WOO WOO

An artist blurs the line between reality and performance as she livestreams her stalker’s abuses on the eve of an important gallery show.

Sabine is a successful conceptual artist about to debut her newest work, “fifteen photographic portraits of her…covered from head to toe in sheer costumes. These wearable puppets, several feet long…featured silicone faces that Sabine could position over her own.” Titled things like “Crone,” “Baby,” “Stay at Home Mother,” and “Baba Yaga,” the portraits purport to explore the archetypes of female identity as experienced by the individual, and singular, female artist. Or, as Sabine explains it to a collector and the gallery owner, Cecily, “It’s about pretending to be something you already are.” The problem is the show could also be about falsity, or juxtaposition, or “the face and the body and the night,” or any number of other things depending on the viewer. This difficulty with definition, and Sabine’s oscillation between her sense of utter failure and artistic victory, tears at her as she flounders through the pre-opening publicity push wherein her main strategy is to livestream both the bizarre and banal of her everyday in an attempt to “coauthor a work with the public…to start a dialogue with the viewer…in real time.” Throughout it all, Sabine’s beleaguered husband, Constantine; her friend Ruth, whose whale-shaped cakes “occup[y] the intersection between baking and marine life”; and Cecily’s partner, Freya, whose sculptures sell for thousands, attempt to soothe and bolster her ego, with little success. As Sabine’s anxiety ramps up, she's visited by the apparition of feminist art icon Carolee Schneeman, offering protection against the insistent attentions of a stalker who peers in Sabine’s windows with the muddied face of a Rembrandt self-portrait. The whirligig pace of the novel relentlessly intensifies from chapter to chapter as Sabine navigates the boundary between real and manufactured, all in front of a live audience. If Sabine mistakes art for life, or vice versa, the results could be deadly—both for her body of work and her actual body. The book is a pointedly absurdist send-up of the pretensions of the art world, which nevertheless carries at its core a real exploration of what is at stake when one lives for art. Baxter continues her triumphant exploration of real lives lived on the fringes of the surreal.

Sassy, sharp, and very funny, but with a consequential heart.