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3.53 AVERAGE
3.53 AVERAGE
[Review originally posted on my blog | Rating: 4.5/5 stars]
Hannah Rothschild’s Bailey’s Prize shortlisted novel is done a disservice by its generic categorisation and cover (as lovely as they all are) and her story unfolds to be much, much more than a love story in the traditional sense. In fact, the novel’s heroine and protagonist is not the “main” character, unlucky-in-love chef Annie McDee, but, rather, the eponymous painting ‘The Improbability of Love’. A character in its own right, the painting is personified and given an omniscient (and witty) voice by Rothschild so it might speak for itself, quite literally, and tell its own story, a tale which is interspersed with the action of the narrative, as both the painting and the narrative slowly reveal its true provenance.
“Let me guess what you are thinking. Girl finds picture; picture turns out to be worth a fortune. Girl (finally) finds boy with a heart. Girl sells picture, makes millions, marries boy, all live happily ever after. Piss off. Yes, you heard, piss off, as the cake tin at Bernoff’s used to say (it was decorated with Renoir’s Les Parapluies, which explains quite a lot).”
After the impulsive purchase of a painting in a junk shop as a present for a man who never shows up for their dinner arrangement, Annie McDee finds herself unwittingly drawn into the art world of London, complete with its Sheiks, auctioneers, oligarchs in exile, and shady dealers. Whilst working as an unfulfilled chef for a director who doesn’t seem to actually direct any films lately, Annie ends up being seconded as a chef to the Winkleman family, art dealer royalty, and it is here that the plot thickens. Annie finds herself tiptoeing into a world that is a lot more dangerous than she could ever have realized; her junk-shop painting turns out to be a lost Antoine Watteau work, and there are many who would pay even more than a small fortune to possess it.
“love obliterates common sense: look back through history and consider the downright foolishness and acts of moral depravity committed in love’s name. It is destructive and a waste of time. I should know, I have witnessed enough of it.”
I did not know what to expect going into The Improbability of Love, given that it has been marketed as revealing the shadier bits of the art world, and yet also had “chick lit” vibes from some of its marketing and its cover. (Let me be clear – not commercial “chick lit” but “literary” in some way – as though that is “better” and so allowed to be nominated for literary awards. But I digress…) I would not say that this was at all a love story, any indications of romance are well and truly side-lined, and the only relationships that The Improbability of Love focuses on are actually familial – largely, to what extent do family bonds colour the way you view individuals, and can/should they be broken if that individual is self-destructive or morally questionable? It’s a subject that I think everyone can relate to, on some level, and this sense of connection is the true skill in Rothschild’s novel, which otherwise deals with a quite elitist and closed-off clique of the art world and its dealers, its buyers, its criminals. It’s an unsurprising focus given the author’s own art trade background and, yes, she’s one of those Rothschilds.
“Like other successful religions, art has evolved and offers glorious temples and learned high priests as well as covenants and creeds. The new churches are known as museums, in which the contemplation of art has become a kind of prayer and communal activity. The very wealthy can create private chapels stuffed with the unimaginable rarities and guarantee a front seat. It was ever thus.”
From the novel’s opening, readers are introduced to a huge wealth of characters, with the promise of flashing back from this prologue to understand how each of these individuals come to be bidding on the Watteau painting. From Earls-cum-auctioneers, to rappers, to Special guests with a capital S, to art historians, to exiled Russian oligarchs, to aging art collectors – there are a multitude of points of view to explore, varied to say the least, yet they all find themselves connected (sometimes tenuously) in the spider’s web surrounding this one painting that lends its title to the novel itself. Admittedly, at times, there are one too many characters, and if you set the book aside for any length of time, you will find yourself initially confused when you pick it back up (trust me). However, on the other hand, this ensemble-like approach means that there are always a couple of Rothschild’s characters that you’re keen to hear from again, and this keeps a reader reading on to return to their favoured individuals.
“My little theory is that at the heart of all human anxiety is the fear of loneliness. It starts with their expulsion from the womb and ends with a hole in the ground. In between it’s just a desperate struggle to stave off separation anxiety using any kind of gratification – love, sex, shopping, drink, you name it. My composition is about the fleeting, transformative respite over aloneness that love offers despite the cold certainty that this reprieve is only transitory. You will see all these impulses played out again and again with each of my owners.”
I think there’s an admirable amount of different personalities, nationalities, professions, and classes in the novel but, even so, the overwhelming number of High Net Worth-ers (to give them a title the auctioneer does) can make the novel seem elitist and very upper-middle-class. To me, that’s where the satire comes in – Rothschild seems at least moderately self-aware enough to present the daily dramas of these rich folk as ridiculous as they are. Whether you believe this satirical tone is, I think, what tips the balance with whether the novel is enjoyable or just plain elitist.
