What do you think?
Rate this book
Und Sie sind also der Künstler?
For Simon Bill's drunken anti-hero, an abstract artist forced to haunt private views to siphon the free booze, the picture looks bleak. He has been dumped by his curator girlfriend and the only dealer left with time for him is the one who sells him drugs. But his luck changes when he's offered a job as artist in residence at a neurological institute. Enthralled by the characters and conditions he encounters - and infatuated by the beautiful amnesiac Emily - he sees a chance to revive his career, and love life, with a neuro-inspired show. However, all is not quite as it seems at the shiny new institute ...
In this mordantly witty (modern) art farce, Simon Bill lifts the lid on the venal, novelty-seeking world of London's contemporary art scene, while enlightening us on the fascinating workings of the human brain, particularly as it shapes our response to art. The result is a delightfully dark, highly original novel that is both eye-opening and fun.
In this mordantly witty (modern) art farce, Simon Bill lifts the lid on the venal, novelty-seeking world of London's contemporary art scene, while enlightening us on the fascinating workings of the human brain, particularly as it shapes our response to art. The result is a delightfully dark, highly original novel that is both eye-opening and fun.
- GenresFiction
Hardcover
10 people are currently reading
82 people want to read
About the author
Unknown Author
4m books486 followersBooks with known authors are imported from Amazon to this profile. Please do not merge this profile into Unknown.
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 - 8 of 8 reviews
January 20, 2024
”As well as being arrogant, I’m actually quite timid. I’m not comfortable when being questioned.”
I have no idea how much of this book is based on the writer’s own experience as an artist. If it is semi-autobiographical, biographical or a complete work of fiction (all names have been changed to protect the identity of...etc). But I loved it! Who’d have thought that art and science, neuroscience to be precise, could dance so well together. Though the further I got into the book, the more it made sense.
This is all about brains. And how the brain maintains and looks after every single thought, movement, ability, and emotion. How when different parts of our brain don’t function as they should, either through illness, mishap or other, it completely changes the person.
”We don’t often realise the brain is doing something until an accident, or a disease, stops it.”
”The brain does money, language, wars, advertising, art, astronomy, astrology cookery, sarcasm, pedicures, parenthood, Bar Mitzvahs, jokes, furniture, spite. It does the Universe really.”
This is also about eyesight. How the sense that most of us know and take for granted when fully sighted, might not be what we assume. That the world isn’t really in colour, but instead the way the image is “read” by our retinas makes everything work out just so. There’s a really brilliant technical explanation in here, which I’ve just botched up. But you get the idea.
”Saying the world isn’t coloured is something neuroscientists like to do, because colour is a feature that can’t be verified or corroborated by any other sense.”
So we join our anonymous narrator who is a struggling artist (aren’t they all). Or perhaps he’s an artiste. Or (dare I say it) a bullsh*t artist, bludging off what food, booze and drugs he can cadge by attending other artist/artistes opening nights. But he’s not sold any paintings for fourteen months (WHY! He cries to his gallery dealer, at yet another art opening. Answer ”it’s because nobody likes them.” Ouch).
Money is getting tight (for booze, smokes and drugs). But luckily for our hapless narrator, on attending another artist’s opening night, he finds out that an artist residency role is up for grabs at the Norman Neurological Institute (NNI). Never mind that our anti-hero gets it by default (with the other artists in the interview process dropping out due to not being offered enough money and kudos). All our narrator wants (apart from cash for his essentials, see above), is a nice warm studio to work (and hopefully sleep) in over the Winter.
And so we begin this absolutely fascinating journey into the land of brains, neuroscience, sight, our senses, our everything, all told by our somewhat jaded artist.
I had zero aptitude for science at school, even though I enjoyed it. Perhaps if Simon Bill had been my science teacher, I would have passed with flying colours.
But the NNI has its own problems. Mainly funding. The whole reason they’re looking for an Artist-In-Residence is to get more money on board for their real work of better understanding and perhaps helping to heal the brain when it’s not working as it should. The trend du jour is “art therapy”, and so we have this wonderful mishmash of art, science and a bunch of interesting personalities.
