, the roles I enjoy in my community will be there when the world opens up again. I thrive on the growth that comes from working with children, engaging in social change and in my community. But I will no longer hide the very thing that makes me whole. There is room for that, too. I will let Bertha burn down the walls — only this time she won’t go down with the fire. She will thrive.