The main protagonist came across as really immature. The problem is, this quality seems to have seeped into the book and permeated it altogether.
I get the young artist's struggle for fire to put into his works. Then again, the guy was 11 years the senior of a 19-year-old gal, which gives us 30. This guy meets a girl who takes him home. The plot, where is it?
Q:
Everyone who’d come to the Soho gallery—the collectors, the art enthusiasts, even my mother and father—noticed the New York Times art critic entering the gallery. He approached my six pieces, Venice Beach Homeless Portraits, and sighed with tedium, letting his head drop slightly to one side, before stepping away to view the other artists’ work in the group show.
The entire room was embarrassed for me and no one would look at me. (c) Gosh! Of course, people were gather to look at this guy's works, no less! Self-obsessed.
Q:
The sun, aglow behind one dark cloud, cast warm hues beyond the isolated shower overhead. As with each failed exhibition in the past, hope began to chirp and pipe. What I really needed was something wild and rampant, I tried to assure myself, something that would jump off the paper and grab the buyers by the throat.(c) Uh-huh, a throat-crushing painting. Real thriler!
Q:
You’re ridiculous, I admonished myself. There’s no one to blame, no one to take it out on but yourself. You’re peeing in alleyways and have only a few hundred euros to your name because of the choices you’ve made. Live with it. (c)
Q:
Time after time, I’d watched people stare into their phones instead of at the painting on a museum wall, instead of the tree-lined road, a cloudburst sky, that beggar singing opera on the banks of the Arno, or a tortured beauty alone in a café. (c)
Q:
The exquisite balance of circles and angles that made up her face, exaggerated enough to have crisp, delineated forms without going overboard, were punctuated by an unruly blaze behind her eyes, an ever-brewing storm. (c)
Q:
When I grabbed my skis and tilted them onto my shoulder, I gave them a kiss. (c) Ouch!!
Q:
“I was showing him a real part of me . . . in bed . . . but he rejected it. Didn’t want to see it.” (c)
Q:
“I remember fishing on a really choppy day, and I asked him why Grandma never came out. She hates boats and the smell of fish, he told me. He must’ve seen the startled look on my face, as he made his living fishing and always smelled of fish. But we enjoy each other’s sense of humor and I love her music and I think she likes my wild stories about the sea,” he explained. We give each other what the other is missing.” (c)
Q:
I was alone with a beautiful young woman in the French countryside. ... Was she a gold mine? Or a maze that ends in a cul-de-sac or at a cliff? I didn’t know, of course. The only way to find out was to stay on her carousel and see where it led.(c)We got ourselves a hilarious dilemma: a gal, is she a mine, a cliff, a cul-de-sac? All of them on a carousel!