The writer within tells this tale as if, being stuck in a mechanism, his only escape is through creating some truth he seeks, then, pressuring his listener into a condition of being convinced. His writing seeks redemption.
The main character, Jed, is written in chaos. As if being held hostage by the author and forced into revelation regarding his life.
Par. 1, p. 27 – Jed prefers contemporary artists to the masters. His goal for his entire scope of work was to offer description of the world, his idea of the world though constantly changing. He is written from some point in time within his life, viewing the entire picture of his life, without the author’s declaration of sequence… (par. 3, p. 26), it becomes all about time.
The story is told as if the writer/painter is able to move through time – as if he is evading the reader – running evasive maneuvers within his story using time as his storyteller’s mechanism. He writes as if painting a depiction of a life ‘accompli’ with the point of origin beginning at the point the reader currently reads. Barring the occasional, if passing, acknowledgement of advances through technology, the story does not make obvious its era. The result portrays time as a confusion of corridors in the storyteller’s repertoire. The first 85 pages devoted to ‘flashback’ – Jed, as already a succesful painter, painting a commissioned work. Jed, as a time traveler, reminiscing the meaning in his life, which lead him to this day. Jed, then, as a depressed creative, finding successful markets for his work, despite himself – he accuses his performance into existence.
Words for review:
gallerist – a livelihood involving the artistic display
vernissage – a « soiree » (p. 125); the opening day for an art exhibit
a fortiori – to give (giving) more reason
(I learned something)
The epitome of arrogant narcissism, Jed is written as the lusty, pompous, agonized creative success, the author taunts his story. He writes through memories from a position of judgment and accusal.
Horrific, this book is a torture mechanism devised to prune the reader’s intellect.
A gruesome method, this tale leaves the victimized reader to escape the trap created by his mechanized writing, to dissociate from this ‘house of horrors’ invented inside the writer’s conscience.
I didn’t like the book.
P. 261 (prayer-fully, the end is nigh) … « artistic egocentrism »
He gives an uncharacteristically brief assessment of the ‘typical’ display of such an ego in Jed’s self-centered query, as he wonders aloud if his work has had impact.
The ending is anti-climactic, both wordy and modest in its abundance.
It’s a tribute to the depths of despair, where criminally inept meets socially indifferent in search of … art, and finding only classic literary irony as a cultural stereotype.