A mix of folks with various brain and sight impairments attend the art classes (or workshops as it sounds more impressive). One of them being Emily. A pre Raphaelite beauty with auburn curls, who has a memory span of fifteen minutes, due to a viral infection she caught in Belize. Our narrator lusts after her something wicked. He wants to act on his impulses, but should he? Oddly enough, he struggles as to whether or not it’s ok to want to get into her knickers, when she’s unlikely to remember him for a span longer than a quarter of an hour. Moral dilemma!
”It’s possible I’m the only person in the world who would see someone so hopelessly impaired, so hospitalised, as a potential sexual partner...Fall in love with her, and become convinced she can love me back. I’m not in control, am I.”
What could possibly go wrong?
The tone of this book is so acerbic it would give vinegar a run for its money. It made me love it even more. Our narrator - for all his many foibles - cleverly and clearly shows up all the hypocrisy that goes on in the art, medical and corporate worlds. Along with the wonder (probably unintentionally) of how our minds and bodies work.
There are also crop circles and conspiracy theories, alongside the art, brain and sight topics.
Oh, and an art exhibition gets organised to display the works from the drawing workshops. Win-win all round? "Neuroaesthetics" is born.
I always love a book that has individual chapter titles. Why doesn’t anyone do that anymore? It seems to have fallen by the wayside, but it’s something that I really appreciate. That the author has taken the time and thought to name their chapters. And that chapter titles in this book had me cracking up.
Headings include I shouldn't have said that - Art therapy? - I find out what's going on around here - The soul - Jealousy - Conspiracy theories - it's all connected, and, My studio/study/office/room to name a few. Brilliant.
Something I found intriguing, is that an earlier reader (this being a library book), must have found it as interesting as me. As throughout the book, there were sentences and entire passages underlined with pencil. It made me wonder, what was it about this point that they found so fascinating? I wish I knew who they were.
This book is so underrated and I don’t know why. It’s such brilliant satire. A really wicked look at the contemporary art scene, the up and comers, the artist of the moment and the has beens. And an equally wicked peek at the non-science side of science, where doctors are forced to practically grovel for money, having to attend meetings to get (more of) it, rather than being able to focus on the medical and research side of their profession.
I really think if more people knew this book existed, they’d want to read it. It’s GREAT. If you enjoy a cheeky, no holds barred, dark humoured story, this is the one for you. As a bonus, you’ll learn a lot too. Come on folks, get on board!
Extra half star for having an immigrant from Romania named Trevor who attended the art workshops. That’s gold. 4.5* sneering stars. Loved!
Shout out to Randwick City Library for having this gem available. And for cleverly having it proudly displayed on a shelf where it caused me to pause and stop (and borrow it) as I was rushing out the library door.
I have no idea how much of this book is based on the writer’s own experience as an artist. If it is semi-autobiographical, biographical or a complete work of fiction (all names have been changed to protect the identity of...etc). But I loved it! Who’d have thought that art and science, neuroscience to be precise, could dance so well together. Though the further I got into the book, the more it made sense.
This is all about brains. And how the brain maintains and looks after every single thought, movement, ability, and emotion. How when different parts of our brain don’t function as they should, either through illness, mishap or other, it completely changes the person.
”We don’t often realise the brain is doing something until an accident, or a disease, stops it.”
”The brain does money, language, wars, advertising, art, astronomy, astrology cookery, sarcasm, pedicures, parenthood, Bar Mitzvahs, jokes, furniture, spite. It does the Universe really.”
This is also about eyesight. How the sense that most of us know and take for granted when fully sighted, might not be what we assume. That the world isn’t really in colour, but instead the way the image is “read” by our retinas makes everything work out just so. There’s a really brilliant technical explanation in here, which I’ve just botched up. But you get the idea.
”Saying the world isn’t coloured is something neuroscientists like to do, because colour is a feature that can’t be verified or corroborated by any other sense.”
So we join our anonymous narrator who is a struggling artist (aren’t they all). Or perhaps he’s an artiste. Or (dare I say it) a bullsh*t artist, bludging off what food, booze and drugs he can cadge by attending other artist/artistes opening nights. But he’s not sold any paintings for fourteen months (WHY! He cries to his gallery dealer, at yet another art opening. Answer ”it’s because nobody likes them.” Ouch).
