The heart of this book lies in the Tate Modern. Painting isn't a job - it's the reason for Victoria's very existence - so how is she to bridge the gap between her art and her private life? Jose gives her the intensity she craves, but has no interest in her as an artist. Simon offers a mature and loving relationship, but his gentleness and inability to understand her compulsions drive her to distraction. And then there's John - a man who understands exactly who she is, but unnerves her with his perspicacity and potentially violent nature. Victoria's friend Emma has bruises on her face and Victoria thinks she knows who put them there. Throughout it all she paints: tying down memories in cadmium yellow, burning canvases that reveal too much, hoping to find a way to pay the bills. The novel poses many questions. Why do contemporary artists do what they do? Why are they so seemingly hell-bent on self-destruction? And above all, what does all that stuff in Tate Modern really mean?
Weiterlesen weniger lesen