| Title | : | Un objeto de belleza |
| Author | : | |
| Rating | : | |
| ISBN | : | 8439724993 |
| ISBN-10 | : | 9788439724995 |
| Language | : | Spanish; Castilian |
| Format Type | : | Paperback |
| Number of Pages | : | 320 |
| Publication | : | First published November 23, 2010 |
Un objeto de belleza Reviews
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About three-quarters of the way through this, I decided this book reminded me of something. The question of what it was started to bother me more than actual questions arising from the novel. At first, I thought it must be its resemblance to other novels written by smart men about fascinating, terrifying women they cannot either understand or, despite numerous injuries, quite break free of. The women where one can never completely decide if they are a heroine given their time and milieu, if they are truly dull figments of the author’s imagination or simply villains wrapped in glamor. Thackeray’s Vanity Fair, Hemingway and Brett in The Sun Also Rises, Fitzgerald’s barely fictionalized Zelda in Tender is the Night, the invocation of the goddess in Venus in Furs, nor the operatic, condensed Romantic ideal (perhaps the one with the most sympathy towards the woman involved) of all of this, La Traviata. This book does have the same feeling of cleaning up, late at night, after the out of control party is over and this woman has trashed your house for the last time. It does have that feeling of Lost Generation elegy for a somewhat irresponsible world that nonetheless shines as it fades away- not the jazz age of the 20s, but the booming art world of the late 1990s and early 21st century.
But Martin isn’t to be classed with the authors that produced the works listed above. There are no broken vases here, no one has punched out a wall and left a mark. No, this one reminded me of a different kind of man, though one with very much the same story: the narrator from Ford’s The Good Soldier. This book is what happens when the polite, well-mannered, even courtly man in the corner gets extremely angry. Excuse him, he’s so sorry, but would you mind listening to him just for a moment while he tells you what happened to him- it really is very interesting, he won’t bore you, he promises. But he just has to get this out. This is the saddest story I’ve ever heard, Ford’s narrator says. A quick burst of emotion, grateful to have it out at last. Similarly, Martin’s begins with an exhausted, “I am tired, so very tired, of thinking about Lacey Yaeger, yet I worry that unless I write her story down, and see it bound and tidy on my bookshelf, I will be unable to ever write about anything else.” But once relieved of this initial emotion, he stops. The well-mannered man in the corner doesn’t change his personality simply because he is extremely angry- he can only tell you his story calmly, matter-of-factly, in a way that tries as much as possible to distance the story from himself after he’s begun telling it, almost as if he is embarrassed to admit why he needs to tell it. He is, after all, a very private person and he doesn’t know you very well.
The narrator is also interested in intellectual subjects, and while he tells his story, he can’t help but be distracted by the ideas that come up while he’s expressing his feelings. Thus, the story of Lacey Yaeger, the beautiful woman that Daniel (our narrator) has had a long and almost entirely friendly relationship with since college, becomes the story of the larger art-world that she is embedded in the 1990s. Like a long-form journalist who sets the scene and delves into background in order that his main subject might be understood, Lacey is only understood as a subject of her particular moment in space and time. A creation of it- a 21st century Becky Sharp- many of her actions are understandable in the light of the way things were, and what a woman in her situation had to do to make a success of it. Martin discusses everything about this world with the knowledge of someone who has spent a good deal of time observing and living it. He writes down his thoughts about the psyche of the collector, the knife-edge world between wealth and poverty dealers and gallery owners can live in, the reasons why someone’s relationship with a particular piece of art or type of art can change, and of course, the intertwined world of art and money.
The definition of “value” when it comes to art is really the central subject of this book. As the story progresses, we can usually tell the seasons changing by Martin’s remark about what kind of money is flowing into the art market, where the money is coming from, what is selling and what is not, how people assess the worth of their collections in different years- if a Picasso sells for an unheard of amount in one year, for example, all Picassos will be worth more that year, regardless of quality. Sometimes a spectacular sale of a particular artist can ratchet up the value of anyone classified in his particular movement or period. The monetary “value” of something rather than its spiritual or intellectual or sentimental or what-have-you-no-money-involved-value is almost always what is under discussion by those that populate the art world. While obviously deploring this, Martin is also fascinated by it. The curse of the intellectual man again- he has to examine the roots of people who feel this way, why they are collectors, dealers, artists even. Martin’s characters, despite this core of money, do pause at various points to discuss the art itself. Since I do not know very much about art (a minor in Art History in undergrad does not buy you very much in the way of information, it turns out, in case anyone was thinking about investing in that), I cannot say if Martin’s opinions are accurate or not, but I loved the way he discussed them, even minor subjects like why certain pictures should hang next to each other, or the way he does not understand the ‘commentary’ of Chelsea kids. Some of his descriptions can sound a bit like he is writing a piece for the New Yorker, which I don’t mind, per se, since I like his New Yorker pieces. Ultimately, Martin’s book works very well both as a metaphor for the “bubble” era when the “value” of things proved to be resting on nothing but air, as well as a fascinating look into a world that at least I probably would have no other way of seeing.