“Who wouldn’t want to own something precious to a great emperor or a king? Who wouldn’t want to be linked to past glory, to monumental power? Most want their taste confirmed and ratified. Art is entirely subjective, so how soothing, how affirming it must be to share the choices of monumental figures from history. Great minds think alike.”
Something must be mentioned regarding the odd turn in tone this novel takes – and I will endeavour to elude to it without entirely spoiling the reveal! Anyone even vaguely familiar with the European art collecting world in the first half of the 20th century will be unsurprised to discover that ‘The Improbability of Love’ ends up passed into some less than savoury hands in the course of its lifetime. The uncovering of exactly how Memling Winkleman came to possess the lost Watteau masterpiece is entwined in his own past – the details of which he vehemently remains silent about – and it is his daughter Rabecca who inadvertently stumbles upon the truth regarding the provenance of her family’s art collection. It is at this point that the tone of the novel shifts, and a reader might begin to allow it the “historical fiction” tag which Goodreads has assigned it. The sudden volta is a little jarring, but necessary in order to bring the novel’s action to a steady crescendo which loops back, and finally makes full sense of, the events of the prologue.
“Value accrues by association. As St Augustine said, ‘Tell me who you walk with and I will tell you who you are.’ In pictorial terms, tell me who you’ve hung with and I’ll tell you what you are worth.”
Described as a “savage satire of London life and the art world”, The Improbability of Love is certainly not a heartwarming and optimistic tale from start to finish but, in the end, it is a thoroughly intriguing and entertaining ride through the surprisingly shady world of galleries, museums, and collectors, a ride presided over by the all-seeing and hilarious painting that gives the novel its name.
“My future depends on people believing that I am worth something and need protecting. Art only survives by striking a chord in someone’s heart and offering solace and reassurance. A great picture is the distillation of emotion, offering an empathetic hand across time and circumstance. A wonderful composition inspires sympathy and harmony. No wonder mortals fight to possess us.”
Hannah Rothschild’s Bailey’s Prize shortlisted novel is done a disservice by its generic categorisation and cover (as lovely as they all are) and her story unfolds to be much, much more than a love story in the traditional sense. In fact, the novel’s heroine and protagonist is not the “main” character, unlucky-in-love chef Annie McDee, but, rather, the eponymous painting ‘The Improbability of Love’. A character in its own right, the painting is personified and given an omniscient (and witty) voice by Rothschild so it might speak for itself, quite literally, and tell its own story, a tale which is interspersed with the action of the narrative, as both the painting and the narrative slowly reveal its true provenance.
“Let me guess what you are thinking. Girl finds picture; picture turns out to be worth a fortune. Girl (finally) finds boy with a heart. Girl sells picture, makes millions, marries boy, all live happily ever after. Piss off. Yes, you heard, piss off, as the cake tin at Bernoff’s used to say (it was decorated with Renoir’s Les Parapluies, which explains quite a lot).”
After the impulsive purchase of a painting in a junk shop as a present for a man who never shows up for their dinner arrangement, Annie McDee finds herself unwittingly drawn into the art world of London, complete with its Sheiks, auctioneers, oligarchs in exile, and shady dealers. Whilst working as an unfulfilled chef for a director who doesn’t seem to actually direct any films lately, Annie ends up being seconded as a chef to the Winkleman family, art dealer royalty, and it is here that the plot thickens. Annie finds herself tiptoeing into a world that is a lot more dangerous than she could ever have realized; her junk-shop painting turns out to be a lost Antoine Watteau work, and there are many who would pay even more than a small fortune to possess it.
“love obliterates common sense: look back through history and consider the downright foolishness and acts of moral depravity committed in love’s name. It is destructive and a waste of time. I should know, I have witnessed enough of it.”
I did not know what to expect going into The Improbability of Love, given that it has been marketed as revealing the shadier bits of the art world, and yet also had “chick lit” vibes from some of its marketing and its cover. (Let me be clear – not commercial “chick lit” but “literary” in some way – as though that is “better” and so allowed to be nominated for literary awards. But I digress…) I would not say that this was at all a love story, any indications of romance are well and truly side-lined, and the only relationships that The Improbability of Love focuses on are actually familial – largely, to what extent do family bonds colour the way you view individuals, and can/should they be broken if that individual is self-destructive or morally questionable? It’s a subject that I think everyone can relate to, on some level, and this sense of connection is the true skill in Rothschild’s novel, which otherwise deals with a quite elitist and closed-off clique of the art world and its dealers, its buyers, its criminals. It’s an unsurprising focus given the author’s own art trade background and, yes, she’s one of those Rothschilds.
