There’s something romantic about aged books; out-of-print texts that taunt existence, ready to fall from the public conscious without a single clap or salute.
The Art Fair is David Lipsky’s first and only novel to date, an early precursor to his esteemed journalistic exploits. It is a story of mother and son, the former a divorced matriarch trapped deep within the New York art world, and the latter her increasingly devoted offspring, who, in grappling with a semi-Freudian infatuation, must learn to steer his own life.
What I found unshakably memorable and unique and endearing about this book was that it started out as a story about one person, and ended as a story about two; an eventual severing of the umbilical cord come some two decades too late. It suggests that we’re not always afforded the luxury of ‘us against the world,’ and must face certain inevitable transitory periods with independence and resolve.
Richard Freely is unable to stray from his mother Joan for fear of abandoning her, and she in turn is unable to move on with her life for fear of abandoning him. The two create a cycle that is by turns vicious and fantastical. They’re friendship is firm to a fault. By protecting one another, they hold themselves back; from life and from love.
Still the dynamic was one I found hard to condemn, because like many others I can’t deny having enjoyed the comfort of some seemingly destructive relationships. The conflict lays in the difference between what feels right and what one knows to be right. Too many times I’ve found myself unable to bridge that gap.
The Art Fair is easy for me to recommend, because I fear it might disappear if I don’t. It’s a rare slice of realism that reconciles longing with loss, and it deserves to be read into the next decades and beyond.
