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.