The only thing about all this is that the distance that a private, intellectual man telling a story puts between himself and his audience, even one about how he got hurt and compromised his values because of a woman, tends to make it difficult for the reader to get emotionally involved with the story. Unlike The Good Soldier where the narrator’s personality as the quiet guy who got caught up in a story that he didn’t belong in shone through the cracks far more often, and you saw his feelings in how he lied, struggled, had to take a minute, this story just slid along, flowing through my hands easily, never a moment where I had to stop to wince at something that happened to him. The Good Soldier's power was that the narrator started his story like this was something that happened to someone else, like he had nothing to do with it, and then we gradually saw he did. Martin's narrator admitted his complicity from the very first and then withdrew like he didn't have to prove it to me anymore after that. In addition, most of the characters were representative of something or someone, there to say what someone in their position would about art or money and disappear. They were not actual people. Even Lacey, the driving force of the book, is not so much a woman as a meditation on the spirit of an age- her epiphanies and moments are all stereotypical ones that I’ve seen written about in style sections over the past decade or are otherwise representative of gaining an education in art. I finished and just thought, “well, that was interesting.” I don’t remember feeling anything other than, “well, isn’t that interesting,” while I read it either. I mean, I laughed a few times- Martin tried his hand at some comedy of manners commentary which was rather amusing. But still, if the narrator hadn’t thought to remind me about his feelings again on the very last page, I probably would have forgotten about them. I wish he had done more with his framework rather than just using it as an excuse to deliver exposition and setting that would otherwise be out of place in experienced characters who don’t need to be told these things. I thought he missed an opportunity to make people care about what he was saying and maybe make it stay with them. Instead, I could put this down as easily as I could a magazine- with a sense of light interest in the various topics covered, a mental note to pass on an article to a friend I know who might be interested, maybe an approving feeling about myself for having read something intelligent and witty. But I want more of a relationship with a novel than that. Martin creates a world I wanted to look through the peep hole at enough to finish the work. But I never really got past the feeling that I was in one of the galleries he described, taking a pass through at something that sounded like it would be up my alley, pausing here and there to admire the technique of a piece, stopping at maybe one that I thought I saw something in, and then stepping back out to the street again to move on.
I don’t mean to discourage anyone from reading it, though. The bonus of this book is that with the way it is described, if you think you will like it, you probably will. It is well written, with funny and interesting observations, and he is obviously knowledgeable. I just wouldn’t expect to do more than like it. -
This novel is gorgeous, both in prose and in presentation.
An Object of Beauty is the story of Lacey Yeager, a young woman who is determined to succeed in the New York art world. Lacey can be cunning and manipulative, working her way up from the basement of Sotheby's to owning her own gallery, and at times it felt wrong to be rooting for her, because she could be so cold. Her story is told by Daniel, a friend and art writer, who is quietly jealous of Lacey's numerous boyfriends.
Steve Martin is a lovely writer. Here he has also produced a lovely book, with a beautiful canvas cover, and dozens of art prints included in the text. The chosen artworks are all referenced in the story, so we can appreciate them as the characters do. (I listened to this on audio, read by the marvelous Campbell Scott, but I recommend getting a print copy so you can see the pictures.)
I have read and admired many of Steve Martin's books. I loved his comedy memoir, Born Standing Up, and I enjoyed his previous novels, Shopgirl and The Pleasure of My Company, but this novel felt more aspirational, more like a love letter to both the art world and the great social climbers of literature, such as Becky Sharp or Daisy Buchanan.
I am a longtime fan of Mr. Martin, for his movies, books, his overall good-naturedness and cleverness, and this novel only increased my admiration. Recommended for fans of literary fiction or those who like stories of the art world.
Favorite Quote
"You don't have to sell paintings. All you have to do is put a good picture in front of a knowledgable collector and stand back." -
Here's the million dollar question:
Without googling the respective
http://www.goodreads.com/review/edit/... of the below artworks, what do you think is the similarity between them?
First off, paintings!
Now sculptures.
Ok I'm tired, I originally planned to do an installation, mixed media art comparison as well. Like I said, TIRED.
Ready?
For the paintings, the first one is Renoir's Le Moulin de la Galette, and the second one de Kooning's Woman 3. Both are some of the most expensive works on this planet, around 140 millions each.
Sculptures: First one is Rodin's Le Penseur (more commonly known as the thinker) and the second one Jeff Koons' Woman in Tub. During the global financial crisis post 9/11, the Rodin was estimated at 1.5 million while the Koons sold for 1.7.
You may say, 'both the painting and sculpture pairs are around the same price, so what? I would still rather buy the Playboy mansion with that money and decorate it with purple dinosaur wallpaper. Plus I think Koons would look much better on my floor than Rodin.'
If those were your thoughts, then congratulation! You're probably above all these art world commerce, and thus can just skip the book and go watch TV!
If you want to know more about why, and how do old masters and contemporary art sell so well even though it's likely nobody understands Koons (unless you're an art school graduate, in which it's very unlikely you'll be able to afford it anyway), then An Object of Beauty is probably a good start.
The main problem I have with it is also its subject matter (art world commerce, namely big names auction brands such as Sotheby and Christie). Lacey is an up and coming art dealer in New York, and she is determined to ride with the great art bubble that started in the yuppie era of the early 90s. Since the book spans over a period of 20 years, it's not hard to guess when, and what caused the bubble to break, along with the 'shocking' sales during the time. It kind of frustrates me that I can't show off my awesome knowledge of ridiculous art sales here because of spoiler, but you get the idea.
It must be quite different to read the book as a non-art world participant, because most of the time I already knew the outcome of the 'twists'. The commerce-oriented take on NY's art scene is also somewhat not as 'shocking' for those familiar with the system. On top of that, the writing also parodies the materialistic and passionless 'I don't make art I make money' attitude. Even the sex scenes feel like reading a shopping list.
Anyway, I'm probably just giving it 2 stars because I'm all pretentious and think contemporary shit art for shit art's sake still has value other than a price tag. Who knows? -
Great book, story. Combines art info and New York art scene in 90's with economic ups and downs. Was a joy to listen to and some parts I listened to again and again, even took notes and looked up some of the artists. Highly recommended for all but not to be missed if you have any interest in contemporary art.