Money is getting tight (for booze, smokes and drugs). But luckily for our hapless narrator, on attending another artist’s opening night, he finds out that an artist residency role is up for grabs at the Norman Neurological Institute (NNI). Never mind that our anti-hero gets it by default (with the other artists in the interview process dropping out due to not being offered enough money and kudos). All our narrator wants (apart from cash for his essentials, see above), is a nice warm studio to work (and hopefully sleep) in over the Winter.
And so we begin this absolutely fascinating journey into the land of brains, neuroscience, sight, our senses, our everything, all told by our somewhat jaded artist.
I had zero aptitude for science at school, even though I enjoyed it. Perhaps if Simon Bill had been my science teacher, I would have passed with flying colours.
But the NNI has its own problems. Mainly funding. The whole reason they’re looking for an Artist-In-Residence is to get more money on board for their real work of better understanding and perhaps helping to heal the brain when it’s not working as it should. The trend du jour is “art therapy”, and so we have this wonderful mishmash of art, science and a bunch of interesting personalities.
A mix of folks with various brain and sight impairments attend the art classes (or workshops as it sounds more impressive). One of them being Emily. A pre Raphaelite beauty with auburn curls, who has a memory span of fifteen minutes, due to a viral infection she caught in Belize. Our narrator lusts after her something wicked. He wants to act on his impulses, but should he? Oddly enough, he struggles as to whether or not it’s ok to want to get into her knickers, when she’s unlikely to remember him for a span longer than a quarter of an hour. Moral dilemma!
”It’s possible I’m the only person in the world who would see someone so hopelessly impaired, so hospitalised, as a potential sexual partner...Fall in love with her, and become convinced she can love me back. I’m not in control, am I.”
What could possibly go wrong?
The tone of this book is so acerbic it would give vinegar a run for its money. It made me love it even more. Our narrator - for all his many foibles - cleverly and clearly shows up all the hypocrisy that goes on in the art, medical and corporate worlds. Along with the wonder (probably unintentionally) of how our minds and bodies work.
There are also crop circles and conspiracy theories, alongside the art, brain and sight topics.
Oh, and an art exhibition gets organised to display the works from the drawing workshops. Win-win all round? "Neuroaesthetics" is born.
I always love a book that has individual chapter titles. Why doesn’t anyone do that anymore? It seems to have fallen by the wayside, but it’s something that I really appreciate. That the author has taken the time and thought to name their chapters. And that chapter titles in this book had me cracking up.
Headings include I shouldn't have said that - Art therapy? - I find out what's going on around here - The soul - Jealousy - Conspiracy theories - it's all connected, and, My studio/study/office/room to name a few. Brilliant.
Something I found intriguing, is that an earlier reader (this being a library book), must have found it as interesting as me. As throughout the book, there were sentences and entire passages underlined with pencil. It made me wonder, what was it about this point that they found so fascinating? I wish I knew who they were.
This book is so underrated and I don’t know why. It’s such brilliant satire. A really wicked look at the contemporary art scene, the up and comers, the artist of the moment and the has beens. And an equally wicked peek at the non-science side of science, where doctors are forced to practically grovel for money, having to attend meetings to get (more of) it, rather than being able to focus on the medical and research side of their profession.
I really think if more people knew this book existed, they’d want to read it. It’s GREAT. If you enjoy a cheeky, no holds barred, dark humoured story, this is the one for you. As a bonus, you’ll learn a lot too. Come on folks, get on board!
Extra half star for having an immigrant from Romania named Trevor who attended the art workshops. That’s gold. 4.5* sneering stars. Loved!
Shout out to Randwick City Library for having this gem available. And for cleverly having it proudly displayed on a shelf where it caused me to pause and stop (and borrow it) as I was rushing out the library door.
June 28, 2018
Surprised this book doesn't have a much higher star rating! Couldn't put it down, the characters were relatable, lovely, funny as hell.
Think perhaps you've had to be in drunken states to really appreciate it? Maybe.
