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Love Object: A Gothic Fantasy
An erotic Gothic fantasy of a woman who builds her own dream lover.
- GenresFiction
198 pages, Hardcover
First published July 1, 1984
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Displaying 1 - 5 of 5 reviews
October 15, 2018
such an odd book.
synopsis: wayward artist spends her time assembling parts to build her perfect man. surprising things occur.
hard to classify. bizarre fantasy... postmodern romance... portrait of erotic fixation... story of an artist luxuriating in wish fulfillment... or some sort of modern fable? I dunno. one thing it's not is "gothic" so ignore that subtitle. the book is a modern one in all aspects, save for its heroine's obsession with Apollo's hot bod.
oh, Apollo. he may be pretty but he can also be pretty uptight and inflexible; not my favorite sort of god. I'm glad that the novel's focus moved to that much more relaxed party boy, Dionysus. who doesn't like Dionysus? he radiates charisma. Love Object also makes it clear that Dion doesn't suffer from that modern ill of homophobia and knows how to have a fun time in a gay bar. good for him!
this is sorta the visual I had of our protagonist's pièce de résistance... although this likely lad is neither Apollo nor Dionysus, it's Priapus (forgive my wolf codpiece, but I'd rather not have this review flagged; let's just say he's bringing some meat to that mise):
Cunningham's writing style is impressive. this is not a straightforward genre novel like apparently the rest of the author's body of work. he appeared to have been heavily influenced by the rich river of postmodern fiction flooding the shelves of the mid-80s. the prose herks and jerks all over the place, from stream of consciousness to sardonic descriptions of Sally's chaotic life to deadpan comic scenes to dreamy moments of weirdness. I loved how footloose and fancy free the storytelling turned out to be. quite a surprise.
the heroine's characterization was also surprising. so insular, so off-kilter. man-crazy but not remotely on the make. hungry for a perfect male body but not really hungry for a man. for Sally, art comes first. in Love Object, her search for the perfect dude - or at least the parts that will serve as models for that dude - is actually a longing for creating her perfect work of art. she's pure artist, living only for that art, as the rest of her life spins carelessly out of control. at least until that charmer Dionysus decides to give her a helping hand, and dick.
synopsis: wayward artist spends her time assembling parts to build her perfect man. surprising things occur.
hard to classify. bizarre fantasy... postmodern romance... portrait of erotic fixation... story of an artist luxuriating in wish fulfillment... or some sort of modern fable? I dunno. one thing it's not is "gothic" so ignore that subtitle. the book is a modern one in all aspects, save for its heroine's obsession with Apollo's hot bod.
oh, Apollo. he may be pretty but he can also be pretty uptight and inflexible; not my favorite sort of god. I'm glad that the novel's focus moved to that much more relaxed party boy, Dionysus. who doesn't like Dionysus? he radiates charisma. Love Object also makes it clear that Dion doesn't suffer from that modern ill of homophobia and knows how to have a fun time in a gay bar. good for him!
this is sorta the visual I had of our protagonist's pièce de résistance... although this likely lad is neither Apollo nor Dionysus, it's Priapus (forgive my wolf codpiece, but I'd rather not have this review flagged; let's just say he's bringing some meat to that mise):
Cunningham's writing style is impressive. this is not a straightforward genre novel like apparently the rest of the author's body of work. he appeared to have been heavily influenced by the rich river of postmodern fiction flooding the shelves of the mid-80s. the prose herks and jerks all over the place, from stream of consciousness to sardonic descriptions of Sally's chaotic life to deadpan comic scenes to dreamy moments of weirdness. I loved how footloose and fancy free the storytelling turned out to be. quite a surprise.
the heroine's characterization was also surprising. so insular, so off-kilter. man-crazy but not remotely on the make. hungry for a perfect male body but not really hungry for a man. for Sally, art comes first. in Love Object, her search for the perfect dude - or at least the parts that will serve as models for that dude - is actually a longing for creating her perfect work of art. she's pure artist, living only for that art, as the rest of her life spins carelessly out of control. at least until that charmer Dionysus decides to give her a helping hand, and dick.
April 11, 2015
What the blazes ... This has to be one of the weirdest books I've ever read.
Sally Prentz is an artist who sets out to create the perfect man. I'm not sure why. I guess she's had bad experiences with regular men, who she refers to as "blue-veined throbbers." Now she wants a god, and not just some guy who thinks he's a god. The answer? Plaster molds and polyvinyl casts.
She chases down body parts for her perfect sculpture, getting a chest from a replica of "David," the arms from some scuzzy biker dude, the hands of her skeevy dentist landlord, etc. The project obsesses her, much to the concern of her roommate (she of the "creamy" neck), but eventually she succeeds! And her sculpture comes to life in the form of Dionysus!
Like that, but hotter.
There we go.
What follows is a sort of madcap jumble toward an inevitable end. Dionysus is obsessed with wine ("the grape") and barely makes sense when he talks. The rest of the characters hardly ever act in accordance with acceptable human behavior. There were typos scattered throughout. It's not like I haven't read weird books before, but this was just so freakin' bizarre! I had no idea what to make of the characters or the story itself. Like, WHY was this written? It's called a gothic fantasy, but I didn't find it gothic at all. Fantastical? Sure. Insane? Uh, yeah.
And yet ... it was strangely enjoyable overall.
I just don't know.
Sally Prentz is an artist who sets out to create the perfect man. I'm not sure why. I guess she's had bad experiences with regular men, who she refers to as "blue-veined throbbers." Now she wants a god, and not just some guy who thinks he's a god. The answer? Plaster molds and polyvinyl casts.
