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An Object of Beauty: A Novel

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Many readers are going to enjoy this rich, wise and entertaining novel, especially those of you who happen to be:

- A part of the art world. "An Object of Beauty" is a closely-observed story that traces the rise and fall of a young business woman in New York City, from 1993 to 2009. It is set in a corner of the commercial arena that traffics in works of fine art. If you work or play in the world of artists, art dealers, gallery owners, auction houses and their supporting enterprises; or if you are simply a curious outsider interested in what Martin calls "this insular collective" -- then "An Object of Beauty" is sure to please. During the course of a well-constructed tale, Martin holds a mirror up to the art community's denizens and their transgressions. If this is unfamiliar territory, you'll want to be in "learning mode" as Martin (himself an experienced buyer, seller, and lover of art) pauses the narrative from time to time to deliver a mini art history lesson next to an illustration of a painting or sculpture (there are 22 in all) important to the developing plot. On a practical note, he also offers tips on how to negotiate your way through this strange jungle. Martin names names and reveals prices (throughout the novel there is a Balzac-like focus on the prices of everything).

- A collector. Although the reader's attention is on the wily plots of the young careerist Lacey Yeager, and secondarily on the fate of her friend Daniel (an art critic and the story's narrator), the author also populates the book with a parade of minor characters who suffer from the collecting disease. They occupy a spectrum from the savvy and methodical to the passionate, obsessive, and borderline insane. Martin displays a psychologist's skill in exposing the emotional sources of their never-ending longing. If you are, or if you know, a capital-"c" Collector (of coins, dolls, baseball cards, whatever), you will likely find these sketches funny and right on the money.

- A fan of Mr. Martin. We know Steve Martin can be a consummate happy clown, and part of the marketing campaign for this novel will (misleadingly) associate the book with his antic, feel-good, sweetness-and-light side. But Martin is more than that, as true fans and readers of his two novellas (Shopgirl and The Pleasure of My Company) know. And we value and trust his serious interests. Yes, there is wit in the new novel, and Martin's trademark wordplay and love of paradox ("it was easier to sell a painting that was not for sale"), but he wisely suppresses his protean comedic chops in furtherance of the story. Fans of the author will appreciate that "An Object of Beauty" is a serious novel.

In telling a tale of misplaced values and money run amok, in a world where relationships are polluted by greed and dishonesty, what comes through is Martin's essential modesty. He avoids making definitive statements. While he may wax philosophical, especially on matters of aesthetics (his own seduction by the power of great art is evident), he makes no grand pronouncements. Instead, there is simply a keen-eyed view of human failings and, sadder still, a sober acceptance of the rarity of love. Martin is a quiet moralist.

Let me begin this review by saying that I have loved Steve Martin's previous books, most especially "Shopgirl". When I read that book I simply could not believe that Steve Martin, a comedian and actor, had the chops to write such a terrific novel. Hence, I had high hopes for this new book going in. Unfortunately it didn't quite reach my expectations.

This book is part novel and part CliffsNotes on trends in art collecting over the past 20 years or so. I'm not involved in the art world in any way, shape, or form. So, from the angle of being a primer on recent art fads, I found this book to be quite educational. Martin gives some interesting perspective on art and artists, even including photos of the artwork that he discusses in the text. I found this to be extremely helpful and it made the book more interesting to read. I don't know if those in the art community would agree with this point of view, but I did find it educational. The problem with the book is actually its plot, which is anemic at best.

The story is focused on Lacey Yeager, an up-and-coming Manhattanite on the art auctioning and dealing side of things and who seems to single-handedly represent the art movement from the early `90s to the current era. This puts a huge burden on the young woman's shoulders and leaves her bereft of much in the way of characterization. Though we learn that Lacey is tough, ambitious, and sexually uninhibited, we don't get much of a feel for what makes her tick in the first place. The story hints at something `bad' that she's done in collusion with the narrator of the book; but the slow reveal is actually glacial and the payoff is not exactly surprising or even all that interesting.

