Caravaggio: A Novel

Rating:
Summary: Caravaggio in the Raw
Review: Caravaggio was in many ways a "raw" human being, and Peachment's novel of the painter's life reflects this aspect of his subject: if this novel were a movie, it would be rated "X" for language, sex, and violence. The narrator of the novel is Caravaggio himself, who retells his life - or rather, I must say, Peachment's fantasy of his life - in an extended address to the reader. Mystery, rage, painting, murder, alienation, and debauchery are all grist for the novelist's mill. Baudelaire would have loved it.

Peachment is a new novelist, but an experienced arts writer, and we should not underestimate him. In the course of his narrative, the author describes every one of Caravaggio's known paintings, and usually in a way which I found interesting and even illuminating. He emphasizes always the circumstantial and concrete, rather than the "aesthetic," aspects of the works; indeed, the most important chapter of this book describes an incident in which the painter destroys one of his canvases, in rage against the intellectuals and aesthetes who love his art for all the wrong reasons. It's a valuable perspective, and one which we all can learn from.

On the other hand: Peachment's writing is episodic, with awkward transitions between short chapters; there is repetition, ranting and raving, and pure fantasy; it seems a very one-sided portrait, even for a novelist, of Caravaggio the artist and the man. On the whole, while I appreciated what Peachment was trying to do, I felt somewhat distanced from the book, even as I was turning its pages. I'm glad that I read it, and feel that it had some valuable insights to offer, but somehow I could not love it; perhaps those who knew Caravaggio, in his lifetime, felt the same way!

Rating:
Summary: Caravaggio in the Raw
Review: Caravaggio was in many ways a "raw" human being, and Peachment's novel of the painter's life reflects this aspect of his subject: if this novel were a movie, it would be rated "X" for language, sex, and violence. The narrator of the novel is Caravaggio himself, who retells his life - or rather, I must say, Peachment's fantasy of his life - in an extended address to the reader. Mystery, rage, painting, murder, alienation, and debauchery are all grist for the novelist's mill. Baudelaire would have loved it.

Peachment is a new novelist, but an experienced arts writer, and we should not underestimate him. In the course of his narrative, the author describes every one of Caravaggio's known paintings, and usually in a way which I found interesting and even illuminating. He emphasizes always the circumstantial and concrete, rather than the "aesthetic," aspects of the works; indeed, the most important chapter of this book describes an incident in which the painter destroys one of his canvases, in rage against the intellectuals and aesthetes who love his art for all the wrong reasons. It's a valuable perspective, and one which we all can learn from.

On the other hand: Peachment's writing is episodic, with awkward transitions between short chapters; there is repetition, ranting and raving, and pure fantasy; it seems a very one-sided portrait, even for a novelist, of Caravaggio the artist and the man. On the whole, while I appreciated what Peachment was trying to do, I felt somewhat distanced from the book, even as I was turning its pages. I'm glad that I read it, and feel that it had some valuable insights to offer, but somehow I could not love it; perhaps those who knew Caravaggio, in his lifetime, felt the same way!