The Muralist by B.A. Shapiro

Rating: ★ ★ ★ ☆ ☆

Obtained from: Netgalley/Local Library

Read: August 25, 2016

Alizée Benoit, an American painter working for the Works Progress Administration (WPA), vanishes in New York City in 1940 amid personal and political turmoil. No one knows what happened to her. Not her Jewish family living in German-occupied France. Not her artistic patron and political compatriot, Eleanor Roosevelt. Not her close-knit group of friends, including Mark Rothko, Jackson Pollock, and Lee Krasner. And, some seventy years later, not her great-niece, Danielle Abrams, who while working at Christie’s auction house uncovers enigmatic paintings hidden behind recently found works by those now famous Abstract Expressionist artists. Do they hold answers to the questions surrounding her missing aunt? Entwining the lives of both historical and fictional characters, and moving between the past and the present, The Muralist plunges readers into the divisiveness of prewar politics and the largely forgotten plight of European refugees refused entrance to the United States. It captures both the inner workings of today’s New York art scene and the beginnings of the vibrant and quintessentially American school of Abstract Expressionism. B.A. Shapiro is a master at telling a gripping story while exploring provocative themes. In Alizée and Danielle she has created two unforgettable women, artists both, who compel us to ask, What happens when luminous talent collides with inexorable historical forces? Does great art have the power to change the world? And to what lengths should a person go to thwart evil?

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B.A. Shapiro’s The Muralist has occupied a spot on my TBR longer than I care to admit. The subject matter intrigued me and I have always been intrigued by the face on the cover, but the book never demanded my immediate attention. It wasn’t until recently, in an effort to clean up my review backlog, that I turned my eye to the narrative and borrowed an audio edition from my local library.

Before I get too far ahead of myself, I want to say that I loved Xe Sands’ narration. I listened to this volume on the heels of Donna Thorland’s The Turncoat and couldn’t believe the contrast. Madeleine Lambert butchered the latter volume while Sands enhanced former. There is passion in Sands’ interpretation and I felt the subtle artistry of her tones complimented the text very nicely.

As far as the story goes, I feel the novel has a lot going for it. Shapiro explores the foundations of abstract expressionism by associating Alizée with Lee Krasner, Jackson Pollock, and Mark Rothko and I found the chapters dedicated their art absolutely fascinating. I thought Shapiro’s illustration of the artist community brilliant and I liked the attention she paid both the creativity and neurosis that characterized their company.

I felt the story took a hard turn when Eleanor Roosevelt entered Alizée’s world and I'm not sure it was for the better. The two women seemed to share an unnaturally close bond and the relationship didn’t feel authentic in my eyes. I liked the idea of the Breckinridge Long plot line, but in looking at the novel as a whole I felt there was too much going on. Alizée’s art and her personal troubles were more than enough and I found supplementing it with a political intrigue overwhelming.

I was equally unimpressed with the modern story line. Dani Abrams bored me and the conclusion of her experiences seemed heavy-handed, melodramatic, and overly coincidental. Here again I felt Alizée’s story could have carried itself and I have no problem admitting that I didn’t have much appreciation for her downtrodden and hopelessly clichéd niece.

Historically speaking, I liked how Shapiro described New York and American views of the day, but I can’t say I was particularly moved or impressed with the scenes that played out in France. I don’t know why, but that setting never came alive for me and I couldn’t help feeling those chapters were dominated by fact dumps and long winded exposition.

In sum, I liked the book and enjoyed the ideas and thoughts it inspired. I can’t say it my all-time favorite read, but I would definitely recommend it to fellow readers, especially those with an interest in art history.

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“You know,” Franklin said pointedly, “this is a Protestant country, and the Jews are here under sufferance. It’s my decision who gets visas and who doesn’t, and it’s up to the citizenry to go along with what I want.”

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Let Me Tell You About a Man I Knew by Susan Fletcher

Rating: ★ ★ ★ ☆ ☆

Obtained from: Netgalley

Read: May 26, 2016

No one knows the name of 'the painter' who comes to the asylum in St Remy in the south of France, but they see his wild, red hair and news of his savaged ear soon circulates in the village and comes to the notice of the wife of the asylum's doctor. She feels herself drawn to him and learns that his presence is disturbing - and not just to her either. But back she goes - again and again. Until she is banned, but still she makes her way over the wall, through the garden to talk to this apparently mad and passionate man. And the consequences of her indiscretion, of what van Gogh comes to mean to her, of what it will do to her marriage, her life once she has touched danger and passion will have far reaching effects - both surprisingly catastrophic and tender.

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As I write this commentary, only fourteen readers have rated Susan Fletcher’s Let Me Tell You About a Man I Knew on Goodreads. Seven have issued the book a flawless five stars, while another six have issued appreciative fours. Only one reader has gone lower and in all honesty, I’m quite comfortable being a lone dissenter. What works for one reader doesn’t always work for another and there’s nothing wrong with that so long as we can respect the subjective nature of reviews and the diverse opinions they represent.

Getting back to the story at hand, I found Fletcher’s prose beautiful and thought her descriptions of the asylum of Saint Paul de Mausole in Provence strikingly original. I was familiar with Van Gogh before reading this piece, but this is the first time I’ve seen any part of his life fictionalized and I found a lot of merit in Fletcher’s characterization of the famed artist. That said, I struggled with the author’s tone and found it incredibly difficult to get lost in her narrative. 

Fletcher’s work is intensely introspective. The approach holds a lot of appeal for some readers, but my tastes are a little different. I liked Jeanne well-enough, but her marital problems and personal trials didn’t interest me. I found the development and pacing ponderous and often caught my mind wandering to more immersive fiction. There’s something to be said Fletcher’s themes, the oppressive loneliness of an empty marriage and the fragility of broken souls, but I favor more energetic fiction with overt movement and dramatic intrigue. 

In sum, Let Me Tell You About a Man I Knew was not my kind of book. I liked the story, but wasn’t inspired by it. The characters didn’t take up residence in my mind’s eye or capture my imagination. I appreciate the piece for its historic scope, but don’t think I’ll be recommending it to other readers very often. 

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"More than yellow. Cadmium yellow. It’s in grass and dry earth, in mornings. I did sunflowers in Arles. This colour –" he speaks more softly now, as if confiding – "this is the colour of life to me. This, and the blue; I favour them together because there are some colours that bring out the brightness in another."

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