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rainbowbookworm 's review for:
Sirens & Muses
by Antonia Angress
challenging
dark
emotional
slow-paced
Antonia Angress’s Sirens & Muses is a sharp and immersive debut that probes the collision of ambition, privilege, and artistic identity in the rarefied world of an elite art school and beyond. I picked it up after seeing Kristen Arnett’s praise and, although I was initially skeptical about the “new adult” feel due to the age of some protagonists, I was quickly drawn in by the novel’s character work and thematic richness.
At its core, this is a book about what it means to try and make art when everything—class, history, power, money—conspires to shape not just what you create, but whether you get to create at all. Louisa, a scholarship student from a working-class background, is particularly compelling. Her awareness of how economic insecurity filters into self-perception, ambition, and creative risk is handled with care and nuance.
Karina, by contrast, is a character born into a life of extraordinary privilege—so much so that her childhood bedroom boasted an original Egon Schiele. She has both the name and the talent to succeed in the art world, but when her circumstances shift, her reactions are impulsive and emotionally juvenile. That said, her presence is a fulcrum around which much of the novel pivots; her relationships with Louisa, Preston, and even her family’s complicated past with Robert Berger form the connective tissue of the narrative.
Preston, though equally privileged, lacks Karina’s artistic pedigree. He struck me as a familiar archetype: overconfident, self-aggrandizing, and quick to sulk when his shortcuts don’t yield the recognition he feels entitled to. His involvement with the Occupy movement—and how it translates into personal gain—felt particularly hollow, and his blog and art projects came off as cringeworthy rather than provocative.
Surprisingly, the character arc I found most satisfying was Robert Berger’s. Once a celebrated political artist, Berger is now a visiting professor at Wrynn, wrestling with creative inertia and a complicated legacy. His struggle to reclaim artistic relevance and reckon with past compromises gave the novel an emotional depth I didn’t expect.
While the book is engaging—I genuinely didn’t want to put it down—some elements didn’t fully land. The inclusion of the Occupy movement introduces a topical and timely thread, but the message about income inequality ends up feeling murky. With three of the central characters benefiting from generational wealth or connections, their engagement with protest movements often feels more like performance than principle. Angress does gesture toward this, especially through Berger’s self-awareness, but the critique remains underdeveloped.
The ending, too, left me wanting. I don’t need a neatly wrapped conclusion, but I did crave more clarity or direction than what the final pages offered.
Still, Sirens & Muses is a compelling exploration of the messy interplay between art, privilege, and desire. It doesn’t always stick the landing, but its ambition and intelligence make it a worthwhile read—particularly for those curious about how artistic identity gets shaped by forces beyond the canvas.
At its core, this is a book about what it means to try and make art when everything—class, history, power, money—conspires to shape not just what you create, but whether you get to create at all. Louisa, a scholarship student from a working-class background, is particularly compelling. Her awareness of how economic insecurity filters into self-perception, ambition, and creative risk is handled with care and nuance.
Karina, by contrast, is a character born into a life of extraordinary privilege—so much so that her childhood bedroom boasted an original Egon Schiele. She has both the name and the talent to succeed in the art world, but when her circumstances shift, her reactions are impulsive and emotionally juvenile. That said, her presence is a fulcrum around which much of the novel pivots; her relationships with Louisa, Preston, and even her family’s complicated past with Robert Berger form the connective tissue of the narrative.
Preston, though equally privileged, lacks Karina’s artistic pedigree. He struck me as a familiar archetype: overconfident, self-aggrandizing, and quick to sulk when his shortcuts don’t yield the recognition he feels entitled to. His involvement with the Occupy movement—and how it translates into personal gain—felt particularly hollow, and his blog and art projects came off as cringeworthy rather than provocative.
Surprisingly, the character arc I found most satisfying was Robert Berger’s. Once a celebrated political artist, Berger is now a visiting professor at Wrynn, wrestling with creative inertia and a complicated legacy. His struggle to reclaim artistic relevance and reckon with past compromises gave the novel an emotional depth I didn’t expect.
While the book is engaging—I genuinely didn’t want to put it down—some elements didn’t fully land. The inclusion of the Occupy movement introduces a topical and timely thread, but the message about income inequality ends up feeling murky. With three of the central characters benefiting from generational wealth or connections, their engagement with protest movements often feels more like performance than principle. Angress does gesture toward this, especially through Berger’s self-awareness, but the critique remains underdeveloped.
The ending, too, left me wanting. I don’t need a neatly wrapped conclusion, but I did crave more clarity or direction than what the final pages offered.
Still, Sirens & Muses is a compelling exploration of the messy interplay between art, privilege, and desire. It doesn’t always stick the landing, but its ambition and intelligence make it a worthwhile read—particularly for those curious about how artistic identity gets shaped by forces beyond the canvas.
Content Warnings
Graphic: Emotional abuse, Infidelity, Panic attacks/disorders, Rape, Sexism, Sexual assault, Sexual content, Suicidal thoughts, Classism