“Like other successful religions, art has evolved and offers glorious temples and learned high priests as well as covenants and creeds. The new churches are known as museums, in which the contemplation of art has become a kind of prayer and communal activity. The very wealthy can create private chapels stuffed with the unimaginable rarities and guarantee a front seat. It was ever thus.”
From the novel’s opening, readers are introduced to a huge wealth of characters, with the promise of flashing back from this prologue to understand how each of these individuals come to be bidding on the Watteau painting. From Earls-cum-auctioneers, to rappers, to Special guests with a capital S, to art historians, to exiled Russian oligarchs, to aging art collectors – there are a multitude of points of view to explore, varied to say the least, yet they all find themselves connected (sometimes tenuously) in the spider’s web surrounding this one painting that lends its title to the novel itself. Admittedly, at times, there are one too many characters, and if you set the book aside for any length of time, you will find yourself initially confused when you pick it back up (trust me). However, on the other hand, this ensemble-like approach means that there are always a couple of Rothschild’s characters that you’re keen to hear from again, and this keeps a reader reading on to return to their favoured individuals.
“My little theory is that at the heart of all human anxiety is the fear of loneliness. It starts with their expulsion from the womb and ends with a hole in the ground. In between it’s just a desperate struggle to stave off separation anxiety using any kind of gratification – love, sex, shopping, drink, you name it. My composition is about the fleeting, transformative respite over aloneness that love offers despite the cold certainty that this reprieve is only transitory. You will see all these impulses played out again and again with each of my owners.”
I think there’s an admirable amount of different personalities, nationalities, professions, and classes in the novel but, even so, the overwhelming number of High Net Worth-ers (to give them a title the auctioneer does) can make the novel seem elitist and very upper-middle-class. To me, that’s where the satire comes in – Rothschild seems at least moderately self-aware enough to present the daily dramas of these rich folk as ridiculous as they are. Whether you believe this satirical tone is, I think, what tips the balance with whether the novel is enjoyable or just plain elitist.
“Who wouldn’t want to own something precious to a great emperor or a king? Who wouldn’t want to be linked to past glory, to monumental power? Most want their taste confirmed and ratified. Art is entirely subjective, so how soothing, how affirming it must be to share the choices of monumental figures from history. Great minds think alike.”
Something must be mentioned regarding the odd turn in tone this novel takes – and I will endeavour to elude to it without entirely spoiling the reveal! Anyone even vaguely familiar with the European art collecting world in the first half of the 20th century will be unsurprised to discover that ‘The Improbability of Love’ ends up passed into some less than savoury hands in the course of its lifetime. The uncovering of exactly how Memling Winkleman came to possess the lost Watteau masterpiece is entwined in his own past – the details of which he vehemently remains silent about – and it is his daughter Rabecca who inadvertently stumbles upon the truth regarding the provenance of her family’s art collection. It is at this point that the tone of the novel shifts, and a reader might begin to allow it the “historical fiction” tag which Goodreads has assigned it. The sudden volta is a little jarring, but necessary in order to bring the novel’s action to a steady crescendo which loops back, and finally makes full sense of, the events of the prologue.
“Value accrues by association. As St Augustine said, ‘Tell me who you walk with and I will tell you who you are.’ In pictorial terms, tell me who you’ve hung with and I’ll tell you what you are worth.”
Described as a “savage satire of London life and the art world”, The Improbability of Love is certainly not a heartwarming and optimistic tale from start to finish but, in the end, it is a thoroughly intriguing and entertaining ride through the surprisingly shady world of galleries, museums, and collectors, a ride presided over by the all-seeing and hilarious painting that gives the novel its name.
“My future depends on people believing that I am worth something and need protecting. Art only survives by striking a chord in someone’s heart and offering solace and reassurance. A great picture is the distillation of emotion, offering an empathetic hand across time and circumstance. A wonderful composition inspires sympathy and harmony. No wonder mortals fight to possess us.”
This novel suffers from a severe case of ADD/ADHD. It's like the author had all these ideas and decided to fit them all in one novel.
We have art, lots, and lots of art -which I love. I also enjoy learning about painters; I enjoy history and art history; I enjoy learning new words and jargon. While all these aspects were plentiful, at times, it became too much. I can't believe I'm saying this, but there was way too much information dumping, so much so, at times, it reminded me of school, when I pored over the text books.