It was so interesting as well, so many things I learnt about the brain! Really hope it was all factually accurate, if so it was well worth the read to have so much information represented in such a clear way (for the average, no degree/previous knowledge of brains) even if you hate the characters and the story.
I thought it was perfect, awesome work and read it all in about a week! Nice work :D
Think perhaps you've had to be in drunken states to really appreciate it? Maybe.
It was so interesting as well, so many things I learnt about the brain! Really hope it was all factually accurate, if so it was well worth the read to have so much information represented in such a clear way (for the average, no degree/previous knowledge of brains) even if you hate the characters and the story.
I thought it was perfect, awesome work and read it all in about a week! Nice work :D
September 13, 2018
Artist in Residence is a whole bunch of fun and contains many curious factoids about the brain's inner workings. Our protagonist, a shabby abstract painter in pursuit of the delectable amnesiac Emily, makes for a flawed yet likable hero whom I kept rooting for against my better judgement.
November 16, 2023
Ich muss jetzt hier den Klappentext einkopieren:
„Es läuft nicht gerade gut für den titelgebenden Künstler. Der Einzige, der ihm Aufmerksamkeit schenkt, ist sein Drogendealer. Bis er durch einen glücklichen Zufall ein Arbeitsstipendium an einem neurologischen Institut erhält, das alles verändert und ihm neuen Schwung verleiht. Die rettende Idee: eine von Neurowissenschaften inspirierte Ausstellung! Doch in dem verheißungsvollen Institut geht es abgedrehter zu als erwartet...
Mit beißendem Humor und Scharfsinn entlarvt Simon Bill in seiner (Modern-)Art-Farce die Korruption der Londoner Kunstszene in ihrer Besessenheit vom Aufspüren des neuesten Hypes. Nebenbei erfährt man kuriose Fakten über die Funktionsweise des Gehirns.“
Das hat mich nämlich sofort geflashed, das hörte sich nach einem Roman an, der in der zeitgenössischen Londoner Kunstszene spielt, und lies zusätzlich Witz, Satire, Komik vermuten. Und dann steht da noch, dass man nebenbei ein paar „fun-facts“ über die Funktionsweise des Gehirns erfährt. Hörte sich cool und vielversprechend an.
War es aber nicht. Und zwar sowas von überhaupt nicht.
Erzählt wird aus der Ich-Perspektive des besagten Londoner Künstlers. Der kriegt es irgendwie nicht ganz gebacken, als Künstler richtig anerkannt zu werden, und ist mit – wenn ich es richtig in Erinnerung habe – Mitte 30 auch noch nicht wirklich klar in seinem Leben angekommen. Er schafft es aber, in einem neurowissenschaftlichen Institut einen Job zu ergattern, und soll eine Ausstellung zum Thema Neurowissenschaften organisieren. Dabei trifft er auf Patienten, die teils unter sehr seltenen und skurrilen Gehirnschädigungen leiden, und die er in Zeichenworkshops unterrichtet. Soviel zum Erzählstrang. Das könnte man jetzt auch in relativ kurzer Zeit erzählen. Richtig aufgebläht wird der Roman nun aber durch epische Anatomie-Vorlesungen. Anstatt der erwarteten kurzen fun-facts habe ich stundenlange Vorträge zur Funktionalität des Gehirns bekommen. Die jeweiligen Patienten in dem Neuro-Hospital haben mit ihren Problemen hierzu immer den Startschuss gegeben: anhand eben dieser Problematiken wird dem Hörer / Leser detailliert doziert, wie Wahrnehmung funktioniert, welcher Gehirnteile für was genau da sind etc. pp. Das war kein „nebenbei erfahren Sie ein paar witzige Dinge“, das waren Anatomievorlesungen par Excellence. Hin und wieder unterbrochen durch die eigentliche Erzählung.
