Over 6,000 readers on Goodreads gave Biography of X by Catherine Lacey either four or five stars. Did we read the same book…?
The story focuses on the life of an enigmatic artist, referred to as X. X was a painter, a photographer, a writer and a musician. Accomplished in all of these domains.
After X’s sudden death, her widow is overcome with grief.
Grief has a warring logic; it always wants something impossible, something worse and something better.
X had been famously vague about the details of her life. She had been known by various names, ran with socialites and celebrities, and collaborated with other high profile artists. Her widow decides to pull all of the threads together and write X’s biography.
Here’s my gripe – it’s the same thing, over and over. The widow interviews someone, finds out something new about X (that she dodged dying in an explosion; that she collaborated with David Bowie, Lou Reed and Susan Sontag; that she worked as an undercover agent…), rinse and repeat. Incredibly tedious. No slow build of tension, just one ludicrous detail after another.
The setting was a dystopian version of the US, one where the northern states and the southern states were divided (and despite the divide between north and south, there’s a noticeable lack of commentary on race). I’m not sure what purpose this alternate history of the US served in terms of the narrative.
Despite the intention to create an interesting character in X, Lacey did the opposite by making her so ‘complex’. X comes across as selfish, manipulative and not at all intriguing. And I am curious about how Lacey got away with the mash-up of fact and fiction in relation to real-life artists. If I was Bowie, I’d be pissed about being associated with X.
In terms of the art discussed in the novel, I’m guessing Lacey drew inspiration from the likes of Marina Abramović to imply that X’s work was pushing boundaries. It didn’t work – X’s ‘art’ sounded either vaguely familiar or just plain silly.
Must make mention of the relationship between X and the narrator – toxic, with the toxic going in the direction of X to her wife. Despite a couple of important reveals toward the end, the narrator never really sees X’s narcissism as anything other than ‘artistic temperament’.
…and there it was again, that useless, human blame two people will toss between each other when they become too tired or weak to carry the weight of love.
Overall, the concept for this book had potential but the execution was lack lustre.
2/5
“She had an unhealthy obsession with being alone,” Marion said as she slowly ate the perfect spheres of ice cream, one flavor at a time.
As part of the 20 Books of Summer reading challenge, I’m comparing the Belfast summer and Melburnian winter. The results for the day I finished this book (June 15): Belfast 8°-16° and Melbourne 7°-14°.