(Reprinted from the Chicago Center for Literature and Photography [cclapcenter.com]. I am the original author of this essay, as well as the owner of CCLaP; it is not being reprinted here illegally.)

This is one of four books that recently came in and out of my life without me finishing, but with none of them particularly that terrible, which is why I didn't want to include them in my snarky "Too Awful To Finish" series of essays. And indeed, award-winning author Kate Christensen's newest, 2007's The Great Man, was itself nominated for won(!) the PEN/Faulkner award last year, and has a whole lot of admirers out there; but as a visual-arts major and a former visual artist myself, I just was never able to get over the central premise of this book, never able to suspend my disbelief enough and simply get into the rhythm of the novel itself. Because the entire story, see, is predicated on something that in a million years would've never happened; it's the fictional story of one Oscar Feldman, who apparently was the only single figurative artist in Greenwich Village in the 1940s to be taken seriously by the Abstract Expressionist crowd, as well as such supporters as critics and gallery owners. And that's simply an impossibility, because it clashes directly against why all those artists were in Greenwich Village in the '40s in the first place; these freaks and weirdos were all running away from the part of the arts that championed figurative and representational work, wanted to get as far away as possible from these people both physically and ideologically. Figurative painters in the '40s were laughed out of town by this Village crowd, and it was just too hard for me to believe that exactly one of them would just happen to instead become the toast and badboy-darling of their entire scene, for no other reason than that all his paintings featured boobies; and that's a real problem when it comes to The Great Man, because the entire rest of the plot is based off it, with the book actually set in the early 2000s right after Feldman's death, and with two competing biographers digging up yet more and more and more ugly dirt about the man and what turned out to be a double private life. I know it's unfair to give up on a novel after only ten pages, which is exactly what I did here; but...well...there you go.

Out of 10: N/A ( )

The greatest irony of The Great Man that it isn't really about a great man at all, save incidentally. Rather, this novel is about three women who have a relationship with the same man -- who, while important to and loved by all of them, never knew or even tried to know the essence of any of them. Getting to know the three of them as they see themselves is something we get to do in this engrossing, witty treasure of a book.

The spark that ignites the book is that two biographers are simultaneously researching the painter Oscar Feldman, the "great man" of the title. Feldman was a painter known for his female nudes -- both for painting them and for bedding them. He never ventured into abstraction or any other form of modern art, but stuck solely to representational paintings of the female body. He was opinionated, stubborn, and a complete shit toward women, no matter how much he admired their physicality.

Oscar was married to Abigail, the mother of his only son, the deeply autistic Ethan. It is never clear whether or how much Oscar loved Abigail, or whether she was merely a deep pocket to keep him in food and shelter while he developed his art. Certainly Abigail loved him, but the greater love of her life seems to have been her son, whose care consumed her life. There is evidence that perhaps Oscar had a deep, abiding, unexpressed and unexpressable love for her that was somehow divorced from sexual passion. Perhaps their marriage was oddly happy. And perhaps that is why Abigail does what she does when the biographers come around.

Oscar's longtime mistress was Teddy, a secretary in the law firm that took care of Oscar's legal affairs. Teddy is the mother of Oscar's twin daughters, for whom Oscar never provided a penny in support. In fact, Oscar did not leave Teddy so much as a single painting when he died, and she found out about his death by reading the obituary page in the New York Times. Teddy never wanted Oscar's support, because she deeply valued her independence. She had a passion for Oscar, clearly, but it seems almost to have been an intellectual passion more than any other sort -- not a cool commingling of minds, but a hot, fierce passion that erupted into sex more often than not, a love of argument that contained a heat and light that is rarely depicted in literature. She now lives in genteel poverty, and takes great pride in making do.