Tja, was soll ich sagen? Ich interessiere mich durchaus für die Funktionsweise des menschlichen Körpers, ich bin zwar kein Gehirnchirurg, aber habe beruflich bedingt mir ein solides Anatomiegrundwissen aneignen müssen und auch der Aufbau des Gehirns ist mir wohlbekannt. Ich bin also ein bissle mehr als ein interessierter Laie. Ich schicke das jetzt voraus, denn ich habe die ersten Stunden dieses Hörbuchs auf einer langen Autofahrt gehört, auf der ich nicht alleine war, und meine nicht-medizinisch-bewanderten Mithörer sind nach der ersten halben Stunde ausgestiegen. Und mir wurde es auch irgendwann zu viel. Hier wird echt aus einem Anatomiebuch vorgelesen, mit allen lateinischen Fachbegriffen, und sorry, das war zu viel.
Wer sich als interessierter Laie für sowas interessiert, sollte sich ein Fachbuch kaufen, die glänzen nämlich zusätzlich mit bunten Bildchen und Graphiken, da hat man mehr von.
Ja, ich habe mich echt gefragt, was das soll. Was für ein merkwürdiger Mix aus halbfertigem Roman und wissenschaftlicher Vorlesung.
Einzig der Sprecher hat mich noch ein paar weitere Stunden bei der Stange gehalten. Hans Löw hat eine dunkle, sehr angenehme Stimme, die mich von der Klangfarbe und der Betonung her an den deutschen Synchronsprecher von Bruce Willis erinnert hat. Okay, was soll ich sagen, dem Mann kann man zuhören, auch wenn er Telefonbücher vorlesen sollte 😊.
Wie soll ich das Werk jetzt gescheit beurteilen? Inhalt 1 Stern, Sprecher 5 Sterne. Ergibt gesamt dann 3. Empfehlen würde ich es jetzt trotzdem nicht. Schade.
Trotzdem: Danke an den Verlag und Netgalley für das Rezensionsexemplar. War leider nicht meins.
„Es läuft nicht gerade gut für den titelgebenden Künstler. Der Einzige, der ihm Aufmerksamkeit schenkt, ist sein Drogendealer. Bis er durch einen glücklichen Zufall ein Arbeitsstipendium an einem neurologischen Institut erhält, das alles verändert und ihm neuen Schwung verleiht. Die rettende Idee: eine von Neurowissenschaften inspirierte Ausstellung! Doch in dem verheißungsvollen Institut geht es abgedrehter zu als erwartet...
Mit beißendem Humor und Scharfsinn entlarvt Simon Bill in seiner (Modern-)Art-Farce die Korruption der Londoner Kunstszene in ihrer Besessenheit vom Aufspüren des neuesten Hypes. Nebenbei erfährt man kuriose Fakten über die Funktionsweise des Gehirns.“
Das hat mich nämlich sofort geflashed, das hörte sich nach einem Roman an, der in der zeitgenössischen Londoner Kunstszene spielt, und lies zusätzlich Witz, Satire, Komik vermuten. Und dann steht da noch, dass man nebenbei ein paar „fun-facts“ über die Funktionsweise des Gehirns erfährt. Hörte sich cool und vielversprechend an.
War es aber nicht. Und zwar sowas von überhaupt nicht.
Erzählt wird aus der Ich-Perspektive des besagten Londoner Künstlers. Der kriegt es irgendwie nicht ganz gebacken, als Künstler richtig anerkannt zu werden, und ist mit – wenn ich es richtig in Erinnerung habe – Mitte 30 auch noch nicht wirklich klar in seinem Leben angekommen. Er schafft es aber, in einem neurowissenschaftlichen Institut einen Job zu ergattern, und soll eine Ausstellung zum Thema Neurowissenschaften organisieren. Dabei trifft er auf Patienten, die teils unter sehr seltenen und skurrilen Gehirnschädigungen leiden, und die er in Zeichenworkshops unterrichtet. Soviel zum Erzählstrang. Das könnte man jetzt auch in relativ kurzer Zeit erzählen. Richtig aufgebläht wird der Roman nun aber durch epische Anatomie-Vorlesungen. Anstatt der erwarteten kurzen fun-facts habe ich stundenlange Vorträge zur Funktionalität des Gehirns bekommen. Die jeweiligen Patienten in dem Neuro-Hospital haben mit ihren Problemen hierzu immer den Startschuss gegeben: anhand eben dieser Problematiken wird dem Hörer / Leser detailliert doziert, wie Wahrnehmung funktioniert, welcher Gehirnteile für was genau da sind etc. pp. Das war kein „nebenbei erfahren Sie ein paar witzige Dinge“, das waren Anatomievorlesungen par Excellence. Hin und wieder unterbrochen durch die eigentliche Erzählung.
