An Object of Beauty by Steve Martin

At Sotheby's, she started to look at paintings differently. She became an efficient computer of values. The endless stream of pictures that passed through the auction house helped her develop a calculus of worth. Auction records were available in the Sotheby's library, and when a picture of note came in, she diligently searched the Art Price Index to see if it had auction history. She factored in condition, size, and subject matter. A Renoir of a young girl, she had witnessed, was worth more than one of an old woman. An American western picture with five tepees was worth more than a painting with one tepee. If a picture had been on the market recently without a sale, she knew it would be less desirable. A deserted painting scared buyers. Why did no one want it? In the trade, it was known as being "burned." Once a picture was burned, the owner either had to drastically reduce the price or sit on it for another seven years until it faded from memory. When Lacey began these computations, her toe crossed ground from which it is difficult to return: she started converting objects of beauty into objects of value.

-An Object of Beauty 

Man, did I need a book like this one. I've had a steady string of good, but not great books in the last six weeks--I don't think I've read one I found truly absorbing since Mockingjay. An Object of Beauty came along at precisely the right time.

Honestly, I wasn't expecting to like it so much. I read Steve Martin's novella Shopgirl and felt that, while it was technically good, something about it left me cold. It was an aloof sort of book, if that makes sense. An Object of Beauty is similar in a sense. Lacey Yeager, the character whom we follow as she climbs the social and corporate ladder of  the New York art world,  is ambitious and cunning, not particularly easy to warm up to. But it doesn't really matter--you don't need to like Lacey to enjoy the story. Because while Lacey is the chief personage we get to know in An Object of Beauty, she's not the book's true main character. Art is.

And art--well, that I love. I studied Art History in college, but now it would be a rare day indeed when someone asked me my opinion on Joseph Beuys, or even Picasso. But this story is full of people with opinions on these and other artists, and spending time with them was like getting to know people with whom I have mutual friends. It doesn't matter if I like them or not (and I would not choose to spend time with a Lacey in real life), but we do have something in common. Martin is clearly extremely well versed in modern art, and his tale of Lacey's rise from lowly Sotheby's drudge to gallery scenester is note perfect. There's a vicarious thrill in getting access to this world, and as little as I truly sympathize with Lacey, I absolutely understand the power that a painting can hold over a person.

Story time: When I was just about to graduate from college, I applied for an internship at a very prestigious art gallery in Manhattan. The time came to schedule an interview, and I panicked--I didn't have the money to fly to New York from an interview, much less to live there on a meager stipend. But it's one of the moments that makes one wonder, what if? When I did finally move to New York, my parents most thoughtfully gave me the gift of a membership to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, probably my favorite place in New York City. (Central Park is a close second. These places are iconic for a reason.) I've lost track of the number of times I've visited the Met. At least twenty. Over time, there were certain paintings that I began to identify as "mine." I sought them out every visit, filled each time with the sense of joy that comes with seeing an old friend. They once temporarily removed a favorite Monet* and I was quite incensed. That was my Monet, didn't they understand?  I felt like I loved it more than anyone in the world could, and, selfishly, I would have taken it with me if it had been offered. So yes, all that is a way of saying that I suppose I do understand part of the way that Lacey appreciates art. But, going back to the excerpt I chose, I never made the transition that Lacey did--I don't see paintings as objects of (monetary) value. And for that I'm glad.

Would one like An Object of Beauty if one doesn't care about art? I wondered that as I read. I've certainly read my fair share of books that involved subjects that I had little interest in or knowledge about. In this case, I think an appreciation for art would certainly heighten one's enjoyment of the book. I mean, Martin includes little reproductions of some of the paintings under discussion. If that's the kind of detail that makes your heart go pitter-patter (or at least spares you a trip to Google), then I think this book would be a winner. But even if that idea provokes an overwhelming meh, I think that it's worth a try all the same. It's a pretty classic tale of the pleasure and pain inherit in gaining access to the most elite part of society, when it comes down to it. Joyce Carol Oates has compared it to an Edith Wharton novel (specifically, The Age of Innocence, which I haven't read); I myself thought of Vanity Fair's Becky Sharp. I was surprised to see there were very mixed critical reviews, as I (obviously) thought it was quite good, and could even see myself rereading it in the future.

