Portrait of the Walrus by a Young Artist

by Laurie Foos

Above all, this satire of modern art, the middle class, and the media is great fun!

Genres: Fiction

176 pages, Hardcover

First published May 1, 1997

Reviews

[Amber · Rating 4 out of 5]

i think most people expect more out of this book than it's intended for-- people have qualms about the "lack of plot" or the confusion surrounding the lines between metaphor and reality, but these are actually the book's strongest, not weakest, points. it deals more with the effects of navigating a confusing and art-filled world, following Frances as a proxy through which we can understand the strain of keeping a clear mind when surrounded by the pushing and pulling of reality. people want you to be one thing, you are another thing, you wish you were yet another thing, et cetera. it was an enjoyable and fun read if you simply let it do its thing. it's bizarre yet painfully mundane, contrived yet shallow, zig-zagging yet linear, and completely and utterly unique.

[Sharon Falduto · Rating 1 out of 5]

According to a critical quote on the back, "a landmark in latter-day post-Communist female fiction," whatever THAT means. Frances is the daughter of a now-deceased tortured genius artist father, who now finds herself and chased and haunted by walruses. It is unclear, even after reading the whole damn book, if the walruses are methaphoric or actual. I'm gonna go with both.

[adelaide · Rating 2 out of 5]

I had a sense of doom for most of the book. I often felt something truly despicable was about to occur, only for something confusing and disturbing to happen instead.

[Brian · Rating 2 out of 5]

In the world of Portrait of the Walrus by a Young Artist, women are ever-so-vulnerable to the evil things in the world, you know, like men, pizza, and walruses. But their vulnerability is oh-so-exhilarating: "My nipples hardened into points that threatened to poke through my thin cotton shirt. To hide them I folded my arms tightly over my chest. I stared down at my loafers and felt the air rush between my legs, my skirt swaying in the cool air. Without my panties to protect me, anything could happen." When the exhilaration gets to be a bit overpowering, strong protection becomes necessary, you know, like the protection you get from wearing underwear several sizes too small: "She brought me a sensible cotton bra and packages of new panties in every color of the rainbow--a belated birthday gift, she said. Two sizes too small, just the way I liked them." But even such powerful protection can't save a girl from evil stuff like walruses: "When I got to the front of the crowd I felt myself swoon. Sweat poured down by breasts and into a pool between my legs. I felt my panties climb up the crack of my bottom, as if someone had grabbed them by the waistband and tried to lift me off the ground...A pair of walruses were mating on the icy moat above the water, their enormous bodies crushed together in a heaving mas of flesh." And once she's there, the girl is done: "Tusks and balls, tusks and balls. All my life is tusks and balls." And then she's vulnerable to those evil, pizza-making menfolk: "I let the sheet fall away from me. He smelled of soap and dried yeast, his hair covered in globs of wet flour. I took one of his hands in mine and moved it over my face, smearing my forehead with the thick flour, breathing in the sweetness. With his fingers he parted my bangs, moved his hands lower to draw circles over my breasts, kneading." I'm sure that the depth and breadth of all this clumsy metaphor is more complicated than I could possibly imagine: "When he entered me I stifled a scream, the long penis jabbing at me, pulling at me with its urgency." Eventually, though, at long last, this novel will make its exit from my consciousness, just like when the pizza man's man-milk makes its exit from the protagonist: "My whole body shook, Dirk's seed running down my thighs, a hot glob of liquid that hung down from the opening, as if it didn't want to let go." There, despite how evil and dangerous my manhood and my appetite for pizza make me, I know precisely what she means.

[Zach Hitt · Rating 4 out of 5]

To me, this book falls into the category of "either you get it, or you don't." It's definitely experimental and has a lot of stuff that feels genuinely uncomfortable to read or talk about. It discusses a lot of different topics, but the main thing that stuck out to me was the glorification and sale of mental illness in artistry. There's a lot about it that will not make sense if you've never seen someone go through a mental breakdown. However, if you have anyone in your family or close friend's circle that has struggled with some of what is described here, you may find this book to be interesting and even insightful. I can't tell you that I liked this book, because I did not -- but I mean that in a positive way. It's not a fun read, but if you can handle something that's pretty out there, it will give you a lot to think about.

[Casey · Rating 2 out of 5]

I struggled to like a single character in this book. The mother and step-father were unbearable, but Frances wasn't much better. I don't know why this book rubbed me the wrong way, but I just didn't like it.

[Jess]

This book was pretty much the pits. Real wacky story with not much rhyme or reason for it. Plus the prose seemed a little forced to be as bizarro as the plot. If you have an angsty teenage cousin, you can give my copy of the book to her for christmas.

[Rose · Rating 4 out of 5]

Bizarre, weird and disturbing. As it rushed to a climax I kept thinking of Heart of Darkness - the horror the horror. I'll never be able to think of a walrus in the same way I did before.

[Adelaide · Rating 2 out of 5]

Overall, more weird than enjoyable or meaningful for me, although some of the jabs at high-brow art were amusing.

[Cherie · Rating 4 out of 5]

A- Hilarious