Tja, was soll ich sagen? Ich interessiere mich durchaus für die Funktionsweise des menschlichen Körpers, ich bin zwar kein Gehirnchirurg, aber habe beruflich bedingt mir ein solides Anatomiegrundwissen aneignen müssen und auch der Aufbau des Gehirns ist mir wohlbekannt. Ich bin also ein bissle mehr als ein interessierter Laie. Ich schicke das jetzt voraus, denn ich habe die ersten Stunden dieses Hörbuchs auf einer langen Autofahrt gehört, auf der ich nicht alleine war, und meine nicht-medizinisch-bewanderten Mithörer sind nach der ersten halben Stunde ausgestiegen. Und mir wurde es auch irgendwann zu viel. Hier wird echt aus einem Anatomiebuch vorgelesen, mit allen lateinischen Fachbegriffen, und sorry, das war zu viel.
Wer sich als interessierter Laie für sowas interessiert, sollte sich ein Fachbuch kaufen, die glänzen nämlich zusätzlich mit bunten Bildchen und Graphiken, da hat man mehr von.
Ja, ich habe mich echt gefragt, was das soll. Was für ein merkwürdiger Mix aus halbfertigem Roman und wissenschaftlicher Vorlesung.
Einzig der Sprecher hat mich noch ein paar weitere Stunden bei der Stange gehalten. Hans Löw hat eine dunkle, sehr angenehme Stimme, die mich von der Klangfarbe und der Betonung her an den deutschen Synchronsprecher von Bruce Willis erinnert hat. Okay, was soll ich sagen, dem Mann kann man zuhören, auch wenn er Telefonbücher vorlesen sollte 😊.
Wie soll ich das Werk jetzt gescheit beurteilen? Inhalt 1 Stern, Sprecher 5 Sterne. Ergibt gesamt dann 3. Empfehlen würde ich es jetzt trotzdem nicht. Schade.
Trotzdem: Danke an den Verlag und Netgalley für das Rezensionsexemplar. War leider nicht meins.
May 25, 2016
A broke and failing artist manages to nab a residency at a neurological clinic – by default (no one else wants the post). He passes through the usual phases: enjoying his good fortune, despising – or lusting after – the patients, questioning himself, hating himself then finding redemption in a new-found respect for his own work and learning to respect and even love the people around him. It’s not a very fresh plot, but it is very interestingly told and full of amusing insights into the art world and the mind of the artist and the art world.
Ironically, I find myself in two minds about this novel. My opinion divides as the book divides, into two very distinct parts. I enjoyed the drunken, amoral ramblings of the artist himself; the glimpses into the modern art world (the author is an artist so I assume this an exaggeration based on reality – or maybe not so exaggerated). I found the constantly dark, egotistical, cynical freeloading and sneering got quite disturbing after a while; if you’re looking for a positive world-view, this is not the book for you. It is occasionally very funny indeed -
‘Have you ever been to a private view before, Ben?’
‘No, but it’s exactly how I’d imagined.’
‘I know. That’s hat’s so weird about this private view. It’s weirdly like how people imagine them.’
He seemed puzzled by this remark but, rather than pursue it, asked if I liked the paining we were stood in front of.
‘Ben, it’s shit. Obviously.’
These chapters are the best of it, and they are few and far between, set between very long stretches of very detailed neuroscience and I could have managed without all that. The very little we needed to make sense of the tale would have sufficed, I really didn’t need page after page after page of it; I can get all that (and more fascinatingly told) from Oliver Sachs. There’s a fair bit of art history and criticism too, which is a bit more interesting than the science (since it is old with considerably more insight; it’s not just regurgitation, the author knows his stuff, and is on more solid ground). The two sort-of come together to give a philosophy of modern artistic thinking, which he neatly sums up as:
‘I can’t like gardens because I’m supposed to like gardens so if I do it’s not really me liking gardens.’ It’s a post-Warhol lament for the loss of gardens.
