Tag Archives: book review

Shameless Plug: Salon to Biennial

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Another new book I would love to have. And I would buy this work, but it’s rather expensive ($90 from Phaidon Press). However, I think its both interesting and deserving of a good plug. Roberta Smith of the New York Times already did so in its Holiday Gift Guide section on art books, so perhaps my two cents are unnecessary. Or perhaps they are.

Entitled Salon to Biennial, examining exhibition history of modern art, Roberta Smith describes it as such:

“One of the most interesting books of the season takes a nothing-but-the-facts bead on a subject of increasing art historical study: the exhibitions that have introduced most modern art to the public. Thick and very orange, Salon to Biennial — Exhibitions That Made Art History, Volume I: 1863-1959 is a marvel of information, organization and design. Largely the work of Bruce Altshuler, an independent scholar, in collaboration with Phaidon’s editors, it combines engaging analysis with myriad details to create in-depth portraits of exhibitions that are known, but not well.”

However, I would like to correct the New York Times, as this book has been written by Elizabeth Zechella, an editor at Phaidon Press. Elizabeth, who is a friend from home, worked very hard to research and put together this lovely volume over the past 2 1/2 years. She is young and unaccredited. This is apparently the reason why she will not be credited on this book (although Phaidon recognized Altshuler’s limited role in the project and he himself felt Elizabeth’s name should be on the cover).


A shamelessly, self-interested plug of a great book for you artsy readers, and slight correction to the New York Times. Happy Monday.

Correction from Elizabeth Zechella: Bruce Altshuler did in fact write the intro essay, chapter intros, and was instrumental in the conception of the book. I was the editor of the book, researching, compiling, and making the selections of what was to be included. There was a team of people who contributed to this book in one way or another, including outside scholars, and a bevy of in-house and freelance help.

Swashbuckling Swill and a Song

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A swashbuckling adventure story with a limp and noodly protagonist whose unintentional irony and understatement form the greatest (and yet not so great) part of the tale.

All the Tea in China proceeds with action over character development, but even the action is envenerating. Little drives the plot forward except the feeling our dear protagonist has gotten himself into quite a muddle. And so he muddles forward. To lack suspense as it does, it needs to be more humorous (the 17th century dialogue was forced rather than funny).

That said, you could give it to the 13-year-old boy of your Christmas list, assuming he’s already had the pleasure of Robert Louis Stevenson’s Kidnapped (which I remember being quite scary) and is permitted a few X-rated scenes.

This novel, besides being mildly historical, is hardly a typical choice of mine. The inside flap tricked me; it gave the the author Kyril Bonfiglioli kudos as a “groundbreaking satarist” in this “maritime romp.” So for that reason, and because the title reminded me of a song by The Magnetic Fields, I picked it up.

Clearly if I know the expression “all the tea in China,” I should also know “don’t judge a book by its cover” by now. For your listening pleasure, here is the better of the two, still with an ironic twinge but with a bit more heart:

Greater women in Kate Christensen’s The Great Man

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Terrible title, but I picked it up because there was a paint brush on the cover. I didn’t know about Kate Christensen’s other novels or that this one had won the 2008 PEN/Faulkner Award for Fiction. Instead of the light trash I imagined, I’m in the midst of the lives of some intriguing women as they sort themselves out as the great (dead) man’s biographers stir up their static lives. On knowing this, the title becomes amusing, especially because the book is about the not-so-great, great man’s many women.

The dead artist, Oscar Feldman, binds his wife Abigail, his sister Maxine, and his mistress Teddy together, and not always in ways they enjoy. These very different and complex women are complex and passionate. Oh, they happen to be old. That’s by no means a focus of the story, but I find it interesting to see old women as active characters. The fact the Oscar was a selfish womanizer who got everything he wanted makes their stories a bit more poignant.

The male biographers who come to interview these women think of Oscar as a great painter, a great man. As the women see it, Oscar was a good painter rather than a great man, and a closely guarded secret bears them out. The Great Man theory, according to Wikipedia, is a theory that aims to explain history by the impact of “Great men”, or heroes; that is, highly influential individuals who, due to either their personal charisma, intelligence and wisdom or Machiavellianism, used power in a way that had a decisive historical impact. Examples would be Stalin or Napoleon, my image left, or Oscar Feldman. Except the novel snips away at the Great Man theory with curt comment after snide remark. A purely feminist approach to this novel would be limiting, but it is satisfying to see the women come into their own in the wake of Oscar’s death. It certainly beats cats and knitting.

Christensen captures the competitiveness of the art world and its strikingly different personalities with tongue-in-cheek humor. The character Maxine provides a stringent perspective on all art (besides her own), like

the dinner party where she criticizes the artist across the table and her dealer in a sweep of faux pauxs. Oscar’s paintings get ripped apart women by women to the starry-eyed biographers dismay. A question of authenticity arises about some important paintings, and the art world buzz is so strong the book hums a bit in the reader’s hands.

Vibrant women and art transforms this book on the great man into a delightful dialogue that would be a home Judy Chicago’s The Dinner Party at the Brooklyn Museum of Art. Chicago, who created the art installtion of a triangular table with 39 places for iconic women, stated that its purpose was to “end the ongoing cycle of omission in which women were written out of the historical record.” Appropriately enough, The Great Man is the story of women writing themselves into history.

I’m 2/3rds of the way through, which is the perfect time to review a book: I can’t give away the ending, but I know quite well what I think. The characters are delightful, and the plot well-constructed. I got more swept up in it than I expected, despite having reservations about the writing itself. Obviously it’s well-written enough to convey characters that are sweeping me along, yet the language itself is predictable and non-distinct. Don’t let my nit-picks or this sketchy plot outline dissuade you though; Christensen is onto something quite delightful.