Re-listen 2023. I re-listen to books when I can't sleep and am looking for a comfort/ loved story I know that enchants me and allows my mind to drift. For this one it wasn't the voice or the feel good story it was more a nostalgia for New York and my youth. I knew this story would remind me a little of that time in my 30's (during almost all of the 1980's) when I lived there and for 10 years enjoyed the vibrance of a great city all around. What I wasn't prepared for was how far this story had moved into the realm of historical fiction by all the changes that have happened in the world around--a few of these are alluded to 9/11, Wall Street crash but more recent events (I'll leave those to your imagination) seem to have left many cities with a hollowed out feel.
Yet this was a great re-listen. The narration done by Campbell Scott is wonderful and sounds so like Steve Martin himself it was like he was telling me the story himself. And a really great story it is, about the New York Art scene in the 1990's when the world seem fresher and younger than now and flush with cash that made buying art a great investment, something to brag about and with great artist and gallery personalities who might be putting one over on the public. The main character is Lacey Yeager, a smart beautiful New York woman who uses her sex and her smarts and a family heirloom to make some good money and become a name as a dealer in the N.Y. art scene. Her rise and her downfall are the arc of this story and all in between is not to be missed.
The paperback of this book has the art illustrated to give an idea of a few of artist's works that reside in these pages. I own the print version and it is great or even better than the audio but I don't read well in the dark so I always seem to be listening without the book in hand.
One of my all time favorite books about art and NYC along with Self-Portrait with Boy by Lyons and What I Loved by Hustvedt.
It was a great re-listen. Don't dismiss the writing of Steve Martin. Yes he is better known for his comedy but he can really tell a wonderful complex story and there is great banter here as well. Hated to finish it and it lost none of its five stars. -
This is a compelling character portrait in the guise of an art caper, that simultaneously delivers a rich cultural history of the art world and its zoo of bombastic players in the competitive sport of collecting and selling. An Object of Beauty recounts the dramatic vicissitudes from the late 1990s to the recession, and does it with such an artistic hand that you might miss the depth of knowledge that weaves this story together. The story is told by an art writer who introduces us to his one-time love and then perpetual platonic friend Lacey Yeager—starting when they’ve both landed in New York City where Lacey joins “the spice rack of girls at Sotheby’s.” Lacey quickly advances from the “dim basement” where she measures and catalogs art to manipulating herself as an “object of beauty” in order to climb the gilded art-world ladder.
And now for an interlude about Voice: The fact that this book is written by Steve Martin and that he is so famous that you cannot not know his voice is a liability for readers who value the alchemy of words and brain function, with no intermediary reader interpreting. His fame, I’m sure, contributed to his being able to get a book published and read enough to be on the New York Times bestseller list, but this book is good enough to stand on its own—good enough so that eventually I was able to stop hearing him and hear my inner reader’s voice. Kudos, Mr. Martin.
Okay, back to the main event: Lacey Yeager, the star of this art caper. In my opinion, Lacey is a star among psychopathic women in novels that I’ve read recently. Some readers have criticized the characters in this book as flat, but I don’t think so. And I wonder if there is a kind of bias informing the criticism.
In two books I’ve read in the past few months, female writers have brilliantly conveyed the male equivalent of the female psychopath: Emma Cline in
The Girls, a book I’m not a huge fan of, wrote a brilliant seduction scene between the young female protagonist and the character based on Charles Manson. And in the upcoming
Cruel Beautiful World, author Carol Leavitt similarly conveys a psychopathic male school teacher who is irresistible to an underage student.
Just as Cline and Leavitt conveyed the male psychopath, I think Herman Koch, in his upcoming masterpiece
Dear Mr. M and Steve Martin in An Object of Beauty convey the female psychopath in such a way that I’ve got new understanding of women who consciously give off light, knowing that they are the center of attention and flagrantly using this to manipulate, without deep feelings behind their actions. I think Martin’s and Koch’s renditions are real characters whom I now will recognize and be informed about—whereas, in the past, I’ve been charmed but confused by such people.
I’ve written my share of male psychopaths (a cult leader in
Plan Z by Leslie Kove, a boy named Donny Sherman in
The Last Will & Testament of Zelda McFigg) because I’ve been charmed and intrigued by them. But I’ve never written the kind of character Steve Martin so brilliantly and elegantly understands and conveys in the person of Lacey Yeager—probably because I've never deeply understood such a person. Which brings me to a theory: perhaps it’s easier for opposite sex writers to be enchanted and hurt by these characters and eventually understand them enough to write them so well. And perhaps it’s easier for opposite sex readers to accept as real the opposite-sex psychopath because such a person could not be who they are. It’s just a thought. -
what an amazing novel. Martin wrote with a beautifully prosaic voice, and kept me spellbound throughout. I highly recommend this novel, if not for the characters, story line, or art history lesson, then for the pictures, which I loved him adding. It sure saved me time from Googling them online, in order to refresh my memory.
Martin's descriptions of the art, and the era, were more than apt; they were precise and unerring. He knew the art world like he'd LIVED the art world, and knew all the characters intimately. I didn't like the character, but I don't think you're supposed to, unless you identify with her. But who cares? I was more than enjoying the novel. I wished I could live between the pages... and wondrously enough, I've often wondered if bidding on a piece of work at an auction, just to drive up the price, was illegal or not!!
Some of his lines were so beautifully written, I was astonished: "Lacey was just as happy alone as with company. When she was alone she was potential; with others she was realized." and "But sometimes mercy falls like light snow on open palms, and sometimes it falls stinging and hard from ominous clouds."