In short, it was a bit difficult for me to write this review because I'm a huge fan of Steve Martin's, and he seems to have a deep understanding of the art scene. But if you take out the lovely guided tour through recent art history, the book is left with a very thin plot indeed. I truly wanted to love this book, but there are better ones to enjoy this holiday season.

"Chealsea Girl" a review of "An Object of Beauty" by Andrew Butterfield
* December 22, 2010 |President of Andrew Butterfield Fine Arts, LLC.
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An Object of Beauty by Steve Martin
Grand Central Publishing, 304 pp., $26.99

"I couldn't be a woman," Steve Martin once joked, "because I'd play with my breasts all day." Now he has written a novel about a young woman, but nearly the only thing he can imagine about her is wanting to play with her breasts. The Object of Beauty is a nasty exercise in narcissism, particularly in the narcissism of the famous.

The novel narrates the tale of Lacey Yeager, a recent college graduate who comes to New York, gets a junior position at Sotheby's, and quickly works her way up in the art world, eventually opening a gallery of her own in Chelsea. Martin describes very little about this character, other than that she has blonde hair, dresses well, and is really, really sexy. He seems to think that a novel about the art world should suffice with appearances. Every man who sees Lacey wants her, and she is always on the hunt for another conquest. She is the main "object of beauty" of the title. Yet Martin never makes her seem genuinely interesting or beautiful or lovely or intelligent; he just tears her out of the Style pages and tells you that she is desirable.

The book is narrated by a friend of Lacey's from college, Daniel, who works as an art journalist. Daniel made the mistake of sleeping with her once at school, and he has never recovered: he simply cannot move on and find real post-Lacey love. He is writing the book as an attempt to free himself from her spell. Perhaps Martin wants the reader to think of Nick Carraway writing about Gatsby, or Sal Paradise musing about Dean Moriarty; but Daniel comes across as merely pathetic and emasculated, rather like the non-Steve Martin character in Shopgirl.

A mix of artists, collectors, dealers, and writers wander in and out of the plot, which is contrived to include all parts of the New York art scene, from private Upper East Side galleries to downtown alternative spaces, and the story includes a few standard art world misdeeds: stolen paintings, fakes, self-dealing. Martin interposes fictional characters with real people--Larry Gagosian, William Acquavella, John Updike, John Richardson, Peter Schjeldahl, and other well-known figures make cameo appearances. Many of the settings of the book are stenographically rendered as well--the restaurants, the bars, and the galleries where the glitterati of the art world actually hang out.

The Object of Beauty masquerades as a social satire--a sort of Bonfire of the Vanities, updated to cover the recent bubble in contemporary art--but really the book is a just a drab soap opera about the doings of one superficially hot but deeply unappealing young woman. Martin is too lazy or too diffident to try to describe this universe freshly or in any detail. Instead he lazily relies on knowingness. He drops names of famous people and famous restaurants without bothering in the slightest to tell you anything precise or new or imaginative about them. They are merely brands; shorthands for chic. If you already know what Sant'Ambroeus looks like, or who Bill Acquavella and Larry Gagosian are, you do not need to read the book. If you do not know who they are, or why they might have a claim on your time and attention, Martin will not tell you anything that will enable you to picture them. He does not even tell you why you should find them humanly interesting. All he makes you feel is that your ignorance should arouse your envy--that you, poor thing, are less fortunate than he and the fancy people in his book. The reader of this novel is like a tourist banished to the outside of the velvet rope.

What makes the book odder still is that when Martin does bother to take you inside this world by means of the fictional characters that he invents, he gets the scene nearly always wrong. Martin seemingly prides himself on being a collector, that is, on being himself a part of the scene that is his subject; but his insider's powers of observation have sorrily failed him here. The way people dress, how they talk, what they do: he misses almost all of it. He has put all this together out of banalities and cliches, as if he did his research by skimming back issues of Vanity Fair and watching re-runs of Sex and the City.