Food, and the pursuit of perfection and authenticity, play also a prominent part in this novel. Initially, I enjoyed this part. But then, it became too much. Who eats twenty courses? Apparently one of the French kings and a few other kings. I got bored with the food and food preparation bits as well.
There are also some secrets, and Nazis and Jews. Also, there is a love story.
There are way too many characters in this novel. In the beginning, we learn about some sheik and his wife, some Russian oligarchs, some very rich and very snobbish Brits, socialites, art dealers, and academics. Also, one of the main characters is Annie, a thirty-one-year-old single woman, who finds herself penniless and alone, in a tiny apartment in London. She works as a cook for a film director, but she doesn't get to cook often. Other prominent characters are Rebecca Winkleman, the daughter of Memling Winkleman, very rich, well-respected art dealers and owners of a prestigious gallery.
There are so many story lines in this novel, so many threads and subthreads, I'll have to write a much longer review, and honestly, it's late, and I'm tired, and I don't feel like wasting another hour writing this review.
So, I'm going to try to summarise.
The novel is not bad. It has merit and is quite interesting. It is very readable, albeit there are a lot of foreign words (which I love), art jargon (I hope I'll remember the meaning of some of it) and some rare words (thank goodness for Kindle dictionary).I did feel like the author was trying too hard to impress us (I read that she's heavily involved in the art world, so probably that's her vernacular).
There were way too many characters, who were given too much air-time, they should have been dropped or just mentioned briefly, as they didn't add much to the story. I get that the author was trying to paint a broad canvas of the characters and the type of people who get involved or play a role in the art world. I totally get it. That's where an editor becomes very useful. My personal opinion is that the editor(s) failed this novel. It could have easily been a 4-5 star novel, but as it stands, I'm only giving it 3-3.5 stars. It's the novel that had lots of the things that I love, yet, it failed to impress me.
Cover: 1 star. This has got to be one of the ugliest, most boring and uninspired covers I've seen in recent times. Honestly, I could have requested it on Netgalley, but I saw the cover and immediately dismissed it. Yes, I'm that shallow, I judge books by their covers. I find it ironic that this novel is mostly about art and its beauty, and how it affects us, and yet the cover is so damn ugly. I see there are a couple different covers. Amen! (I'm commenting on this one, as that's the cover that came with my ebook).
We have art, lots, and lots of art -which I love. I also enjoy learning about painters; I enjoy history and art history; I enjoy learning new words and jargon. While all these aspects were plentiful, at times, it became too much. I can't believe I'm saying this, but there was way too much information dumping, so much so, at times, it reminded me of school, when I pored over the text books.
Food, and the pursuit of perfection and authenticity, play also a prominent part in this novel. Initially, I enjoyed this part. But then, it became too much. Who eats twenty courses? Apparently one of the French kings and a few other kings. I got bored with the food and food preparation bits as well.
There are also some secrets, and Nazis and Jews. Also, there is a love story.
There are way too many characters in this novel. In the beginning, we learn about some sheik and his wife, some Russian oligarchs, some very rich and very snobbish Brits, socialites, art dealers, and academics. Also, one of the main characters is Annie, a thirty-one-year-old single woman, who finds herself penniless and alone, in a tiny apartment in London. She works as a cook for a film director, but she doesn't get to cook often. Other prominent characters are Rebecca Winkleman, the daughter of Memling Winkleman, very rich, well-respected art dealers and owners of a prestigious gallery.
There are so many story lines in this novel, so many threads and subthreads, I'll have to write a much longer review, and honestly, it's late, and I'm tired, and I don't feel like wasting another hour writing this review.
So, I'm going to try to summarise.
The novel is not bad. It has merit and is quite interesting. It is very readable, albeit there are a lot of foreign words (which I love), art jargon (I hope I'll remember the meaning of some of it) and some rare words (thank goodness for Kindle dictionary).I did feel like the author was trying too hard to impress us (I read that she's heavily involved in the art world, so probably that's her vernacular).
There were way too many characters, who were given too much air-time, they should have been dropped or just mentioned briefly, as they didn't add much to the story. I get that the author was trying to paint a broad canvas of the characters and the type of people who get involved or play a role in the art world. I totally get it. That's where an editor becomes very useful. My personal opinion is that the editor(s) failed this novel. It could have easily been a 4-5 star novel, but as it stands, I'm only giving it 3-3.5 stars. It's the novel that had lots of the things that I love, yet, it failed to impress me.