This man can do more than walk and chew gum at the same time. He is truly gifted, in many, many ways. I cannot wait until he prints his next gift to us, the public.
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I picked this audiobook up on a whim, and really, really ended up really enjoying it.
In my opinion, the writing was really top-notch. The language was clever and witty and lean. The story is charming and insightful, and subtle. It's character-focused, without being the sort of self-indulgent literary thing that I really dislike.
The story itself centers around several characters who work in the New York art world. I don't know anything about art, what's more, I don't really *care* about art. (At least not in the paintings-in-galleries and Picassos-going-to-auction sense.)
Despite this, the story was completely engaging to me. I was never confused or bored. The story always moved along at a good clip, and there was no space wasted on descriptive digression.
So... yeah. I really liked it. -
I would give this 2.5 stars if possible but rounded up to three. I came soooo close to abandoning this one. For the first half I felt like there wasn't much plot. It's a story about a woman living in NYC involved in the business of buying and selling art. She is not a likeable person. Very narcissistic. In the second half the story picked up a bit. Very interesting learning about the art world (there are some pictures of the artwork mentioned in the story which was nice). It ended up being not too bad of a read.
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This is a tale which renders a fascinating portrait of the inside world of art dealers in New York City in the 90s as shown through the trajectory of young Lacey as she starts as a poorly paid intern at Sotheby’s auction house and works her way up to running her own gallery. I found the read fun in the same way as “The Devil Wears Prada” was for the fashion industry. I liked the collision and collusion of art as a creative wonder and art as a business. Along the way we get images and some of the story behind work of some great artists, showcasing the love Martin has for art and art collecting (evident from his interviews surrounding this book’s publication).
As much as the average reader might hate the mercenary and ruthless core in Lacey’s character, I believe many, like me, will root for her in many of her decisive and innovative moves to get ahead as a woman in this male-dominated business. She does suffer defeats sometimes and experiences a bit of punishment for unfair or even illegal practices to gain an edge. We worry from the start over the corrupt state of her soul when she is charming only to the people who benefit her goals. Soon we are probed for our outrage when she sleeps with influential men to help with success on her deals. Is this a feminist form of “fighting fire with fire” and giving the abusers a taste of their own medicine or a proof that the conditions that spawned the “Me Too” movement cut across gender lines?
If schadenfreude over Lacey getting her just desserts from time to time doesn’t appeal, I am glad to note that there is significant character development with Lacey, which was satisfying to me. Not that she turns into a warm, empathetic person, but I think other readers will be happy to see her realize the foundations for her ultimate loneliness and glimmers of appreciation of the meaning of loving and kindness. Equally important for my pleasure meter was her evolution as a function of her personal relationship with art. At Sotheby’s she taxed her appreciation of the most valued classic art up through the Impressionists. In her next job in acquisitions for a powerful gallery owner, she has to broaden her horizons. Beyond the Downtown nexus is the cloistered realms of the Eastside wealthy, but more and more in the 90s the big ferment was in Chelsea, where between new varieties of conceptual art and performance art, it seemed that almost anything goes. And with so many new billionaires in the world wanting to invest or decorate their towers in style, a popular artist could see their work shoot up in market value like a rocket (e.g. Basquiat moving up from graffiti art or Mapplethorpe producing a cross sunk in a bottle of urine).
Greatness in works of art she learns is independent of the skills in mastery of craft. She comes to see the validity of a fairly crude Warhol print of Marilyn Monroe selling almost at the level of a Van Gogh. Some of her thoughts:
She was learning the difference between good pictures and desirable pictures. What lifted a picture into the desirable category was a murky but passable combination of factors. Paintings were collected not because they were pretty, but because of a winding path that leads a collector to his prey. Provenance, subject matter, rarity, and perfection make a painting not just a painting, but a prize. ...She understood that while a collector's courtship of a picture was ostensibly romantic, at its root was raw lust.
...
If Cubism was speaking from the intellect, and Abstract Expressionism was speaking from the psyche, then Pop was speaking from the unbrain, and just to drive home the point, its leader Warhol clearly resembled a zombie.
This new art started with the implied tag “This is ironic, so I’m just kidding,” but shortly the tag changed to, “This is ironic, and I’m not kidding.”
Her practice of buying minor works of modern artists (e.g. Warhol) also contributes to her reshaping of her attitudes about art. Her modest acquisitions by the greats on her apartment walls practically compels her to acquire more luxurious and elegant accommodations, and soon she is living way beyond her means and pressured even more to take big risks for big rewards. But she comes to grief in learning how art markets are not immune from swings in the overall economy and that art fashion is so fickle. The power of the art critic in sparking interest in new artists turns out to be the third leg to the incestuous relations between art and its marketing. Lacey’s relationship to a critic turns out to be a foundation for the tale, as he is the one narrating our story. That he is revealing more about her inner states and behavior than he can possible know felt like a flaw in this otherwise delightful saga.
I close by sharing just one example of an exciting deal and the pleasure of seeing an image of a piece we become complicit in valuing from both personal taste and conception of its monetary value. Lacey shows a lot of verve and ingenuity in helping pull off a trade of works by a minor Russian Cubist in American hands for a set of large Greenland paintings by American artist Rockwell Kent in Russian hands. I got a taste of some of his wonderful woodcuts from his travel there in the 30s in a recent read of his memoir,
N by E. But the bulk of his large paintings from visits there were donated to the Soviets out of his political loyalties, and thus mostly out of sight and mind of the art world until Russia began to open up in the 90s. Thus, the coup of traveling to St. Petersburg and horsetrading to bring them back to market in America comes off as plausible and exciting.