Oscar's sister was Maxine, now a woman in her mid-80's, who is also an artist. She is, perhaps, a greater artist than Oscar ever was, but she has never received the recognition that Oscar did. Certainly no one is working on her biography. Her work is abstract, cerebral, and her palette limited to black and white. Her work, like Oscar's, hangs in museums around the world. But she has reached old age without wealth, without a partner, and with precious few friends. She is grumpy and defensive, including of Oscar's reputation, but also extremely competitive with her famous brother, even after his death. And there is a secret about Oscar that she is protecting, although she seems to be yearning for the secret to be revealed.

The probing of the two biographers leads to dramatic changes in the lives of all three women. It is a delight to see older women -- in fact, old women, women well past the point where we would call them middle-aged -- portrayed as having passion for life, sexual passion, plans for their futures. They form new friendships, meet new men, reassess old relationships, reassess their own lives. These women are thoroughly alive and do not intend to stop living before they die. There is not a one of them I wouldn't like to meet and befriend. There is not one of them I do not intend to emulate, each in a different way.

Christensen's writing is strong and elegant. Her viewpoint wanders from woman to woman, sometimes without warning, so that in one paragraph you're seeing the world from Teddy's eyes and in the next from Maxine's. Seeing the same scene through different eyes -- the pride Teddy has in a meal she has assembled, for instance, as seen through the eyes of one of Oscar's biographers -- enhances every description (and Christensen's food descriptions are especially gorgeous, leading me to believe that her earlier book, The Epicure's Lament, is probably very tasty; it's now on my list).

This book belongs on your shelf next to such volumes as Susan Minot's Evening and Michael Cunningham's The Hours. I'm surprised not to find The Great Man on the New York Times list of notable books of the year; it's that good. You'll definitely find it on mine. ( )

I'll be honest: 20 pages into this book I was looking for a way out. The character the book opens on, Teddy St. Cloud ("The Great Man's" mistress) struck me as cliched and tired, the pace was terrifyingly slow, and I just was having a hard time sticking with it.

But, before I even realized what was happening, I soon found myself engrossed in the tale of the 6 disparate women who loved this "Great Man."

The Great Man is Oscar Feldman, a deceased artist well-know for his unfailing devotion to the female nude. Five years after his death, two separate would-be Oscar biographers interview the surviving women in his life: Abigail, his wife; Teddy, his longtime mistress; Ruby, one of Oscars two daughters by Teddy; his sister Maxine, a moderately successful abstract artist; and Teddy's friend Lila, who long nurtured unrequited love for Oscar.

The biographers provide impetus for the women to work together to preserve Oscar's legacy, even though a long-lingering secret threatens to realign Feldman's place in the art world.

This secret is really at the heart of the novel -- and the introduction of it into the story is when Christensen's narrative really comes alive. Christensen artfully moves her women away from their earlier stereotypical selves and onto paths of rejuvenation. These "old ladies" are not sitting around sipping tea; they are wonderfully alive, even as the story of the dead man who binds them is rewritten.

Christensen has an excellent knack for describing the frenzied relationship between artist and viewer, and that of artist and subject. Her portrayal of Maxine (Oscar's sister) as an acerbic aging artist who longs after lost love, is particularly well done.

In short: give the book time and enjoy the blossoming of each woman. This book is plodding at times, but overall it is a funny, tight novel that lays bare how we look at art, love and women. ( )

My good friend Cathy took a special trip to my house to bring me this book since I'm in a reading slump. Thanks, Cathy. I'm about to start it.

As the child of an out of wedlock relationship that lasted 40 years, the daughter of a complex man who had a wife and 5 children, a mistress and a child, and the daughter of a woman who is now coping with her loss (my father passed away 2 years ago) and is now seeking a new relationship at the age of 65, I very much enjoyed reading this book. We are far too judgemental of other people's lives and this book is wonderful in its honest portrayal of these 3 (4 if you include Lila) incredible women who are coping with the death of Oscar, a flawed but clearly facinating personality. My mum and I have been having many frank talks about sexuality at an older age. Christensen beautifully describes the passion these women feel. Thank you for dealing with a topic that is still taboo. I hope that at 65, 70, 80 I will still have the fire in me that these women clearly have. ( )