words by Jocelyn Howarth
Look At You is a story of places— Trinidad, Ireland, Leeds, London. With places come people, with people come experiences, and with experiences come memories. Amanda Smyth sets the scene in the prologue as the unnamed narrator and her brother look through old photos of their life; moments in time, from birth to death, immortalised by a camera. What follows is a life explored in fragments, in the experiences with people from the various places the narrator calls home.
Each chapter is titled with the name of the person who the chapter centres. It feels less like a traditional story and more a collection of many short stories, told through one person’s gaze and forming a patchwork tapestry of the narrator’s life. A rich cast is explored throughout the novel, with some characters appearing across every chapter while others are explored once and never referred to again. Smyth deftly captures the fleetingness of life while emphasising the lasting effect of small moments.
Whether it’s sunny Trinidad or rainy Leeds, rural Ireland or urban London, each setting is crafted with observant yet offhand sentences. There’s no block of exposition to establish a place; instead, Smyth presents a masterclass in unfurling the world as the characters move through it, exposing only those details that are relevant to the narrator’s thoughts or the character’s discussions. Look At You is semi-autobiographical, Smyth herself being Irish-Trinidadian, which makes the settings feel strikingly real and intensely personal. Though it may seem disjointed at first, each chapter reveals more detail, and by the end of the novel the reader has a vivid image of each world the narrator is connected to.
Smyth chooses in this novel to keep the narrator unnamed throughout. Despite being based on the experiences and upbringing of her own life, Smyth keeping her protagonist's identity hidden allows her to be defined only by her memories and the people she’s surrounded by. Each chapter and character is named and described, but, as in real life, the one telling the story does not give much insight into herself.
Yet the narrator’s voice is strong. She is extremely perceptive; each chapter is told by reflection, looking back on her memories, on what is clear and unclear, and how, now that she is older, the narrator interprets these memories. As the saying goes, hindsight is twenty-twenty. The narrator shows empathy for people who have caused her pain and understanding of the complicated situation of her family. She acknowledges her own shortcomings and struggles. She does not dwell on things, merely calmly reflects with a level of detachedness that emphasises the time that has passed since each event, with a tenderness for even the worst of her company.
In Trinidad, the echoes of revolution are evident in the backdrop of the narrator’s visits. It is where her mother and maternal side of the family are from. The narrator perceives it as her home, appearing to only vaguely be aware of the island’s political unrest and violence, which is arguably normal for a child. It is a place where the narrator seems to be most at peace, surrounded by the warmth of the climate, her family, including her grandparents’ maid, and the friends she makes at the recreational pool. When she returns as an adult, she—and subsequently the reader—learns about the grittier parts of her childhood, and the varying fates of the friends she grew up with.
In England, between Leeds and London, the narrator experiences much more turmoil, though the setting is arguably more pleasant; London, especially, allows her to work, live alone, and have friends and relationships. And yet, there is a sense of dissatisfaction through the chapters set there. The narrator’s relationships are tumultuous, her work is not thrilling, and she constantly longs for Trinidad. Leeds is not much better. It is where her father lives, struggling with money and unable to care for any of his children, including the narrator’s young half-brother. While the narrator tries to make a life in England, the challenges become too much and she feels her only solution is Trinidad.
Smyth guides the reader through the various types of relationships that everyone experiences: familial, platonic, and romantic. Some are present throughout the narrative, some slip in and out depending on location, others have an entire chapter dedicated to them in the middle of the narrative but are not heard from besides that. The story is told in such a reflective way that there is a sense of liberation. The narrator lets go of certain relationships with no sense of regret. Some people are simply a chapter, and others are the whole story.
The writing of this book is strong. Scenes are expertly set, characters bloom organically, and no emotion is shied away from. The prologue sets up the rest of the story well and the ending is satisfying and weighty. The first chapter is a little difficult to get into, for Smyth drops the reader into an unfamiliar setting and talks about it as if the context has been provided. But, once those initial few pages are absorbed and the style is understood, the writing flows and the story is engrossing. It can be confusing at times, events can seem to happen quite abruptly, as when a character who has not been heard of since chapter three is suddenly revealed to have passed away many years ago. But, again, the further the book progresses, the clearer it all becomes. There may be a character whom the reader had forgotten about, whose role can’t be quite remembered until halfway through a chapter, but that hardly mars the experience of the story.
This relatively short book, a mere 189 pages, can easily be read in an afternoon. Once in, it’s hard to get out, so absorbing is every aspect of this book, so tender and personal and rich is the tapestry Smyth weaves. Smyth captures the beauty of the mundane, untangles complex human dynamics to reveal the love at its core, and writes with such an affection for her own history that the reader cannot help but be absorbed.