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The working title for this could have easily been N.Y. Story, which is a little bit of a surprise from the very-Californian Steve Martin. The book is a tour through close to two recent decades of NYC life, as seen through the prism of the city's art world. At times it seems like the art history lessons and plot/character bits were written separately and spliced together, but more often than not they hang together well enough. The book is a quick, enjoyable read that's especially tailored for New Yorkers, art people, and anyone who wants to spend a little more time with either.
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Given my limited amount of money, I always read a ton of reviews (NOT on amazon) before I buy a book, so it was with some measure of disappointment that I noticed that Steve Martin's latest had a number of very mixed reviews, with the majority of them being negative. I bought it anyway. I loved Shopgirl and found his autobiography riveting, so I plonked down some money for the hardcover.
I find myself agreeing with the majority of these reviewers. I also agree with them on the strength of this book: Martin's keen and acerbic critique of the art market. A well-known art collector, his book soars when the focus shifts from the weak characters to the art-selling market and the forces that determine what sells and why it sells (or not is probably equally important). Martin's love of art and a real vicious cynicism about the art market is what makes this book worth buying. Art is like currency. If you believe a dollar is worth a dollar, then it's worth a dollar. If you look at a second time and you see that it's only paper. Well.
Essentially, this is a non-fiction book with a fiction premise. The non-fiction bits work brilliantly, and the fiction bits are exceptionally problematic. There are glaring similarities to another book that works beautifully that is set in New York with a problematic "heroine" and a passive narrator and that is Breakfast at Tiffany's. I’m surprised that none of the reviews I’ve read have mentioned this. Perhaps Capote’s book works better because it’s a novella and Capote doesn’t give us time to parse out Holly Golightly’s motives. We just accept them because it’s such a whirlwind of a story. Perhaps it works better because we never leave the narrator. Perhaps it works better because Holly Golightly comes to New York to transform herself from a hick farm girl from a Podunk town in the middle of nowhere to, well, Holly Golightly. Lacey Yeager arrives fully formed to realize her ambitions. She doesn’t transform; the art world around her transforms.
Aside from these comparisons, generally speaking if you write a novel then you usually have a dilemma of sorts. A character has an epiphany. Falls in loves. Falls out of love. Kills someone. Falls from grace. A tragedy. Something HAPPENS. Lacey Yeager, the protagonist of An Object of Beauty, faces no dilemmas, suffers no tragedy. And the only person who you could honestly say that she loves is the shoe designer Manolo Blahnik. There’s no explanation for why she’s basically nothing more than an ambitious sociopath. The one possible moral dilemma that she faces in the book is eliminated by a quip. I think you can safely say that she basically quips her way through this book. She’s something of a monster and yet everyone loves her?
And I guess that was what Martin was trying to do, have Lacey Yeager be a metaphor for the art market. How art has become nothing more than a commodity. It’s all for sale to the highest bidder. As is she. She’s beautiful in the eye of the beholder. She is loved because she always becomes what the other person wants to see. Ultimately, I think Martin was trying to have her be both a work of art but also emblematic of the art market. Sadly, she’s more art market than art. Heartless, ambitious, mercenary, and without a soul, this construct falls apart. I think that if she had had one failure, one setback that she actually admitted was a setback, one scene where her innocence was lost, it would have salvaged this book. But we start off the book with a Lacey who is without a moral core and twenty years later we have the same woman. She doesn’t move emotionally one bit. The one possible moral dilemma is almost a throwaway plot line, and the opportunity to humanize this character was lost.
As cynical and funny and biting as Steve Martin is about the art world, his love of art does come through here and there. And yet by the end of this book the art is overwhelmed; it has become as soulless as Lacey. -
Picked this up at my library where they had 'blind date with a book' by the front door. Each one had the first lines of the book printed on the card.
---
The opening paragraph for this one caught my eye right away:
I am tired, so very tired of thinking about Lacey Yeager, yet I worry that unless I write her story down, and see it bound and tidy on my bookshelf, I will be unable to ever write about anything else."
Our narrator Daniel is a 'friend' of Lacey's and the story is told from his point of view and Lacey's, Lacey's in third person (right term?) and it feels we're purposely kept at a distance but allowed to come along with her and Daniel on Lacey's whim, to get a glimpse inside the world she moved in and the effect she had on people.
I never really got attached to Lacey. I was curious about her and the life she led but that was about it. Her attitude towards things was mildly different at first but as the story went on, it felt selfish and uncaring at times even though she didn't come across as mean-spirited exactly.
Hard to describe to a T, she was... herself and unapologetic about it.
The writing is rich, witty, and kept my attention the whole time. This is a novel that is best read by giving your whole attention to it methinks, and savored. Steve is a a talented writer, his style is what kept me going and interested in seeing how everything would turn out.
The way things go for Lacey, seemed not inevitable exactly... expected maybe? Either way, I wasn't surprised with how things went for her. The not-knowing part at the end fit perfectly with who she had become in the later part of the story.
It seemed like fiction wrapped up in a flavor of nonfiction even though it isn't... if that makes sense.
Would I recommend? Yes, it is a good story... one of those not everyone will love/appreciate but should still be tried all the same.
Confession: I know nothing about the artworld, aside from a few names that most people know... the atmosphere of Sotheby's and the like felt real and well done to me. (The paintings included were beautiful for the most part) -
I admit that I did not like this at first. In retrospect, it had a lot to do with me expecting something else entirely, given the author and his other works. I have to say Steve Martin impresses me in new ways all the time. His other fiction was so wonderful, I expected more of the same. Whereas it is more of the same, in that it is great fiction with well developed characters, humor, insight, etcetera, there is a not insignificant difference here. This novel is actually very closely blended with a nonfiction expose of the art world.