Up next: American Nerd by Benjamin Nugent. Dang, there goes the title for my autobiography.

*And yeah: I'm a huge fan of art, but I'm definitely no snob. I love Monet.

A Trace of Smoke by Rebecca Cantrell

My eyes darted to the words under the photograph that had called to me. Fished from the water by a sightseeing boat the morning of Saturday, May 30, 1931--the day before yesterday. Apparent cause of death: stab wound to the heart. Under distinguishing characteristics they listed a heart-shaped tattoo on his lower back that said "Father." No identification present.

I needed none. I knew the face as well as my own, or my sister Ursula's, with our square jaws and cleft chins. I wore my dark blond hair cut short into a bob, but he wore his long, like our mother, like any woman of a certain age, although he was neither a woman nor of a certain age. He was my baby brother, Ernst.

-A Trace of Smoke 

Hannah Vogel is a reporter operating out of 1931 Berlin. She's seen some terrible things while writing stories about the city's criminal element, but nothing could prepare her for the nasty shock of seeing her brother's face among those cataloged in the police department's Hall of the Unnamed Dead. In some ways, it was unsurprising: Ernst had lived an unconventional, uncompromising life that had put him in contact with some unsavory men. Even so, Hannah is naturally aghast.

Worse still, Hannah can't report her brother's death to anyone. She lent her and Ernst's identity papers to Jewish friends fleeing the country in light of the growing influence of the Nazi party. If Hannah identifies Ernst, she could put her friends in jeopardy. The truth of the matter is simple and frightening: if Hannah wants Ernst's killer to be punished, she's going to have to find him herself.

It's more difficult, and more dangerous, than she possibly could have imagined. Matters are further complicated when a little boy shows up on her doorstep. He claims that Ernst was his father--and Hannah his mother. Hannah takes the boy under her wing and does her best to take care of him in the face of an increasingly menacing threat from persons unknown. 

I had some mixed feelings about this one. Hannah I liked well enough, although she didn't strike me as a terribly distinctive heroine. She was so forward-thinking as to be boring, if that makes sense. When I read historical fiction, it's not because I want to read about people who would react just as modern people would. While I was reading, I couldn't help but think that the story might have been more interesting from the point of view of Hannah's friend Bettina, a policeman's wife, who seemed a more traditional German woman of that era.

The mystery itself held my interest, and I found the milieu interesting. I confess I don't know much about the pre-WWII era in Germany, so I learned a few things. I did find the inclusion of a prominent real-life Nazi as a character to be a bit odd. It's certainly fairly popular to include real people in historical fiction, but it's not the easiest thing to pull off. Again, I can't pretend to have a comprehensive knowledge of the figures of that era, but for some reason it took me out of the story. Sometimes including a real figure only reminds the reader that the rest of the story is made up, making it hard to suspend one's disbelief. I would have preferred that Cantrell had made up a fictional Nazi with a similar background and position of influence. I don't think it would have lessened the impact of this character's role in the story.

All in all, I can't see myself continuing with this series at this point, though I definitely think that this story could appeal to a wide audience--mystery fans, history fans, &c. Not one I feel compelled to spend more time on myself. There are just so many books out there, you know?

Up next: I've already begun  Steve Martin's An Object of Beauty, which is off to a strong start.

Secret Daughter by Shilpi Somaya Gowda

Krishnan has raised the idea of going back to India to visit and perhaps adopt another child, but Somer has resisted. She seems intent on preserving Asha in the little cocoon they have woven around her. It's not the way he sees family, as a precious thing that needs to be protected. For him, family is a wild sprawling thing, a strong thing that withstands years, miles, even mistakes. For as long as he can remember, there have been minor transgressions and major feuds erupting among his big clan, and it doesn't affect the endurance of their family's bond.

