Set in London, Open Water is a captivating story of a romance between two black artists, him a photographer and her a dancer. In a world where you are only seen as a vessel of strength, a body black enough to test how much fear and violence you can withstand until you've been stretched beyond humanly possible limits. This novel is an odyssey of race and identity in contemporary Britain. He, the photographer, found love in and with her, the dancer, in the basement of a south-east London pub, a birthday celebration. They met here for the first time, and the rest, they say, is history. This is a story about being seen, about the black boy joy, finding a love that's safe amidst the noise and the violence, because in a world that refuses to see you, to acknowledge you, she's here, she sees you, she acknowledges you. Because the air around them reflects this love, at the barbershop, even the barber can't help but notice the sweet tenderness of something floating between them.
"You two are in something. I don't know what it is, but you guys are in something. Some people call it a relationship, some call it friendship, some call it love, but you two, you two are in something."
Here, in this story, is the interweaving of romance between two black artists with the complex dynamics of black masculinity and racial violence, black trauma and loss, and how these issues bleed into each other. Caleb does a great job narrating how navigating life as a black man faced with so much loss and trauma can often affect the love and human connections formed along the way. This is reflected in the moments where he, the photographer, loses his grandmother, then his grandfather. A few weeks/months later, he finds himself at the barbershop, smoking a joint with the owner, Leon. He asks Leon what he is trying to forget, and Leon responds, "I don't know. It's a feeling. It's something deep. It's something in me. It doesn't have a name, but I know what it feels like. It hurts. Sometimes, it hurts to be me. Sometimes it hurts to be us. You know?" And oh, does Leon know that he, the photographer knows the half of it because it is at this moment the police barges in and chaos ensues. We haven't done anything, Daniel says, but they do not listen as they shout and point their guns while patting them down and asking what they're hiding in their pockets. Later they say everyone is free to go, and Leon asks, "Are we ever?" A few hours later, as he, the photographer, heads to get food from the Caribbean takeaway down the road of Bellingham, he sees Daniel. They both do a little two-step before splitting away. Moments later, Daniel meets his death a few steps outside the Caribbean takeaway, and he rushes to his side, holding Daniel's hand as life drifts out of him; it was a hit and run.
Here, in this story is the exploration of black trauma and how the force and provocation of it all affect the psyche of black men, most times they often shut down and this is reflected in the moments where he, the photographer shut down on her, the dancer because he "hasn't worked out how to emerge from his own anger." She asks how his day was, "OK," he says. A pause, and she asks if he is alright. He begins to sob, gasping for air. He is suffocating in his room. He hangs up the phone, hiding his whole self away because he hasn't worked out how to emerge from his own anger, how to dip into his own peace. But she calls back, asking what's going on. "Nothing," he says. "There's nothing." She goes on to express how unfair it is that he won't let her in, but he tells her to drop it. "Fine. Whatever." And like that, a joint, fractured, broken. The line goes dead, and the ocean has stilled.
"You stop calling. You stop returning her calls."
"You've been keeping her at arm's length since she moved to Dublin, and now, you push, knowing she can't just make the short journey across south-east London. You push, knowing it's easier to retreat than showing her something raw and vulnerable, than showing her you. You live in a haze, cool and blue, light with anger, heavy with melancholy. You live at a pace in which you are unmoving. You live as a version less than yourself. You sob often, suffocating wherever you go. You are hiding yourself. You are running, stuck in place. You are scared and heavy. You ache. You ache all over. You are aching to be you, but you're scared of what it means to do so."
Here in this story of a captivating romance is a profoundly moving portrait of two resilient lovers trying not to give up on each other in this world that can be so unwelcoming. Here in this story of a captivating romance, the dancer expresses why this black man should not shut her out because she is human too, she hurts too, and she feels too. So she asks, "Why is it that when I want to speak to my boyfriend, I have to come all the way from Dublin to see you?" but you don't have the words. She tried texting, calling, and asking your friends. She asked everyone because she's been so worried and you've been so selfish, not thinking of you two, only thinking of yourself when you do this.
"I didn't ask much of you. I just wanted you to be honest. I wanted you to communicate. Just open your mouth and talk to me. But instead, you shut me out. You've literally locked yourself away from me. Can you imagine how that feels? Can you put yourself in my shoes? Stand where I'm standing. Do it!" She takes a step back and maneuvers you to where she stood so that you are facing an empty space. 'How does that feel? Hmm?'
'Not good.'
'Of course, it doesn't feel good! Fuck!'
So it's been six months since she confronted you, since she decided to walk away, and you did not chase. So today, You came here, to the page, to ask for forgiveness. You came here to tell her you are sorry you wouldn't let her hold you in this open water. You came here to tell her how selfish it was to let yourself drown. And so when it's her turn to respond, she says She's been thinking about loving you and what that meant. Your hearts were joined, beating in unison, but then they fractured, blood pooling and spilling in the darkness, and then they broke, and that was that, really. She still thinks about you a lot. Your lives unstitched themselves, but the loose threads remain where the garment was torn.
Under what conditions does unconditional love break? She cried for you yesterday. She has decided to submit to her tears rather than understand them. It's been a year at this point, but she knows she will always cry for you.
So here, in this story of a captivating romance, you've both been hurt. You have expressed your truths to each other, and it is at this moment that she, the dancer, pulls out her camera to capture you. Because she's been thinking of other ways to say what cannot be rendered in language, she bought a camera like yours, an old 35mm.
She trains her lens on you and holds her breath before depressing the shutter. When the photo is developed, she's sure, if you look closely, you'll see the shadows cast across your skin, the eyes both seeing her and seeing the world, the honesty resting calmly on your features. If you look closely, you might see a tear making a journey from eye to cheek as you cry for her.
If you look closely, you'll see what she has always seen, what she always will: YOU.
Open Water is a must-read for everyone. An exploration of the complexities of love and intimacy, race and masculinity, art and expression of self, and the long-lasting power of human connections.
P.S. I have read this book 3 times since I first picked it up in November 2022.
Ask: if flexing is being able to say the most in the fewest number of words, is there a greater flex than love?
Comments