The Improbability of Love. By Hannah Rothschild. Bloomsbury; 404 pages; £14.99.
HANNAH ROTHSCHILD’S romp through the art world is peopled by some horrible characters: venal art dealers, self-important experts, political windbags, lonely Russian oligarchs exiled to London, greedy sheikhs wanting to make their mark on the world and auctioneers so oozing with unctuousness you want to wipe your hands on a clean handkerchief after being introduced.
But at the heart of the novel are two entrancing figures. One is Annie McDee, the middle-aged daughter of a crazy alcoholic mother, now on her own after the collapse of a long-term relationship, but blessed with a heart of gold and a gift for cooking that is so entrancing she recalls the heroine of Isak Dinesen’s “Babette’s Feast”.
The other is the painting Annie discovers in a junk shop while seeking a gift for an unsuitable lover. Now marked down in condescending art-expert tones as “School of…”, Annie’s painting had, in fact, spent three centuries travelling across Europe from castle to chateau and back again, owned by queen and potentate. A fictional work by the French saviour of the Baroque, Antoine Watteau, after he was spurned by the love of his life, “The Improbability of Love” possesses the appeal of a great piece of art that is universal though never quite explicable....
from The Economist: Books and arts http://ift.tt/1H3wO0h
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