I was a huge fan of Steve Martin's previous novel, Shopgirl (and the movie it inspired) so when I found a proof copy of his latest book, An Object Of Beauty, in the local charity shop, I was happy to plunk down my two quid for Help The Aged.
This novel is a harder sell than its predecessor though, largely because it's central protagonist, Lacey Yeager, is much less likable than the heroine of Shopgirl. Lacey is a mover and shaker on the New York art scene: a flirty, flighty, at times duplicitous, deceptively shallow creature who shimmies up the slippery pole, playing the game by her own rules and doing whatever it takes to get to the top. She's the sort of woman I'd hate unconditionally if I ever met her in person, so it's to Martin's credit that I was drawn into her story - and the insane world she inhabits. I don't have a great deal of interest in art history - particularly not modern art. I'm happy to look at it in a gallery or museum but I rarely care about the men and women behind the canvases. Martin's skill is to make artists, gallery owners and collectors as fascinating as the artwork they obsess over...
Alberg was a collector with a quick purse, which delighted those on the receiving end of things. He had a body shaped like a bowling pin and would sometimes accidentally dress like one too, wearing a white suit with a wide red belt. His wife, Cornelia, was thin where he was wide, and wide where he was thin, so when they stood side by side, they fit together like Texas and Louisiana. There was always a buzz when he entered a room, a buzz that could be described as negative.
Although the novel proceeds from the late 90s through the early years of the 21st century, there's a timeless quality to Martin's writing that reminded me of another great New York novel, Breakfast At Tiffany's. While Lacey Yeager is no Holly Golightly (she wishes!), the circles she moves in and the predicaments she faces reminded me very much of Capote's classic. Although Franks, the narrator (a thinly veiled Martin substitute) does have a habit of running off into turgid lectures on The Scene at times, you can easily skip those and still enjoy the wonderfully observed tale of a group of insane characters increasingly divorced from reality due to their involvement in the murky and mental world of art.
