This shit had me looking over my shoulder waiting for some psychotic photographers to come seize me and force my expat life into one of tortured muse-dom. Okay, not really, but this book really excelled in evoking a heavy sense of dread, even in its most mundane scenes. You watch Alice, an early-twenties French girl in NYC for an internship, make a series of bad decisions that lead her into the clutches of two acolytes of “Real Photography”, dead set on morphing her into their latest (literally) tortured muse.
But vibes do not a well-written book make. The story is set in the past and told in the second person by Alice, her boyfriend, and her boyfriend’s partner-in-crime, Léonore. Although it’s not actually Léonore who narrates her sections; it’s an unknown party addressing her. This device feels contrived and more like a stumbling block than any sort of sly literary trick, even after the big reveal. Throughout the book, the narrative tone leaves little doubt as to whether or not the whole affair will blow up in their face, and once the big reveal does happen it blows over in a few pages without really answering any questions.
I’m not usually one to poke holes in plots, but the writing throughout was so distant and bland that I had little else to focus on. There's no strong emotional pull that could explain Alice's thoughtless devotion to her boyfriend of a couple months or her acceptance of such abysmal treatment, aside from generic body issues, the impossibility of living in New York City on a limited budget, and being foreign (though that last argument is less believable for a Parisian intern at a cultural institution in the US than it would be for... an actual immigrant, for example).
Ultimately this story works more as a synopsis than a novel. I loved the idea of it, and I was continuously intrigued by the little villains’ photography manifestos and the idea of sacrificing oneself (or another) to art. I felt the horror of it; I could almost picture the movie version in my head, but I just couldn’t buy into it fully because the characters’ motivations made little sense, and more ink was spent telling than showing—and there was some crazy shit to show.