Cover: 1 star. This has got to be one of the ugliest, most boring and uninspired covers I've seen in recent times. Honestly, I could have requested it on Netgalley, but I saw the cover and immediately dismissed it. Yes, I'm that shallow, I judge books by their covers. I find it ironic that this novel is mostly about art and its beauty, and how it affects us, and yet the cover is so damn ugly. I see there are a couple different covers. Amen! (I'm commenting on this one, as that's the cover that came with my ebook).
Review originally published here: http://girlwithherheadinabook.co.uk/2016/05/review-the-improbability-of-love-hannah-rothschild.html
Within the first few pages of The Improbability of Love, I knew that this one was going to be good – it’s such a delicious feeling, like getting into a bubble bath. Like Possession with added exuberance and with a heavy helping of satire, this is definitely one of my favourite reads of 2016 so far. A mix of romance, mystery, thriller and take-down of the art industry, The Improbability of Love has at its core some interesting questions about the value of art and beauty – particularly intriguing coming from the chair of the National Gallery’s Board of Trustees. In this her debut novel, Rothschild imagines how a lost masterpiece by real-life artist Watteau stirs up trouble for all who cross its path in this intelligent and lively story – a true treat on every level.
The novel kicks off at high speed with a ‘sale of the century’, bringing together a cluster of charmingly cliched characters all hell-bent on getting their mitts on it – from the rapper to the Russian oligarch to the Sheika to the New York society aristocrat, all of them high-rollers willing to pay record-breaking amounts of money for a painting of whose worth nobody appears certain. After events build towards their climax, Rothschild spins the narrative back to six months before to explain exactly how we have reached this point.
Annie McDee is a newcomer to London, just over the wrong side of thirty and with a broken heart to boot, she is trying to make it work as a chef. Having offered to make a birthday dinner for a man she met at a speed-dating event, she steps into a junk shop and impetuously purchases a painting despite knowing nothing about art. Annie’s life is not in the best shape – she gets stood up by the guy, so the painting becomes a humiliating reminder of her foolish optimism about their relationship. To add injury to insult, her alcoholic mother Evie lands up on her doorstep with no obvious plans to move on.
The painting itself gets a prominent voice within the narrative, with Rothschild regularly stepping out from the third person into the voice of the arrogant and puffed-up little painting, all eighteen by twenty-four inches of it, full of its own historicity and importance. Despite having origins in eighteenth century France, it admits that it has lost a level of class after spending many years amongst second-hand junk in the shop. But, in the words of the canvas, ‘back to the important issue, moi.‘ The painting depicts a young couple sitting by a tree, watched over by a clown (Pierrot), with the emphasis being on the young woman who enjoys the power she wields over the men who desire her and is apparently the fore-runner of the Rococo movement (or at least, according to the painting).
By chance, Annie has taken a job as chef to the Winkleman family, owners of Winkleman Ltd., a high-powered art dealership led by the forbidding ninety year-old Holocaust survivor Memling Winkleman who happens to be looking for a certain missing Watteau painting. His daughter Rebecca has spent her life in his thrall and will move heaven and earth to fulfill her father’s wishes. As she searches for the painting, she discovers some ugly truths about the art world, about her family history and about her own self.
The Winkleman strand of the narrative certainly provides the thriller element to the novel, reaching a crescendo that set my nerves jangling to a surprising degree. Still, more than anything, I felt that this book was Dickensian in the panoramic scope it took of the art world, going from the ground-level where junk-shop owner Ralph Bernoff flogs the painting to Annie for £75 so that he has some ready cash to put a bet on a horse, up to Svengali-esque socialite ‘fixer’ who formed his own identity after working-class beginnings changing his name to Barthomley Chesterfield Fitzroy St. George and turning himself out in outfits to match it, impoverished-aristocrat-turned-auctioneer Earl Beaconsfield whose fortunes are on a steep downward trajectory and is scrabbling to keep his family in Tuscany holidays, and then above them are the super-rich exiled oligarchs, society hostess Mrs Appledore and their ilk, all capable of dropping a cheque with 11 figures without breaking a sweat.
I was reminded though of Hermione Eyre’s Viper Wine by Rothschild’s meditations on art’s relationship with love and beauty. Rothschild imagines how Watteau painted “The Improbability of Love” as a demonstration of his love for the courtesan Charlotte, but the Thcanvas remarks sadly that Watteau was more preoccupied by the agony of unrequited love rather than actually proving his love for Charlotte via deeds. While attempting to investigate the provenance of her painting, Annie meets impoverished artist Jesse who falls head-long in love with her, only for the painting to ponder whether Jesse is going to use the same tactics as its former master. For Jesse, it is love at first sight and his worldview is irrevocably altered but for the emotionally bruised Annie, the idea seems rather overwhelming. Passers-by repeatedly mistake the painting’s name for the ‘Impossibility of Love’, and the very fact that Rothschild emphasises the difference reflects Annie’s state of mind – is love impossible, or simply improbable? Not just for her, but for any of us?