She chases down body parts for her perfect sculpture, getting a chest from a replica of "David," the arms from some scuzzy biker dude, the hands of her skeevy dentist landlord, etc. The project obsesses her, much to the concern of her roommate (she of the "creamy" neck), but eventually she succeeds! And her sculpture comes to life in the form of Dionysus!
Like that, but hotter.
There we go.
What follows is a sort of madcap jumble toward an inevitable end. Dionysus is obsessed with wine ("the grape") and barely makes sense when he talks. The rest of the characters hardly ever act in accordance with acceptable human behavior. There were typos scattered throughout. It's not like I haven't read weird books before, but this was just so freakin' bizarre! I had no idea what to make of the characters or the story itself. Like, WHY was this written? It's called a gothic fantasy, but I didn't find it gothic at all. Fantastical? Sure. Insane? Uh, yeah.
And yet ... it was strangely enjoyable overall.
I just don't know.
July 16, 2018
This is a freaky gothic fantasy from the master of description about a woman who builds her perfect man, set apart from swinging dicks, or "blue-veined robbers," as Sally, the anti-hero, puts it. I didn't like it as much as his horror novels, but it's definitely his magnum opus.
September 8, 2020
What an odd book. It's a retelling of Pygmalion with a woman as the besotted artist, which is a great premise! And the artist is nice and thoroughly unlikable, which again, is great for a woman lead! However, the execution of this unlikable character ends up being very masculine. (Apologies for gender essentialist language throughout this review.)
Essentially, Sally, the artist, has become disgusted and disillusioned with men. Her response is to use her skill as a plastics/hyperrealism artist to create her own perfect man, sculpted from molds of the most desirable body parts of men she encounters in the world. The way she seeks out men based on their body parts can be read as a kind of subversion of how men look at women, especially in literature, but as someone who grew up as a woman, I just cannot imagine a woman looking at someone this way unless she was planning on murdering them. (This doesn't happen, though it's teased throughout.)
The thing that struck me reading it is that there is the suggestion and recollection of sexual violence throughout the book, which makes sense for a single woman in the 1970s and 80s. But it's all presented, even in Sally's own head and viewpoint, as not really a big deal, just the price of being a woman. While she's turned away from sex with men, and dismissively refers to both men and their penises as "blue-veined throbbers" (lol), she otherwise sails above and over the sexual violence that suffuses her world. While it's meant to be the impetus for the plot, in personality and her approach to the world, it's regarded at arm's length, almost like something that happened to someone else.
With this being a Pygmalion retelling, her creation of course comes to life, and when he does, it becomes clear that this was the character the author has wanted to write all along. He's a great, magical, dynamic character, and he's also connected to the world in a way that Sally is not. But while he brings more life to the book, Sally becomes flimsier. Her motivations become less clear, and her personality becomes more pliant, deferring to this man she's created. There's also a lot of business of going back and forth from house to bar and back before enough time has passed to bring the book to its conclusion, which is frustrating.
I think this would have been a great short story, but as a book, the material is spread a bit too thin. It also made me a bit sad to realize that, when the book was written in the early '80s, the denouement of a hyperrealist sculptor becoming world famous just by, essentially, showing up in New York could be realistic. But now, in 2020, that seems like the most fantastical element of all.
Essentially, Sally, the artist, has become disgusted and disillusioned with men. Her response is to use her skill as a plastics/hyperrealism artist to create her own perfect man, sculpted from molds of the most desirable body parts of men she encounters in the world. The way she seeks out men based on their body parts can be read as a kind of subversion of how men look at women, especially in literature, but as someone who grew up as a woman, I just cannot imagine a woman looking at someone this way unless she was planning on murdering them. (This doesn't happen, though it's teased throughout.)
The thing that struck me reading it is that there is the suggestion and recollection of sexual violence throughout the book, which makes sense for a single woman in the 1970s and 80s. But it's all presented, even in Sally's own head and viewpoint, as not really a big deal, just the price of being a woman. While she's turned away from sex with men, and dismissively refers to both men and their penises as "blue-veined throbbers" (lol), she otherwise sails above and over the sexual violence that suffuses her world. While it's meant to be the impetus for the plot, in personality and her approach to the world, it's regarded at arm's length, almost like something that happened to someone else.
With this being a Pygmalion retelling, her creation of course comes to life, and when he does, it becomes clear that this was the character the author has wanted to write all along. He's a great, magical, dynamic character, and he's also connected to the world in a way that Sally is not. But while he brings more life to the book, Sally becomes flimsier. Her motivations become less clear, and her personality becomes more pliant, deferring to this man she's created. There's also a lot of business of going back and forth from house to bar and back before enough time has passed to bring the book to its conclusion, which is frustrating.
I think this would have been a great short story, but as a book, the material is spread a bit too thin. It also made me a bit sad to realize that, when the book was written in the early '80s, the denouement of a hyperrealist sculptor becoming world famous just by, essentially, showing up in New York could be realistic. But now, in 2020, that seems like the most fantastical element of all.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
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November 11, 2022A fascinating independent story that takes on the art as trauma trope and transforms into a dreamy fairytale. It begins as a crass and dirty look into a struggling artists hopes, fetishes and traumas and then takes a shocking turn in the second half into something almost magical. What an interesting read, and of course the slight fetishy writing always peaks my interests. Sexual feelings being conveyed through artwork.
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