The full color paintings, Martin's determination to provide full details on various fine-art related things, the persistent use of upper echelon names were at first distracting and frustrating to me. In turn, I began reading some other titles instead, having decided I did not like this one. When I came back to it, months later, I was thrilled to discover myself really getting into it. The difference was that I was now embracing Martin's approach to this novel, having done with my previous expectations. I found that I loved what he has done.
Admittedly, the informative tangents do detract a little from the storytelling, but overall they work together admirably well. I see now that this is the best of both worlds- not only a great story, but I learned from an intriguing behind-the-scenes examination on the high class art collectors' world, something typically only to be gained from nonfiction, typically not quite so fun a read.
I was proud to find I knew at least two-thirds of the names mentioned, and grateful for the insight I could absorb on the others. I had no idea Christie's & Sotheby's was such an intense subculture, nor that there was so much superficiality in the art world; that the "game" was so unspoken yet obvious amongst those in the know; that it was all taken so seriously, even when only a side interest.
As for the story being told, the vessel in which readers learn about the afore mentioned, I cannot not feel sorry for our narrator. The main character, whom is actually not the narrator, is not very likable. Lacey Yeager crosses the line one too many times, both in her personal and professional life, to get exactly what she wants, and although she discards friends and lovers alike with ease, her charm, beauty, and wit ensure many more are already lined up to take their places. Already questionable before it, the art world definitely seems to bring out the worst in her. Fortunately, this does not detract from a well written, likable novel. For several characters, but especially Lacey, involvement in the art world turns these fine art pieces from objects of beauty to... dollar signs. From items of worth (artistic, emotional, inspirational, etcetera) to items with worth (financial).
In all, although unexpected and different from Steve Martin's other fictional works that I love, I found myself loving this one as much, for different reasons
At the end of the day, I still say that Steve Martin is a genius. Educated, hilarious, musical. A comedian, a writer, a producer, a musician. Everyone knows him for his comedy. Everyone admires him for his stand-up. I admire him for all of the above, but especially for his novels (The Pleasure of My Company, Shopgirl, An Object of Beauty) and this play, "Picasso at the Lapin Agile". Now to see his musical talents, which brought him to The Grand Ole Opry, garnered him a Grammy Award.... -
Reading Steve Martin's new book is a pleasure best reserved for someone with an interest in art. Someone who can tell a Cezanne from a de Kooning. Not familiar with either? A Pollack from a Picasso, then, at the very least.
Being an art lover myself, I was quickly wrapped up in a storyline that, along the way, seemed less concerned with the outcome of its main character as in cluing readers in to the inner workings of the art industry (high-stakes game of curators, collectors, auction houses and galleries that it is). As you read, you wonder how much of this vision Martin brought to the table himself from his own knowledge of the industry and how much he had to research (was he shadowing employees at Christie's and Sotheby's?) However it was "Object" came to be, it's an impressive feat that leaves you in a bit of awe (and perhaps, occasionally saying to yourself, "This is Steve Martin? REALLY?!")
It's only been in recent months I've learned of Martin's avid love for art as both a collector and—if this novel is any indication—expert on the subject. I saw him promoting the book a few weeks ago on CBS Sunday Morning (
http://tinyurl.com/2ea7o6k) and felt like we (as viewers) were seeing a staid side of him that, well, based on his work as comedian and actor, I never knew the man had in him. Turns out, I love this side of Steve Martin just as much, if not more, as *that* Steve Martin, the one who always makes me laugh on screen. (and when he told Rita Braver he owned an Edward Hopper, I might have swooned a bit. AN EDWARD HOPPER. MY FAVORITE AMERICAN ARTIST!)
The story follows the life of Lacey Yeager, a young, vivacious woman determined to make her way to the top of the art scene, and is told through the perspective of her friend, Daniel (for reasons that become clear by novel's end). While it falters in certain parts (and lazily relies on a few too many major current events for its plot points), it's a solid read, particularly for those of us whose idea of a good time is a stroll through a museum.
Also worth mentioning? The book has one heck of an opening line: "I am tired, so very tired of thinking about Lacey Yeager, yet I worry that unless I write her story down, and see it bound and tidy on my bookshelf, I will be unable to ever write about anything else."
How could you not be drawn in after that? -
This third novel by comedian and actor Steve Martin boasts a great opening line, which I found impossible to resist:
I am tired, so very tired of thinking about Lacey Yeager, yet I worry that unless I write her story down, and see it bound and tidy on my bookshelf, I will be unable to ever write about anything else.
The narrator is Daniel, an art writer in 1990s New York. However, he is a largely featureless figure, with his narrative (as the above suggests) being almost entirely devoted to his friend and one-time lover, Lacey Yeager. Lacey is an art dealer - an up-and-coming young gun at the story's beginning, and a gallery owner by its end, fifteen years later. Daniel observes and listens to much of Lacey's story, and fills in the blanks using his imagination, so it's almost as though this is just a third-person narrative about Lacey: we never learn much about Daniel's own life, and I often forgot he was there. The plot traces Lacey's career and hints at Daniel's involvement in her sudden, mysterious acquisition of a large amount of money, an event which proves to have lasting repercussions on the lives of both characters.
That opening sentence - along with the general premise of the novel - instantly had me hooked, but all in all I found it a bit of a lacklustre affair. I liked the idea of it more than the reality, I think, and I felt that the final revelation regarding Lacey's windfall was a little anticlimactic. My favourite part of the plot was probably Lacey's relationship with Patrice - but let's be real, this is mainly because I want a hot affair with a sexy older multi-millionaire European art collector. When do I get mine??