A small but typical example: a key character in the book is a European collector of paintings, and when he first appears he has oily hair and an open silk shirt, exposing gold chains and a hairy chest (like the characters in Martin's "Wild and Crazy Guys" skits). Later he is seen wearing an Armani suit. I have met hundreds of collectors in New York and elsewhere, and not one ever went about with an open shirt and gold chains or wore a suit that said Armani. Not one. The men tend to wear custom-made clothing, and in a range of styles of business attire. Other than the quality of the fabric and the stitching, which you have to look to see, rarely does it proclaim its high sartorial quality. It is not ostentatious, and it is not a recognizable brand. But with unintended irony, everything in Martin's book is a brand, a mass-produced badge of belonging to the elite.

Martin's personal experience of the art scene is presented as evidence of the book's accuracy--the jacket calls the novel "both a primer on the business of art and a close study of the personalities that make it run." So it is particularly remarkable how little he has troubled to learn about this world. Lacey Yeager works at Sotheby's, but she does not know that she can attend auctions there without an invitation (even many junior employees start handling telephone bids almost from the start). She works as a cataloguer for a year, but she is mystified the first time that she encounters measurements of a painting in centimeters, which are the standard unit of measure in the art world. She opens her gallery in Chelsea without capital or a financial backer--that is not merely fiction, it is magical realism; and she pays only $700 a month in rent for it -another fantasy. Details matter, especially in a book that is vain about its fidelity to details, and claims to possess an insider's authority.

The writing in the novel is by turns dull, flat, ugly, and inept. Especially grim are the passages when anyone says anything about art. For example: "However opposite these pictures were, they both worked as historical objects, and they worked as objects of beauty. While the Picasso was deep and serious, the Warhol was radiant and buoyant. The Picasso added up to the sum of its parts: artistic genius combined with powerful thought combined with prodigious skill combined with the guided hand equals masterpiece. The Warhol was more than the sum of its parts: silk-screen, photo image of popular actress, repetitive imagery, the unguided hand, equals . . . masterpiece." This is so bad, so silly, that one must charitably wonder if Martin means it to be a parody; but what it most resembles is the writing of a college student hurriedly answering an exam question. No dealer or critic, no one who really knows or cares about the history of art and aesthetics, would spout such vacant nonsense. Martin writes of people who "talk art," but no one in his book is actually capable of doing so, at least not in any interesting or arresting way.

Most of the time The Object of Beauty reads like a document of the values and the forces that it purports to expose. If it is a satire, it satirizes itself. Martin does not appear to have reflected very deeply on the people and the events and the artworks that he describes. His main objection to contemporary art is not to the art itself. It is that the scene is too much about celebrity and marketing, thereby turning art into a commodity. This is a perfectly fine objection, but it is also true of this complacent and forgettable book."

[...]

The actor and comedian Steve Martin has written a novel, AN OBJECT OF BEAUTY, that captures the contemporary art scene in all its sordid, devastating brilliance.

Once a generation, it seems, the art world comes under a scathing literary attack of satire that puts artists, collectors, dealers and art institutions in their proper place. Tom Wolfe did in 1975 in his savage satirical essay, "The Painted Word," to wit:

"Each new movement, each new ism in Modern Art was a declaration by the artists that they had a new way of seeing, which the rest of the world (read: the bourgeoisie) couldn't comprehend," wrote Wolfe. "'We understand!' said the culturati, thereby separating themselves also from the herd. But what inna namea Christ were the artists seeing? This was where theory came in. A hundred years before Art Theory had merely been something that enriched one's conversation in matters of Culture. Now it was an absolute necessity. It was no longer background music, it was an essential hormone in the mating ritual."

