Customer Reviews

Caravaggio: A Novel

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Caravaggio was in many ways a "raw" human being, and Peachment's novel of the painter's life reflects this aspect of his subject: if this novel were a movie, it would be rated "X" for language, sex, and violence. The narrator of the novel is Caravaggio himself, who retells his life - or rather, I must say, Peachment's fantasy of his life - in an extended address to the reader. Mystery, rage, painting, murder, alienation, and debauchery are all grist for the novelist's mill. Baudelaire would have loved it.

Peachment is a new novelist, but an experienced arts writer, and we should not underestimate him. In the course of his narrative, the author describes every one of Caravaggio's known paintings, and usually in a way which I found interesting and even illuminating. He emphasizes always the circumstantial and concrete, rather than the "aesthetic," aspects of the works; indeed, the most important chapter of this book describes an incident in which the painter destroys one of his canvases, in rage against the intellectuals and aesthetes who love his art for all the wrong reasons. It's a valuable perspective, and one which we all can learn from.

On the other hand: Peachment's writing is episodic, with awkward transitions between short chapters; there is repetition, ranting and raving, and pure fantasy; it seems a very one-sided portrait, even for a novelist, of Caravaggio the artist and the man. On the whole, while I appreciated what Peachment was trying to do, I felt somewhat distanced from the book, even as I was turning its pages. I'm glad that I read it, and feel that it had some valuable insights to offer, but somehow I could not love it; perhaps those who knew Caravaggio, in his lifetime, felt the same way!

I picked this book up in an art museum gift shop during a recent exhibit on Caravaggio. I finally abandoned the book halfway through because of small inaccuracies that to me became extremely irritating. I'm all for a little revisionist history and poetic license in fiction, but seeing as the story is supposed to be told by Caravaggio himself, certain passages did not ring true. For example, indicating that a neighborhood in Malta looked like it had been "bulldozed" (in 1600?-- the current sense of a machine for clearing or leveling came into usage around 1930), the use of the pejorative "frog" for Frenchmen (probably in use since 1850), and his account of entering Rome, "I [Caravaggio] entered Rome from the north, through serious bandit country and starving farms, and then past Cinecitta, where I later used to go and join Federico, and help him indulge his taste for good life..." Cinecitta (literally "cinema city") was established in 1937 to promote the Italian film industry. References to Federico (Fellini) and the "good life" = La Dolce Vita might be clever from the author's viewpoint, but it destroyed credibility with this reader who believes that the language in a period novel should ring true (even though admittedly Caravaggio was not anglophone) and historical accuracy should be respected. I recommend you find another account of Caravaggio's fascinating life.

Unputdownable! A tasty read that updates the life of the notorious painter with modern vernacular and without compromising narrative. Had this book for years but just got around to reading it. What a delicious surprise.

Caravaggio was an audacious painter of the Renaissance. He was a rage-filled man who self-destructed. The blunt prose describes historical violence with candor. Peachment provides an adventure into the mind of a creative genius. But, be warned, painters can be scary people.

Peachment led me on an engaging and entertaining adventure through Caravaggio's life. I was not the least concerned by anachronisms and inaccuracies. What I got was an "artist's impression" - and I loved it.

Do yourself a favour if you plan to read this book: get hold of a book of Caravaggio's pictures so that you can study each picture while reading "Caravaggio's" description of it. I bought Timothy Wilson-Smith's "Caravaggio" and went back and reread Peachment's book. There's great delight in comparing Wilson-Smith's formal and presumably "accurate" analysis with Peachment's ("Caravaggio's") irreverent possibly inaccurate account.