The Economist March 12th 2022 Culture 73
ReflectionsfromUkraine
Tapestries of war
T
heheroesof“LuckyBreaks”,a beguil
ingbookaboutwarinUkrainebyYev
geniaBelorusets,donotconformtoideals
ofmartialheroism.Theydonotengagein
battle, except againstthe fear,displace
mentandlossthatbattlesbring.Almostall
arewomen,doingjobsgenerallyseenas
feminine: theyare florists,manicurists,
cosmetologists.Theyskirttheedgesofhis
toricalevents,ratherthanstandingattheir
centres.Theauthorexplainsthisfocus:
Theinsignificantandthesmall,theacci
dental,thesuperfluous,therepressed—all
of thesethingsattractmyattentionbecause
theywillneverturnintothetrophiesthat
...winnerscarryfromthepresentintothe
futuresothattheymightlaydowntheir
booty,likebricks,toconstructthedominant
historicalnarrative.
Ms Belorusets isaphotographer and
artistwithlongexperiencedocumenting
underrepresented communities in Uk
raine,fromcoalminersto queer people.
AfterVladimirPutinannexedCrimeaand
sparkeda warintheDonbasin2014,she
turned her cameratowards theregion’s
women.Shebegan recordinginterviews
anddevelopeda haunting,lyricalwriting
style.In“LuckyBreaks”,sheweavestogeth
er words and images, photographs and
proseportraitsofrealandimaginaryfig
ures.PublishedinUkrainein 2018 andnow
in English, it has acquired a fresh poignan
cy amid the renewed assault by Russia’s
president—determined, as he seems to be,
to come away with historic booty, regard
less of how much blood he spills.
The short chapters are discrete but fea
ture repeating elements, the same narrator
and one recurring character, a spectral
presence called Andrea, a writer for news
papers that no one reads. The women’s
voices echo and collide; realism bleeds in
to dreams and fantasies. The images and
texts are not illustrations or descriptions
of each other, but rather subtle mutual
commentaries, recalling the work of writ
ers such as W.G. Sebald and Teju Cole.
The book is held together by invisible
threads and recurring motifs—including
the act of sewing. In Eugene Ostashevsky’s
deft translation of the author’s Russian, a
woman with “a snowwhite face and snow
white arms, with a golden head of hair and
a soft smile on her cherry lips” forgets a
needle in her nightshirt after sewing up a
hole. Another decides to leave her home
town and her mother, a legendary weaver
of ribbons at the local factory. Embroidery,
rather than sculpture, is the author’s tech
nique, too; she offers the document, how
ever unreliable, in place of the monument.
Along the way, the categories of “fact” and
“fiction” crumble.
War has now come to all of Ukraine, in
cluding Kyiv, where Ms Belorusets lives.
Since the latest invasion began she has
posted a poignant online diary on isolarii, a
publishing project. In it, she turns her gaze
on herself, at once the documentarian and
the documented. Her phantasmagoric
flourishes return: in her shelter, under
Kyiv’s Golden Gate (which also features in
“Lucky Breaks”), shadows converse. On the
streets, jumpy soldiers see her camera as a
threat. Despite the bombs, she carries on
writing. “The catastrophe needsto be rep
resented: only as part of astorycan it be
recognised as a catastrophe.”n
Lucky Breaks.By Yevgenia Belorusets.
Translated by Eugene Ostashevsky.
New Directions; 112 pages; $14.95.
Pushkin Press; £9.99
Some heroes sew capes
Aneurosciencepioneer
Nerves of steel
I
n 1906 theNobelprizeinphysiologyor
medicine was shared by two scientists
with irreconcilable views of the brain. At
the ceremony, Camillo Golgi, an Italian
anatomist and the elder of the pair, spoke
first—and shocked the audience by slam
ming his rival’s theory. When the other lau
reate spoke, he described his scientific
results, building a convincing case on
facts. But Santiago Ramón y Cajal conclud
ed with barbed sympathy for “this scientist
who, in the last years of a life so well
filled”, had seen “his most elegant and orig
inal discoveries [treated] as errors”.
This was one of the founding events of
modern neuroscience and is the central
drama in Benjamin Ehrlich’s new biogra
phy of Cajal. Golgi had devised a staining
technique, using silver nitrate, which al
lowed nervous tissue to be visualised in
more detail than ever before. Cajal perfect
ed the technique and claimed, on the basis
of his observations through a microscope,
that the nervous system—including the
brain—was comprised of individual cells,
or neurons. This went against the prevail
ing theory, supported by Golgi, which held
that it consisted of a reticulum or continu
ous sheet of fibres. Cajal was right.
The “peasant genius”, as his friend and
fellow histologist Charles Sherrington
called him, lived out a scientific ragsto
riches story. He was born to a modest fam
ily in the remote Pyrenees of Aragon, at a
time when Spain was a scientific back
water. By the time he died in 1934—having
obliged British, French and German scien
tists to learn Spanish just to read his pa
pers—he had almost singlehandedly
placed the country on the scientific map,
in the process ensuring his own status as a
national hero. Not bad for a delinquent
who was forced to steal bones from grave
yards to study anatomy in his youth.
What made that possible was a rare mix
of scientific curiosity and artistic flair—
and a wife, aptly named Silveria, whose
faith in him never wavered. “Half of Cajal is
his wife,” he liked to say. “The Texture of
the Nervous System of Man and the Verte
brates”, his masterpiece of 1904, is a scien
tific classic; his drawings of neurons were
prized as works of art. Cajal was blessed
The Brain in Search of Itself:
Santiago Ramón y Cajal and the Story
of the Neuron. By Benjamin Ehrlich. Farrar,
Straus and Giroux; 464 pages; $35. To be
published in Britain in April; £27.99