Compared to Wolfe, Martin at least has the courtesy to cloak his satirical criticism in fiction. His satire is kinder, gentler than Wolfe's outright attack on the fickle nature of modern art. That said, Martin's breezy but riveting contemporary tale of the art world is no less vital than Wolfe's harsh style. There is a lot of uncomfortable truth on the nature of art in both books.

Martin is a serious art collector and he clearly knows the world of art - as he should after spending millions of dollars on acquiring art. His knowledge of the art world is on display throughout this nuanced book.

The plot lines in AN OBJECT OF BEAUTY are, penetrating. There are sub plots that add continuity to the tapestry that Martin is trying to weave, but like the art world he is describing the book is transient. One art movement rises while another falls - all on the whims of dealers and collector. Artists (once they have conceived and created their art) have little to do with the process

The book tells the story of Lacey Yeager. In the beginning she is young, beautiful and only dimly aware of the art when she wins an entry-level a job at Sotheby's. But Lacey is also smart, and she uses her wile and her beauty to advance quickly in the Manhattan art world. The story of Lacey's rise in the art market is reported and told by a writer for the Art News, Daniel Chester French Franks, an astute observer who once (and only once) shared Lacey's bed during their long friendship.

Like Wolfe, Martin (through the narrator Daniel Franks) makes some astute observations on the state of American art:

On the vagaries of the value of a work of art: "The lure in art collecting and its financial rewards, not counting for a moment its aesthetic, cultural and intellectual rewards, is like the trust in paper money: it makes no sense when you really think about it. New artistic images are so vulnerable to opinion that it wouldn't take much more than a whim for a small group of collectors to decide that a contemporary artist was not so wonderful anymore, was so last year."

On the collapse of the art market following the 2009 financial crisis: "Art as an aesthetic principle was supported by thousands of years of discernment and psychic rewards, but art as a commodity was held up by air. The loss of confidence that affected banks and financial instruments was not affecting cherubs, cupids and flattened popes. The objects hadn't changed: what was there before was there after. But a vacancy was created with the clamoring crowds deserted and retrenched."

Readers familiar with the modern world of art will, no doubt, have fun identifying the models for the major players in this excellent novel. Barton Talley is a bulwark of integrity in the fickle Manhattan art world. He becomes Lacey's mentor (for a time), and instructs her in the intricate tactics and strategies in the art market. Talley runs an elegant gallery in a townhouse on East 78th street. In fact, there is a similar gallery in that location, run by an equally powerful contemporary dealer who deals in the masterpieces of the day (the reader will have to make that connection on his or her own).

Martin keeps his book topical. He takes us through the tragedy of Sept. 11, 2001 (just as Lacey mounts a major, hopefully lucrative exhibition), and he uses the 2008-09 financial crises to demonstrate just how fragile the art market can be. There are also cameo appearances in Martin's book by such well known glitterati as mega-dealer Larry Gagosian and Peter Schjeldahl, the art critic for the New Yorker magazine.

Finally (and importantly) like Wolfe in "The Painted Word," Martin incorporates reproductions of modern art into the narrative. These are exquisite reproductions that illustrate key junctures of the story of Lacey Yeager's rise in the intensely provocative Manhattan art scene. Martin has written and produced a very good book.

I really wanted to like An Object of Beauty: A Novel. The book itself is lovely to look at. It has a wonderful cover, art reproductions inside, and even the quality of the paper is great. I enjoyed Shopgirl: A Novella and it was with great anticipation that I started this book. It was downhill from page one.

The book is a first person narrative told by Daniel about his friend Lacey Yaeger. Lacey is in her early 20's when the book begins and is close to 40 when it ends. She starts off her art career in the basement of Sotheby's and tries to gain attention by her beauty and impeccable dressing, right for every occasion. This is a woman who turns heads but is as fickle as the weather. She gets fired from Sotheby's and it is not until the end of the book that the reader knows why. We learn that Lacey is a woman without scruples - with art, with men, with friends, and even with her family. She is the type of person who, if it was not such a fashion insult, would wear a t-shirt that says 'It's All About Me'.

