…“It’s a waste
of time for a genius like me to peddle his art. I say get down to the bloody
work, make something the world’s never seen, and when you’re dead perhaps
they’ll find out about you—if they’re lucky!”
Oftentimes Ben
would stop with his work and draw his hand through the air and say, “You see
this? These paintings? These sculptures? They are perfectly meaningless things.
And yet in making them I have felt what it feels like to be a king. And that
stimulus to my brain, that knowledge of creation which I have gained...that,
Jerome, is what all this making is about.” (p. 42)
Ark by Julian
Tepper is a highly entertaining dark comedy, the plot is familiar and funny, it
clips along at a steady, bite-sized pace—it does require a certain mindset to
settle into the saddle for the fictional ride—and as with any book, I had trust
in the author to tell the story from his unique vision. I say this because it
is squirmy in that neurotic Woody Allen movie/ Seinfeld episode world that
makes me roll my eyes—preparing myself for absurdities that are unreal, asking
myself, “Who in their right mind behaves
like this?” Well, people do act-out inappropriately depending on their
circumstances—just open the newspaper on any given day and they are out there.
The human condition is a curious state of affairs, like the fascination with
disasters, people tie up traffic rubbernecking at car accidents; they peruse
the front page of the tabloids at the checkout counter—yes, remarkable, we have
a fixation on tragedy and scandal, but there wouldn’t be a story without it. I
have to point out here, that there’s something special about New York City—the
quirky stories about it and its inhabitants; it’s steeped in the American
literary tradition. New York City is this big fabulous place constructed onto
this small parcel of real estate, it’s jam packed with the human condition, and
complex circumstances that can be unbelievable to some, but absolutely normal
to those living it. I’m just a small town girl from Upstate New York, so the
place alternately fascinates and puzzles me most of the time.
No
matter where you’re from, or how wealthy you are (or not) the best of families
can disintegrate into petty squabble-fests over things and money in a heartbeat
(because someone’s heart ceased to beat)—blood is thicker than water, and then
there’s familial shit slinging. The book immediately careens away from Ben’s
peaceful and quirky morning routine, which until I viewed Ben from another
perspective a few pages later, it was sad to see him differently than how he
perceives himself. We’re all guilty of that—there are some days the mirror is
unforgiving. Anyway, the true circumstances of the story immediately comes in
the form of Ben’s wife, Eliza, as the broader issue of money and needing to
acquire money to pay the bills. She suggests going to the Russian to sell
diamonds—the suggestion made my core clench—this can only go badly in some
form—the human condition bomb is ticking. At times, as I’ve gotten older, I
look around me and wonder what I have to sell should things go financially
south—I don’t have a clutch of diamonds. Writing books? Nah, no money in that (she
laughs.) I do have a ton of artwork that I made, but I know no one will pay
what I think it’s worth, so I’m a miser and hang on to most of them, when I’ve
sold certain ones I always regret it. I have antiques, lots of bits of this and
that from my mother’s house—one massive auction might solve things only if the
prices are right—typically, not. I have my house, it’s paid for, but I intend
to die here some day in a far off date in the future, so that’s not for sale.
See, the magic of books is simply amazing—they get ya thinkin’ about
stuff—generating empathy for the characters—so from that point, I was in. Ben
and Eliza, the diamonds, the acquisition of funds—the story dominos were
properly set up, then the telephone rang within another page, that’s when they
all started the rapid clicking fall to the inevitable chaos of a thing called
life with the Arkin family. Life can be ugly once the details unfold, family
dynamics, damage done—who did what to who, when—the mystery of the human
condition bomb, wired up, the timer winding down, ready to blow. The imposition
of anxiety pulses through the narrative going from bad to worse, and just when
you thought it couldn’t get any worse, it does. It was relentless.
Serenity
now! (*wink*)
I
like to immerse myself into a book, live there, experience it, so when I
finished Ark, I was glad it was
over—not in a bad way—I needed time. Look at it like this, I’m the awkward little introvert at a party
populated by extroverts, all I want to do is sit in a corner drinking wine
while playing with the host’s cat, absorbing everything going on around me,
waiting for the right time to leave, not wanting to be the first person out the
door. If the cat and I are having fun interacting in the corner, I’ll be the
last person out the door, tipsy, grinning foolishly at the host and telling
them, “I had a wonderful time.” In this book, the cat and I had our brief
quality time, but the cat ran off to hide under the bed because someone’s
allergy to cats kicked in and the host was trying to catch it. I was ready to
leave so I could digest all that I observed while people watching—I wasn’t
drunk, I wasn’t sleepy either, I was overwhelmed, which is easy when the story
has so much in so few pages, very little room to breathe. My little Upstate brain
and I needed to take a turn sitting on the beach with a bottle of wine, tuning
out everyone—if Ben and Eliza’s granddaughter, Rebecca, showed up, I’d kindly
tell her to go find her own patch of beach. This is mine.
When
I finish reading a book, I retrace my steps within a day or two. I return to
the parts that I think about or do a random drop in to reread a paragraph or
two, sometimes more. I typically dog-ear pages or in the case of e-books
bookmark, highlight, and I write notes. Where did I go? I revisited Jerome—he
was the cat in the corner. I have to admire Jerome for his genuine concern, his
patience, and especially his diligence to finish Ben’s last work of art—it was
the most touching interlude because he still had hope—even if it was unpromising
and a bit foolhardy—he still possessed enough unscathed innocence to hope. When
Rebecca saw what he had been working on in Ben’s studio, she was impressed,
Jerome was high on the energy that comes from creation, but she was too
punch-drunk from the emotional battery to care about anything more than
self-preservation. She did warn him to run, but he had his own vision to make
Ben famous. This would mean becoming entangled in the Arkin family war, the
fragmented clamoring hoard of the Arkin family goes on—life goes on after the
book is done, as it should. It’s a tidy little package, I must say, even with
the spite and spit of the bitter family feud.
“…I’ve told you
before and I’ll tell you again…these are just meaningless objects. It’s the
experience of making the work. That’s the thing!” …“Yes, I was there for the
creation,” Ben continued. “That’s what it’s about, Jerome. The rest…the rest is
all a lot of bullshit.” (p.47)
___
Ark by Julian
Tepper
Dzanc
Books
Publication
Date: September 2016
Hardcover: 224 pages
ISBN: 978-1-941088-29-6
[Synopsis:
Ben Arkin, patriarch of the family, is an artist who has never sold a piece.
His children, Sondra, Doris, and Oliver run a record label that has never
produced a hit, and that Ben and his wife have bankrolled. When Doris strikes
out to form her own label, Sondra sues the entire Arkin family, setting about a
series of events that ultimately lead to their demise. The story is told
primarily from the perspective of Oliver’s daughter, Rebecca, an attorney who
might be the only redeeming member of the Arkin family. Rebecca attempts to
keep the family from collapsing, while trying desperately to extricate herself
from their grasp.]