The question of what the painting is actually worth is another conundrum. A tiny painting in a junk shop is seen by its owner as worth only ready cash to run down to the bookies with. Yet the simple fact that said painting has passed through the boudoirs of Catherine the Great and Madame de Pompadour changes matters, although it alters absolutely nothing about the painting itself. Many people have seen the Mona Lisa and been stunned at all the fuss about this titchy canvas in contrast to all the vast artworks which dwarf it to the left and right. For some reason, I have always liked it – I even had a roughly life-size reproduction in my bedroom growing up. But yet for some reason, it has become one of the most iconic artworks in history and even I am not sure it represents Da Vinci’s best work. Those who are using art as their ‘hobby’ (as suggested by Barty) are advised away from modern art since its value fluctuates so wildly. The Winklemans use cynical and unscrupulous manoeuvres to drive up the price tags for flagging arts, including bidding against themselves – the value and the price are utterly subjective and have little to do with genuine appreciation of the work in question.
When journalists question Earl Beaconsfield about whether rather a lot of fuss is being made over the painting, he uses fancy footwork to evade the question, but it remains. What is the true monetary worth of these paintings which do nothing, simply are – what are they even for? The director of the National Gallery scrambles desperately to justify funding to the junior Minister for Culture, comically aghast that the innate worth of art is not recognised. Ultimately, the junior minister’s suggestion is to install Wi-Fi so students will come in more to check their emails. Rebecca endures a horrendous dinner at the British Museum where a financier brags over the profits he has made from buying and selling on valuable artwork. The academic Delores, who has given up her whole life to the study of art, is horrified by how love of art is vanishing from the arena. Memling has perhaps the most complex relationship with art of all, highlighting the very darkest depths people have sunk to in the quest to acquire beauty.
While the characterisation may be littered with cliche, I absolutely adored this book – a rich and even whimsical caper across the boardrooms, back-closets and bedrooms of the hyper-rich as well as the not-so-well-off, Rothschild has pitched her story perfectly. Never going too far into the danger zones, The Improbability does not over-reach but always remains a light and fun read where a happy ending feels assured as well as deserved, a perfect summer read. There is a rueful aspect to many of Rothschild’s observations about the art world which suggests that a fair amount has been drawn from personal experience. Despite the light-hearted tone however, this is a novel with a huge amount of heart, with surprising depths in its insight – in short, a hit on every level. Enjoy.
Within the first few pages of The Improbability of Love, I knew that this one was going to be good – it’s such a delicious feeling, like getting into a bubble bath. Like Possession with added exuberance and with a heavy helping of satire, this is definitely one of my favourite reads of 2016 so far. A mix of romance, mystery, thriller and take-down of the art industry, The Improbability of Love has at its core some interesting questions about the value of art and beauty – particularly intriguing coming from the chair of the National Gallery’s Board of Trustees. In this her debut novel, Rothschild imagines how a lost masterpiece by real-life artist Watteau stirs up trouble for all who cross its path in this intelligent and lively story – a true treat on every level.
The novel kicks off at high speed with a ‘sale of the century’, bringing together a cluster of charmingly cliched characters all hell-bent on getting their mitts on it – from the rapper to the Russian oligarch to the Sheika to the New York society aristocrat, all of them high-rollers willing to pay record-breaking amounts of money for a painting of whose worth nobody appears certain. After events build towards their climax, Rothschild spins the narrative back to six months before to explain exactly how we have reached this point.
Annie McDee is a newcomer to London, just over the wrong side of thirty and with a broken heart to boot, she is trying to make it work as a chef. Having offered to make a birthday dinner for a man she met at a speed-dating event, she steps into a junk shop and impetuously purchases a painting despite knowing nothing about art. Annie’s life is not in the best shape – she gets stood up by the guy, so the painting becomes a humiliating reminder of her foolish optimism about their relationship. To add injury to insult, her alcoholic mother Evie lands up on her doorstep with no obvious plans to move on.