More stories, more characters, a bit less of the science and less of the artist lusting after one of the patients would have made for a better read. I would have liked to see a year in the life of this rather hopeless alcoholic as he worked with the patients and became involved in their lives and the life of the clinic; the melding of art, social science and people watching that Grayson Perry does so well. But that’s not really where this story goes. Where it does go is down a rather deep hole, emerging again, but never quite recovering fully – a bit like the character himself. There’s not an awful lot to the story, really. I really do feel it would have been better taken in other directions. Which is not to say I didn’t enjoy it, because I did, but I did an awful lot of skimming too.
Ironically, I find myself in two minds about this novel. My opinion divides as the book divides, into two very distinct parts. I enjoyed the drunken, amoral ramblings of the artist himself; the glimpses into the modern art world (the author is an artist so I assume this an exaggeration based on reality – or maybe not so exaggerated). I found the constantly dark, egotistical, cynical freeloading and sneering got quite disturbing after a while; if you’re looking for a positive world-view, this is not the book for you. It is occasionally very funny indeed -
‘Have you ever been to a private view before, Ben?’
‘No, but it’s exactly how I’d imagined.’
‘I know. That’s hat’s so weird about this private view. It’s weirdly like how people imagine them.’
He seemed puzzled by this remark but, rather than pursue it, asked if I liked the paining we were stood in front of.
‘Ben, it’s shit. Obviously.’
These chapters are the best of it, and they are few and far between, set between very long stretches of very detailed neuroscience and I could have managed without all that. The very little we needed to make sense of the tale would have sufficed, I really didn’t need page after page after page of it; I can get all that (and more fascinatingly told) from Oliver Sachs. There’s a fair bit of art history and criticism too, which is a bit more interesting than the science (since it is old with considerably more insight; it’s not just regurgitation, the author knows his stuff, and is on more solid ground). The two sort-of come together to give a philosophy of modern artistic thinking, which he neatly sums up as:
‘I can’t like gardens because I’m supposed to like gardens so if I do it’s not really me liking gardens.’ It’s a post-Warhol lament for the loss of gardens.
More stories, more characters, a bit less of the science and less of the artist lusting after one of the patients would have made for a better read. I would have liked to see a year in the life of this rather hopeless alcoholic as he worked with the patients and became involved in their lives and the life of the clinic; the melding of art, social science and people watching that Grayson Perry does so well. But that’s not really where this story goes. Where it does go is down a rather deep hole, emerging again, but never quite recovering fully – a bit like the character himself. There’s not an awful lot to the story, really. I really do feel it would have been better taken in other directions. Which is not to say I didn’t enjoy it, because I did, but I did an awful lot of skimming too.
August 2, 2019
Write about what you know is the advice often given to budding authors. Simon Bill has brought together his knowledge and experience of the art world and his clear fascination with and knowledge gained through study of the brain. A unique book which is very readable and has a dry, dark humour which made me chuckle aloud at times. Not sure if it was enhanced by the graphic descriptions of the chief character's sexual fantasies and his masturbation habits. A bit too blokey for me there. Would hesitate to recommend to friends because of that and that is what prevented me from rating it higher. Despite this, the novel has a thoughtful side in questioning how vulnerable people might be exploited in the ubiquitous artistic quest for a novel angle to explore and exactly who profits from that at the end of the day, at the same time taking a poke at some of the ways the art world might take itself a little too seriously.
November 25, 2019
The protagonist is a self-indulged, whiny bore. The women are one-dimensionally beautiful, brainless, or bitchy. In fact, the woman of his dreams is a pre-Raphaelite bombshell who can’t remember anything for more than fifteen minutes. And so, the hapless protagonist sets his sights on having sex with her. Yuck.
October 2, 2016
There were some encouragingly funny moments in this novel, but it ran out of energy very early on. Aspects of this book were so distasteful and the protagonist was so unlikeable that I rushed to finish.
Displaying 1 - 8 of 8 reviews