Rebecca Scherm's debut novel enters into a lively subgenre of literary fiction: narratives about artistic forgery, theft, and black-market trafficking. Think of Patricia Highsmith's Ripley Underground, Peter Carey's Theft, Siri Hustvedt's What I Loved, Elizabeth Kostova's Swan Thief, and, most recently, Donna Tartt's The Goldfinch. And I am a sucker for this stuff! I think it's because I'm a professor in the beleaguered humanities. These novels let me indulge in the fantasy that art objects are not just the stuff of a college major that will render you unemployable; they are instead the objects of international criminal intrigue!
Unfortunately, Scherm's novel did not impress me as a major or memorable contribution to the genre.
The plot is straightforward: Grace is a teenager benignly neglected by her middle-class parents in her small-town Tennessee community. She is all-but-adopted by the more aristocratic family of her high school boyfriend Riley. By age 17, Grace has acquired an improbable expertise in antiques. She, Riley, and their quasi-delinquent friend Allston steal a painting and some other objects from from a local historical site. The boys are caught and serve a three-year prison term, but Grace absconds with the painting to Europe, sells it, loses the money, assumes a false identity, starts work in a shop that restores antiques. The boys are released from prison and she worries about being unmasked.
The prose is competent, sometimes surprising and beautiful. Take this description of an antique box Grace wants to restore: "She would have to teach herself [the artist's] gilding process in order to convincingly fill the chips and scratches. She relished every injury, running her fingers very lightly over them as if they were sensitive bruises. Each one was a chance. She would repair them all." Not bad, right? Even with that split infinitive?
But here and throughout the novel, the sensitivity and attention lavished on objects has to substitute for full characterization. Grace falls in love twice in this novel; neither time does the narrative provide any sense of what is compelling about either man. Nor does it make Grace seem enticing enough to justify the criminal lengths to which these men are willing to go for her. It offers no insight into the psychological strain that might be caused by shedding one's nationality, identity, and acquaintances and expatriating to a different country. The "bruises" on that gilded box are the closest we get to the topography of Grace's emotional life. After three years--by which time Grace has reached the ancient age of 21 or 22--she has unconvincingly acquired a world-weary sang-froid, as well as the expertise of a virtuosic antiques restorer.
If Scherm took this conceit all the way, it could work beautifully. If Grace were actually a sociopath--someone whose emotional life is internally dead, but manifests itself in the objects to which she ministers--then the novel could work. That's sort of what happens in Highsmith's novels: the desert of Ripley's interior is belied by the opulence of his decadent material life. But instead, the narrative gives us meager, anemic explanations for Grace's choices and transformations. Her parents never loved her enough, so she wanted the approval of her boyfriend's mom. She is emotionally crippled in college because she is still dating her middle-school boyfriend. Her unrealized passion for Allston has sustained her throughout her secret life. These rationales ring hollow and trite.
All of that said, I read this book in one night. The plot was intriguing enough; the pacing was good; the prose was mostly precise and sometimes surprising in the best ways. The premise of artistic restoration and forgery as an allegory of human deception has enormous potential. But finally, the sentence that sticks with me most--and not for the right reasons--is this one, in which Grace describes both a teapot she has imperfectly restored and her own assumed identity: "[S]he had never forgotten the truth. She'd told shoddy lies. The story was pale and underdeveloped and looked like the imposter it was." Alas, after a full reading, that sentence becomes a meta-commentary on Unbecoming.
[I received this book for free through Goodreads First Reads.]