Steve Martin writes with a dry style, similar to his humor, but the book just doesn't get off the ground floor. I understand the points he is making about art and about the art scene. He has a witty tongue describing collectors, artists, gallery owners and the surrounding crowds. He is trying to put into novel form much of what has been said in Seven Days in the Art World by Thornton. The reader is genuinely surprised, and at times disgusted about those 'objects' that are traded like commodities rather than as works of art. Artists are fodder for the galleries and, in flush economic times, art is flipped over much like real estate. In bad times, when the market is down, art follows. I get that. I get that good artists are often overlooked for artists of the same caliber or even worse. What I just could not get is the story itself. Lacey is a bore. She has no depth and nothing I could get my teeth into. I get that too. She's not supposed to be a person of depth, but this is a novel. I wanted to know something about her and the other characters, to FEEL them. The only one that had any gravitas was Patrice and he was put through Lacey's life grinder early on.

I love Mr. Martin's movies. Parenthood (Special Edition) is one of my favorites and I've seen it at least three times. He is amazing. His droll wit and sense of timing is impeccable. He's in a movie with Lili Tomlin, ALL OF ME, that I also love. They switch bodies by accident and try to get back to their own bodies. It's so laugh-out-loud funny that your tummy hurts after watching it. However, Mr. Martin's talents don't show up in this novel. Perhaps if he'd written a non-fiction book about the art world, it would have spoken to me.

I can tell that Mr. Martin knows art and loves it, thus his writing this novel. The best parts of the book were the non-fiction parts when he discussed art, objects of beauty and what they mean to different people at different times. There is a really funny and telling scene about Joseph Beuy's 'Felt Suit'. It made me laugh and it made me sad. Mr. Martin KNOWS art and those that surround it. I wish the novel could have succeeded. I'm sorry to have written this negative review as I respect the author so much.

Art is about beautiful objects, pairing, sculpture, music, and sometimes about people. The book does not deliver.

This is a story about Lacey Yeager, a newcomer to the art scene in New York City and what she will do to advance herself. It turns out that she will do just about anything, as will most of the characters in the story. Reading this book was like watching a train wreck. You know you should look away and say a prayer for the victims, but you just can't take your eyes away. There is no climax to the story, no good over evil, no "gotcha" moments where the bad guys get caught, there just a depressing tale of unfettered greed and ambition. Even the moments where Martin describes great art are tainted by the characters always putting a dollar sign in the piece in question.

The story is all about Lacey and noting else. Martin has created a character without depth, there are no complexities, no layers, no redeeming graces in her. In other words, there is no reason to like her or even to dislike her. She is what she is, vain, shallow and self serving. She is someone who if I meet her in real life, I would shrug off. Nothing there to be befriend.

The other main characters in the book are written in the same vein, and again there is no reason to like any of them. The book showcases a world of privilege and manipulation, both of people and money. Success is measured in how much money you have, how "smartly " you go about acquiring it. Money does not buy class and Martin demonstrates this very well. Relationships are not important and can be discarded as easily as trash, at least in this world view. Every person that comes into her life is judged for friendship or gain, in how she can use or abuse them. When it comes to use and abuse, Lacey is a master. She never seems to realize that those she uses are doing the same to her. Talley uses her to sell pictures, Patrice uses her as an object of gratification that can be exploited. Her two girlfriends in the story only interact minimally with her. Boyfriends are for drugs, sex and power. None of them seem to like her. The crowd that she so desperately wants to join, want nothing to do with her socially. The ones that have potential for her, she mocks and loses. In the end, she winds up the same way she lived her life in New York, alone.

Money and greed are universal themes, so are love and hate. Martin dwells exclusively on money and greed, and that, in my opinion makes this a inferior book. I expected more humanity in this novel, and Martin did not deliver.