My main problem with this book was the same issue that stopped me giving Kirsten Tranter's otherwise excellent
The Legacy full marks: I am mentioning the comparison because both books feature an impossibly alluring young woman involved in a relationship with an older man amidst the New York art scene, although the plots are very different. Lacey, like The Legacy's Ingrid, is one of those characters we're constantly told amazing things about without any clear supporting evidence or justification for them. She has an incredible effect on almost every person she ever comes into contact with, yet I was never quite sure why, or at least I never felt convinced this would truly be the case in real life. I wasn't entirely sure the narrative style worked, either, and I was constantly frustrated by my desire to know more about Daniel. I understand why he's there, but I don't think fleshing him out a bit more, giving him a life of his own beyond an outline of his career, would have been detrimental to the story.
I liked the themes of this book - the world of fine art, New York, Lacey's glamorous lifestyle and the unspoken mysteries lurking behind it - but ultimately it all just seemed a bit... flat. I wanted to get emotionally involved in the story, but because the narrator was virtually anonymous, and therefore the narrative could only get so far under Lacey's skin, and Lacey herself was (in my opinion) somewhat unrealistic, I couldn't engage with it properly. Interesting, sexy, but in the end, a little too empty. -
At the Academy Awards they always introduce the winners as “multi-talented.” Normally that means they can walk and chew gum at the same time. But in the case of Steve Martin, author of An Object of Beauty, an Emmy, Grammys, a very successful career as a comedian and actor, and two excellent books of fiction, not to mention a stageplay, screenplays, a children’s book, a comedy collection, and pieces for the New Yorker and the New York Times, qualify him as a 21st century Renaissance man.
My friend Les told me to read this novel and I’ve learned over the years that when Les recommends a book it’s worth my while to get my hands on it. Once again that has proven true. An Object of Beauty is so well written, so clever, so well plotted, so witty, filled with such lively characters and such an ironic view of contemporary art that it scintillates. I wish it were twice as long.
The story, which takes place in the New York City art world between about 1991 and 2009, is the tale of Lily Bart from Edith Wharton’s The House of Mirth. (Why Joyce Carol Oates, in a blurb on the back, compares it to The Age of Innocence, with which it has almost nothing in common, is a mystery unless she made an embarrassing error, and even more puzzling is why no editor caught the gaffe.) Lily Bart was innocent and brought down by rumors started by rivals but Lacey Yeager is far from innocent.
Lacey meets young, innocent, and somewhat passive Jamesian narrator when they are both students at the quintessentially southern Davidson College in North Carolina. When they both graduate and go to NY City to make their way in the art world they stay in touch. She becomes a dealer and he is a writer for an art magazine.
The book starts out with a couple of gentle teasers: “I am tired, so very tired of thinking about Lacey Yeager, yet I worry that unless I write her story down, and see it bound and tidy on my bookshelf, I will be unable to ever write about anything else.” From page 4: “It was apparent to everyone that Lacey was headed somewhere, though her path often left blood in the water.” Why can’t the now world-weary narrator forget her? Why must he write about her? Whose blood is it in the water? Could it be the narrator’s?
We quickly become fond of Daniel Chester French Franks (and with a name like that we see how he was drawn to the art world.) And we worry that he is out of his depth with this beautiful, brilliant, vibrant, witty, and unscrupulous woman who, starting as one of “the spice rack of girls at Sotheby’s,” works her way up through the years to owning her own gallery. The story is crisp and moves very quickly. The dialogue is laugh-aloud funny at times and the evolution of Lacey from naïve beginner to ruthless competitor is deeply engrossing. Trollope lovers will find it worth their while to take a look at this book.
2011 No 53 Coming soon: Triumph of the City, by Edward Glaeser -
First off, I think Steve Martin is brilliant. I would buy him lunch any day just to listen to his stories.
This book is a look at the art world in New York. Some interesting moments, but many moments I found just... meh. I would say the book is best suited to those who love art and/or New York.
As I try to write this review I agree with Steve...“Some people have a way with words, and other people...oh, uh, not have way.” -
Mixed review: Character study 5 stars. I really like Lacey Yeager for (no doubt, because of) all her faults. She is sexy, clever, manipulative, shameless, and almost totally heedless (though not quite). Humor 2 stars. While this story is not a melodrama, it's not a comedy either. Dry wit is the operative mode. I didn't find myself laughing. An occasional smile, I admit. Plot and storyline: 3 stars. I always wanted to know what would happen next. But in too many instances I was disappointed. There are several major plot threads that simply go nowhere or are resolved in uninteresting ways, as though Martin either got bored with them or decided they would be too much of a hassle to spin out or explain. Talley's lack of complicity, not interesting. FBI agent hookup, too easy. Parrish scam, not believable. And most annoying of all, is there a Rembrandt under the Russian painting? Huge hints dropped but no payoff. Is Patrice hinting once more at the end? The thing is already sold! How will she profit? If I missed it, please post and correct me, and I will take it all (or most of it) back. Tour de force of NY art scene: 5 stars. Almost makes me want to live there. Almost. I live in L.A., to stay.
Just re-read it. I was more pulled into the characters this time, less concerned with the plot twists. Fascinated with the machinations of the art world, as apparently Martin has been for a long while. -
I can respect that Steve Martin is capable of writing sober, sensitive and thoughtful fiction. Nevertheless, in reading An Object Of Beauty, I kept wishing that at least bits of Martin's dry comedic voice would enter into this slow, vaguely disappointing book. As with Shopgirl, Martin's Obsessed with a beautiful, if sad, young woman. It took about two paragraphs to get the obvious metaphor of the title, that the 'object of beauty' here was not the artworks the main character handles at her job, but the girl herself. Meh.
