At the Academy Awards they always introduce the winners as “multi-talented.” Normally that means they can walk and chew gum at the same time. But in the case of Steve Martin, author of An Object of Beauty, an Emmy, Grammys, a very successful career as a comedian and actor, and two excellent books of fiction, not to mention a stageplay, screenplays, a children’s book, a comedy collection, and pieces for the New Yorker and the New York Times, qualify him as a 21st century Renaissance man.

My friend Les told me to read this novel and I’ve learned over the years that when Les recommends a book it’s worth my while to get my hands on it. Once again that has proven true. An Object of Beauty is so well written, so clever, so well plotted, so witty, filled with such lively characters and such an ironic view of contemporary art that it scintillates. I wish it were twice as long.

The story, which takes place in the New York City art world between about 1991 and 2009, is the tale of Lily Bart from Edith Wharton’s The House of Mirth. (Why Joyce Carol Oates, in a blurb on the back, compares it to The Age of Innocence, with which it has almost nothing in common, is a mystery unless she made an embarrassing error, and even more puzzling is why no editor caught the gaffe.) Lily Bart was innocent and brought down by rumors started by rivals but Lacey Yeager is far from innocent.

Lacey meets young, innocent, and somewhat passive Jamesian narrator when they are both students at the quintessentially southern Davidson College in North Carolina. When they both graduate and go to NY City to make their way in the art world they stay in touch. She becomes a dealer and he is a writer for an art magazine.

The book starts out with a couple of gentle teasers: “I am tired, so very tired of thinking about Lacey Yeager, yet I worry that unless I write her story down, and see it bound and tidy on my bookshelf, I will be unable to ever write about anything else.” From page 4: “It was apparent to everyone that Lacey was headed somewhere, though her path often left blood in the water.” Why can’t the now world-weary narrator forget her? Why must he write about her? Whose blood is it in the water? Could it be the narrator’s?

We quickly become fond of Daniel Chester French Franks (and with a name like that we see how he was drawn to the art world.) And we worry that he is out of his depth with this beautiful, brilliant, vibrant, witty, and unscrupulous woman who, starting as one of “the spice rack of girls at Sotheby’s,” works her way up through the years to owning her own gallery. The story is crisp and moves very quickly. The dialogue is laugh-aloud funny at times and the evolution of Lacey from naïve beginner to ruthless competitor is deeply engrossing. Trollope lovers will find it worth their while to take a look at this book.

2011 No 53 Coming soon: Triumph of the City, by Edward Glaeser