Give Steve Martin credit for many things, but the one thing you have to give him the most credit for is he never sits still. Comedian, musician, actor, performer and writer he has done it all. This book is a toast to his talent. He is a great collector and his knowledge of art is shinning throughout this book. The story takes place over a decade and is the rise and fall of Lacey Yeager - think Paris Hilton with an eye and brain for art. She begins small, and all the curves the art world of New York has to throw at an attractive young up & comer, she handles and thrives. Martin gives a Jay McInerney - like voice of the art boom in the 1990's and mid 2000's. It is New York chic with the atmosphere, but Martin doesn't overdue it at all. His writting is very stylish, yet concise. It is a look into a world we all dream about. The narrator, Daniel Franks, is a close friend and sometime lover of Lacey's. Martin's work is always in some new direction and this book is one of his finer works.

Lacey Yeager is a villain. When you get right down to it, you see that she wants to conquer the (art) world and doesn't care how she does it or who she hurts in the process. And I like her for it. I know, it's weird. But she was a very well-written villain which makes you root for her and yet, at the same time despise her actions.

This book follows the art movements for at least twenty years, educating the reader about what goes on behind auction-house, gallery, and museum walls. Thousands and millions of dollars are being thrown at slabs of paint, depending on what's hip at the moment. Steve Martin goes into a lot of detail and shows that he's done his homework on everything art-related. I learned a lot, along with enjoying the story of Lacey. And I loved the examples of art that he included in the book.

We even hear about how art was affected through 9/11, as well as the economic collapse a few years later. The image of Lacey biking toward downtown Manhattan while the towers were smoking is quite vivid, as was her subsequent confusion. And then, years later, when she finally decided to invest with Talley right before the recession, the reader could do nothing but shake her head at the horrible timing.

Through all of this, Lacey is very detached. She commits a crime, and doesn't feel guilty. Men fall at her feet during her rise to the top, and she stomps on their hearts. She uses her grandmother's death to her advantage. Sounds quite supervillain-ish to me...And makes me wonder about Steve Martin's "Object" of Beauty. She was beautiful, but she was an object. A thing who's only emotion is ambition (is that even an emotion?). And in the end, she falls, as most supervillains do at the end of the superhero movie.

This may seem like an odd comparison to make, but what can I say, I can be an odd person sometimes. I really enjoyed the book, despite Lacey's indifference, and I loved the narrator, Daniel. He was very modest and down-to-earth and his courtship with Tanya was adorable. But of course, Lacey had to ruin even that. It's a very quick read and you'll be done with it in no time, and be wondering how Lacey could rise and fall so very quickly.

This book is slow in getting started, however, about half way through it picks up steam and carries the reader to the end. That said, it came across as a middle aged man's fantasy of an aggressive woman (Lacey), both in terms of her business savvy, as well as her willingness to use sex to get what she wants. It's a very typical and overused theme.

The book navigates the art world in a somewhat realistic manner, but it was rather silly to pepper the story with many non-fictional characters such as Larry Gagosian, who appears in every fictional book that is offering the reader a voyagers view into the back rooms of the art world. Mr. Martin is privy to the dealings of the art world as a collector himself which is obvious in his choice of illustrations and the art he elected to illuminate in the story (nice touch). But simply using the "names" of these real life dealers and galleries without any insight into their all too often "off putting" personalities was unnecessary. These names are really meaningless to people who don't know anything about the dealings of the art world, so why bother to use them at all? The book would have been better served to leave all the characters in the context of fiction.

Lastly, I give Mr. Martin credit for the ending. Karma bites, as it well should for these characters who so aptly mirror the all too often smarmy side of the art world, collectors and dealers a like.

Mr. Martin has some very pithy lines and passages where the book shines and overall I would say I enjoyed it, but it was missing something and never really ignited to it's full potential.

Neither plot nor character is the selling point of this novel. The heart of the story is what Martin has to say about art and the business of art. What is art and how do you assign a monitary value to an object? Well worth the read just to ponder this question.