The painting itself gets a prominent voice within the narrative, with Rothschild regularly stepping out from the third person into the voice of the arrogant and puffed-up little painting, all eighteen by twenty-four inches of it, full of its own historicity and importance. Despite having origins in eighteenth century France, it admits that it has lost a level of class after spending many years amongst second-hand junk in the shop. But, in the words of the canvas, ‘back to the important issue, moi.‘ The painting depicts a young couple sitting by a tree, watched over by a clown (Pierrot), with the emphasis being on the young woman who enjoys the power she wields over the men who desire her and is apparently the fore-runner of the Rococo movement (or at least, according to the painting).
By chance, Annie has taken a job as chef to the Winkleman family, owners of Winkleman Ltd., a high-powered art dealership led by the forbidding ninety year-old Holocaust survivor Memling Winkleman who happens to be looking for a certain missing Watteau painting. His daughter Rebecca has spent her life in his thrall and will move heaven and earth to fulfill her father’s wishes. As she searches for the painting, she discovers some ugly truths about the art world, about her family history and about her own self.
The Winkleman strand of the narrative certainly provides the thriller element to the novel, reaching a crescendo that set my nerves jangling to a surprising degree. Still, more than anything, I felt that this book was Dickensian in the panoramic scope it took of the art world, going from the ground-level where junk-shop owner Ralph Bernoff flogs the painting to Annie for £75 so that he has some ready cash to put a bet on a horse, up to Svengali-esque socialite ‘fixer’ who formed his own identity after working-class beginnings changing his name to Barthomley Chesterfield Fitzroy St. George and turning himself out in outfits to match it, impoverished-aristocrat-turned-auctioneer Earl Beaconsfield whose fortunes are on a steep downward trajectory and is scrabbling to keep his family in Tuscany holidays, and then above them are the super-rich exiled oligarchs, society hostess Mrs Appledore and their ilk, all capable of dropping a cheque with 11 figures without breaking a sweat.
I was reminded though of Hermione Eyre’s Viper Wine by Rothschild’s meditations on art’s relationship with love and beauty. Rothschild imagines how Watteau painted “The Improbability of Love” as a demonstration of his love for the courtesan Charlotte, but the Thcanvas remarks sadly that Watteau was more preoccupied by the agony of unrequited love rather than actually proving his love for Charlotte via deeds. While attempting to investigate the provenance of her painting, Annie meets impoverished artist Jesse who falls head-long in love with her, only for the painting to ponder whether Jesse is going to use the same tactics as its former master. For Jesse, it is love at first sight and his worldview is irrevocably altered but for the emotionally bruised Annie, the idea seems rather overwhelming. Passers-by repeatedly mistake the painting’s name for the ‘Impossibility of Love’, and the very fact that Rothschild emphasises the difference reflects Annie’s state of mind – is love impossible, or simply improbable? Not just for her, but for any of us?
The question of what the painting is actually worth is another conundrum. A tiny painting in a junk shop is seen by its owner as worth only ready cash to run down to the bookies with. Yet the simple fact that said painting has passed through the boudoirs of Catherine the Great and Madame de Pompadour changes matters, although it alters absolutely nothing about the painting itself. Many people have seen the Mona Lisa and been stunned at all the fuss about this titchy canvas in contrast to all the vast artworks which dwarf it to the left and right. For some reason, I have always liked it – I even had a roughly life-size reproduction in my bedroom growing up. But yet for some reason, it has become one of the most iconic artworks in history and even I am not sure it represents Da Vinci’s best work. Those who are using art as their ‘hobby’ (as suggested by Barty) are advised away from modern art since its value fluctuates so wildly. The Winklemans use cynical and unscrupulous manoeuvres to drive up the price tags for flagging arts, including bidding against themselves – the value and the price are utterly subjective and have little to do with genuine appreciation of the work in question.
When journalists question Earl Beaconsfield about whether rather a lot of fuss is being made over the painting, he uses fancy footwork to evade the question, but it remains. What is the true monetary worth of these paintings which do nothing, simply are – what are they even for? The director of the National Gallery scrambles desperately to justify funding to the junior Minister for Culture, comically aghast that the innate worth of art is not recognised. Ultimately, the junior minister’s suggestion is to install Wi-Fi so students will come in more to check their emails. Rebecca endures a horrendous dinner at the British Museum where a financier brags over the profits he has made from buying and selling on valuable artwork. The academic Delores, who has given up her whole life to the study of art, is horrified by how love of art is vanishing from the arena. Memling has perhaps the most complex relationship with art of all, highlighting the very darkest depths people have sunk to in the quest to acquire beauty.