-Secret Daughter

In Secret Daughter, Shilpi Somaya Gowda traces the story of two families. There is the story of Jasu and Kavita, living in poverty in rural India. In 1984, Kavita gives birth to a daughter. As female babies are considered less than desirable, she makes the difficult journey to an orphanage in Mumbai. Losing her baby that way, while incredibly painful, is better than the other possible outcome: she's already seen one of her daughters killed shortly after birth.

There is also the story of Krishnan and Somer. Krishnan, from India, meets Somer when studying at medical school in America. He falls in love with her and with his new country, and they begin to make a life there together. When Somer discovers she is infertile, Krishnan hits upon an idea: to adopt a child from India. Somer is reluctant at first, but eventually they make arrangements and travel to Mumbai in 1985. They adopt a young girl: Kavita's daughter.

Gowda shows us how these two families weather the next twenty years. Kavita and Jasu decide to try for a better life in Mumbai, only to discover that it will be far more difficult than they ever imagined. Somer and Krishnan gradually grow apart as their daughter grows up, their relationship in part weakened by Somer's inability to accept the importance India has in her husband's and daughter's lives--and thus in her own life as well.

This really is a character-driven novel, and luckily I liked most of them. Things got off to a bit of a slow start, but after that I became invested, mostly in Kavita and Jasu. Krishnan I liked as well, though not much of the story is told from his point of view. The problem is Somer. While I was sympathetic to her early difficulties in becoming pregnant, once she traveled to India she managed to burn through a lot of goodwill very quickly. She's breathtakingly narrow-minded--I really hope her lack of understanding of Indian culture and her complete unwillingness to share in any of it reflects only on her character and is not representative of Americans in the 1980's, because that would be really sad. It was very frustrating to watch Somer handle things so poorly, though I appreciated that Gowda was able to tie up her story fairly well. I think overall Gowda provided the happiest ending she could within the bounds of realism, but the book was somewhat on the sad side. Interesting, though.

Up next: A Trace of Smoke by Rebecca Cantrell

More Tales of the City by Armistead Maupin

[Tales of the City spoilers ahead]

She was not moving back to Cleveland. She was not running home to Mommy and Daddy. She knew that much, anyway. For all her trials, she loved it here in San Francisco, and she loved her makeshift family at Mrs. Madrigal's comfy old apartment house on Barbary Lane.

So what if she was still a secretary?

So what if she had not met Mr. Right...or even Mr. Adequate?

So what if Norman Neal Williams, the one semi-romance of her first six months in the city, had turned out to be a private eye moonlighting as a child pornographer who eventually fell to his death off a seaside cliff on Christmas Eve?

-More Tales of the City 

When I was reading More Tales of the City, words to describe it kept popping into my head: soapy, fizzy, fun, &c. Although the book has its share of dramatic moments, they're all so overblown that I can only describe this as a light read--and a thoroughly enjoyable one.

More Tales of the City picks up just weeks after the events of Tales of the City. All of our favorite characters are ready to embark upon new (and often exciting) adventures. Some friendships and relationships blossom, while others are tested. Mary Ann Singleton and Michael Tolliver go on a Mexican cruise, courtesy of her late boss, Edgar Halcyon. Edgar's widow Franny is struggling to find herself after his death, and their daughter DeDe tries to cope with her thoroughly jerky husband Beauchamp and the imminent arrival of her twins (not Beauchamp's, naturally). Meanwhile, Mona Ramsey goes to Winnemucca, Nevada to find herself, leaving behind landlady Anna Madigral, whose mysterious past is finally starting to come to light.

There is quite a lot of plot, and if you took it terribly seriously, it would never be plausible--amnesia! Sudden paralysis! Being drafted to work as a receptionist in a whorehouse for a week!  When you put it all together, it doesn't sound at all likely, but that's really beside the point. More Tales of the City is a fast and engaging read because you can't wait to see what happens next--and really, experience has shown it could be anything.

Up next: Still have a lot of choices here. I will probably go with Secret Daughter by Shilpi Somaya Gowda, which ought to be a change of pace.