Maybe part of it was that I'm an unabashed art snob, too, but I found little joy in reading about the financial scheming involved in million-dollar art markets. The addition of full-color images of some of the artworks mentioned only served as a handy reference for those readers without access to Google, as the paintings were rarely considered for more than their price value, and under appreciated in this book supposedly centered around art. The delightful ingenue was interesting to follow for the first thirty pages or so, but failed to develop beyond a sort of cliched cute-girl-with-ennui character. The writing was fine, but the story lacking, and I was left wondering if this book would've been published at all if it weren't tied to Steve Martin's name.
If we are going to consider women as objects of beauty, let's give them a little more credit than this tired routine. Both art and women deserve more emotional unwrapping than this book dared to offer. -
It was fun to read about the contemporary art market in NYC in the last art bubble, and Martin is great in his dead-on descriptions of people, organizations, deal-making, gallery openings, and the contemporary art world in general. But this didn't outweigh the fact that I couldn't stand the 'voice' of the narrator. It is never really clear why he knows all the things he knows, and it was annoying that Martin chose to use the narrator to key readers into the fact that Martin knows this world, from personal experience as an art collector, and obviously, much research. I got so tired of tangential asides about this or that person or this or that auction, as these distracted from the story and became really annoying after a while. Still, it could then come back into focus as a story and be entertaining for pages at a time.
I also never really believed the protagonist could exist as she is presented. Power hungry and eager to make her name and her fortune in the art world, sure, I buy that. But the strange sex games and power plays felt like the imaginings of a male author. And I'm not sure if the 'crime' at the centre of the novel is meant to br a surprise when it is revealed, but it certainly wasn't.
The review is more critical sounding than I intend, as I did really enjoy the book in parts and kept picking it back up, even when the know-it-all style of writing about the art world bugged me. -
I liked Steve Martin's Shopgirl a lot, and I'm also into art, so I thought I'd enjoy this book more. The best thing about it is that Steve Martin knows how to write about art; his descriptions of the many paintings in this book are readable and beautiful, better than the stuff you'll get from major art critics any day. Martin writes about the art world from the 90s to the present with clarity and authority.
But: I wish Martin's characters here were as interesting as his art musings. Unfortunately, the book's protagonist, Lacey, is murkily drawn and unfathomable. It doesn't help that the narrator of the book holds her in contempt, or that the narrator's own life remains in the shadows for far too long given how important he suddenly becomes towards the book's end.
As a vehicle for describing the trajectory of the art world, Lacey makes perfect sense. But as a person, she's neither here nor there, a bundle of cliches and half-drawn conclusions. I just feel this book could have been a LOT more poignant and true, had its central character been something more than an ambitious girl in pretty clothes who weirdly never wants anything beyond the art world, feels no love toward anyone and predictably flies too close to the sun.
Maybe this proves that describing a painting is much easier than drawing a fully-fleshed-out, believable character. -
I savored this book. I’m not going to say that it was the best damn book I have ever read but that it did what a story is supposed to do, entertain. I purposely read it slow because of the author’s voice. I wanted the words to flow around in my mind a little longer than usual, so I could recreate the art it was painting right before my eyes. I found myself staring longingly at the few pictures of different art pieces contained within its pages, even stopping to lookup whatever pieces that were mentioned and not included.
Back in the day I longed for the lifestyle this story presented (and still do), so I am grateful for the temporary reprieve from life this book pass granted me. -
Lai gan atsauksmes par šo grāmatu ir arī negatīvas, es nosliecos pie tiem, kuri romānu izbaudīja. Man patika autora ideja uzrakstīt romānu, kas it kā ir galvenā protagonista rakstīts, kurā viņs stāsta par sev pazīstamas sievietes kāpšanu pa mākslas pasaules darboņu kāpnēm. Viņus saista daudzu gadu draudzība, ko es vairāk sauktu par mazāk veiksmīga un īsti "nedabūjuša" džeka fiksāciju uz skaistu, ambiciozu, bet arī manipulatīvu un aukstu sievieti. Īsti nevar just līdzi tēliem, it kā skaties uz visu no malas, bet ļoti interesanti lasīt par "virtuvi" - izsoļu namiem, mākslas darbu pirkšanu, pārdošanu, kolekcionāriem, galerijām. Tieši šo mākslas pasaules pusi izjutu kā grāmatas galveno tēlu.
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Fun and zesty, exactly what I needed after several heavy reads. He's a good writer - smooth and strong, free of any celebrity author shortcuts, and if the prose is somewhat unspecial, it also leaves the characters room to breathe for themselves. He perfectly captures the urgency and tirelessness of young ambition in NYC (as well as handy examples of how to work a room and manipulate powerful people!) and the trajectory of the story is also a thoughtful rendition of US economic history over the last two decades sketched through the art world. Plus it's clear that he is informed and educated about art, and also loves and understands it.
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Interesting description of the art world and collectors. Unlikeable main character, i found her unrelatable, described as being vibrant and funny but the scenes intended to demonstrate these were not successful - so awkward in a way that makes me wonder if it needed a physical context like Steve Martin's humor. Felt like a less successful reworking of Shopgirl except she doesn't grow. She doesn't come across as a real person, just a vehicle for the industry and times.
Still, I liked the novel. The short chapters pulled me through. It's unkind, but the writing feels like dumbed down literature that I could understand. My brain, it doesn't do heavy lifting. -
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If you love art and the intrigue of the art world, this one's a must read. I didn't know Steve Martin wrote stories like this, and I couldn't put it down.