While the characterisation may be littered with cliche, I absolutely adored this book – a rich and even whimsical caper across the boardrooms, back-closets and bedrooms of the hyper-rich as well as the not-so-well-off, Rothschild has pitched her story perfectly. Never going too far into the danger zones, The Improbability does not over-reach but always remains a light and fun read where a happy ending feels assured as well as deserved, a perfect summer read. There is a rueful aspect to many of Rothschild’s observations about the art world which suggests that a fair amount has been drawn from personal experience. Despite the light-hearted tone however, this is a novel with a huge amount of heart, with surprising depths in its insight – in short, a hit on every level. Enjoy.
This book was really good. No, I mean it! The opening chapter with the red carpet and the description of all the high flyers made me think we weren't off to a great start, but the story recovered and got much much better.
There were a lot of turns I wasn't expecting, which made the story much less predictable.
Basically we are following Annie, a woman who buys a painting at an antique/junk shop, and the adventures of the art world around her at the time, whether she wants to be involved or not. Oh yes, and the painting narrates chapters here and there, which is very fun.
As someone who enjoys art crime and forensics books (I guess it comes with my job?), this work was a perfect blend of an enjoyable novel and art 'history' wrapped in one.
There were a lot of turns I wasn't expecting, which made the story much less predictable.
Basically we are following Annie, a woman who buys a painting at an antique/junk shop, and the adventures of the art world around her at the time, whether she wants to be involved or not. Oh yes, and the painting narrates chapters here and there, which is very fun.
As someone who enjoys art crime and forensics books (I guess it comes with my job?), this work was a perfect blend of an enjoyable novel and art 'history' wrapped in one.
Enjoyed the descriptions of the art world and the beautiful descriptions of food but the entire book could have been 100 pages shorter. Some bits just seemed pointless (the first chaper being a prime example) and a shockingly casual mention of rape also took some of the shine away. The writing at times as beautiful but at other times overly writerly. Overall i am quite dissapointed. The theme and the fact that it was shortlisted for the baileys price had given me really high expectations. Still, i loved reading from the painting's perspective.
The Improbability of Love reminds me a lot of [b:Possession|41219|Possession|A.S. Byatt|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1391124124s/41219.jpg|2246190], but much more fun and less priggish. There's actual stakes! There's actual risks! Not every character is an academic! The talking painting could probably be cut without losing much but I otherwise enjoyed it.
This book gets a second star because I did keep reading to the end. The characters felt very familiar eg the poor but plucky heroine who everyone falls for.
An art-world caper with stylistic problems, but an entertaining read nonetheless
informative
lighthearted
slow-paced
Strong character development:
No
Loveable characters:
No
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
I received a free copy as part of Penguin's First to Read program and I really wish I could give it more stars. I think this book had the potential to be great, but with its scatterbrained plot and dearth of useless characters described in painstaking detail, this was a difficult one for me to get through.
I think Rothschild is a good writer, but needed to focus heavily on editing for this novel. The plot premise was intriguing, and I actually loved the talking painting--but there was no reason the book should have been anywhere near 400 pages. Frankly, there's way too much going on. A protagonist who has an unfortunate love life (with a past!), an alcoholic mother, an obsession with cooking that ends up reading like a recipe book, and a rather ordinary appearance that still seems to attract a fair slew of suitors. That's a lot to work with on its own, but we also get NAZIS, hidden identities, shady Russians, murder, and an ending that doesn't at all fit with the personalities of the characters throughout the book.
The best comparison I have for this book was JK Rowling's Casual Vacancy. I can see where it was going, but with all the different directions to choose from, it just didn't really end up going anywhere. I think Rothschild's writing style is better suited to non-fiction and would definitely give that a try, but I can't in good conscience recommend this book to anyone I know and probably would not pick up another novel from her.
I think Rothschild is a good writer, but needed to focus heavily on editing for this novel. The plot premise was intriguing, and I actually loved the talking painting--but there was no reason the book should have been anywhere near 400 pages. Frankly, there's way too much going on. A protagonist who has an unfortunate love life (with a past!), an alcoholic mother, an obsession with cooking that ends up reading like a recipe book, and a rather ordinary appearance that still seems to attract a fair slew of suitors. That's a lot to work with on its own, but we also get NAZIS, hidden identities, shady Russians, murder, and an ending that doesn't at all fit with the personalities of the characters throughout the book.
The best comparison I have for this book was JK Rowling's Casual Vacancy. I can see where it was going, but with all the different directions to choose from, it just didn't really end up going anywhere. I think Rothschild's writing style is better suited to non-fiction and would definitely give that a try, but I can't in good conscience recommend this book to anyone I know and probably would not pick up another novel from her.