Australia Reviews In

The Detour was recently released in an Australia edition by Murdoch Books with the title The Art Lover, and this week, Southern Hemisphere reviewers had this to say:

Courier Mail, Brisbane– “VERDICT: Elegant, Haunting, Compelling.”

Sydney Morning Herald, Sydney– ”With great care and skill, Romano-Lax teases out the human complexities, exploring the differing values, desires and fears of the various characters while creating, through Vogler’s cautious and evasive voice, an atmosphere of chilling menace and threat.”

Launceton Examiner, Tasmania: “A skillful blend of art history and contrasting personalities. A very rewarding read.”

Stuck Writers, Second Novels…

 

Andromeda with family in Syria, near the Iraq border

The Middle Eastern photo Andromeda thought would be her second novel author photo -- before the second novel became a "stuck" novel

Andromeda with her daughter above the banks of the Euphrates

 

 

When a recent interviewer asked me if it’s really true that as a principle, seconds novel are tough, I hesitated. Yes, undeniably tough. But no, this new novel, The Detour, wasn’t exactly my “second” novel. Between my debut and this book, an entirely different novel and a few other partial manuscripts had languished: unfinished, unloved, and finally, unread by all but a few trusted souls. They weren’t rejected by a publisher. They didn’t even get that far. My first agent — with my own harsh internal censor as Kevorkian accomplice — pulled the plug.

No wonder, then, that I’ve always been drawn to the stories of other novelists with unpublished, unfinished, rejected, or simply abandoned novels in their past.

Read the entire essay, which includes words of admiration for some of my favorite authors — Mark Salzman, Michael Chabon, and Lionel Shriver — as well as some details of my 2005-2008 Mesopotamian novel (currently set aside, never fully abandoned!) at Huffington Post.

The Art Lover (Australia edition)

It’s official: in April, Murdoch Books, Pier Nine imprint will be bringing out The Detour (retitled The Art Lover in Australia). I love the cover, and I look forward to seeing how this title communicates to readers, because it’s true: this is a story about art and love. Is there a happy ending? I probably shouldn’t say. But I will say this: I wrote the story that I most wanted to read, and that includes the ending as well. If my first novel, The Spanish Bow, started in the light and moved toward the dark, this one starts in the dark and moves toward the light.

I’d love to hear from Australian readers, and it should go without saying that if I ever make it out to that part of the Pacific (maybe in a year?), I’ll certainly be stopping by.

Now available

Praise for The Detour:

“A gently haunting work of subtle and surprising wisdom.”  Carol Haggas, Booklist

“A marvelous adventure across landscapes both inner and outer, The Detour is a moving study in art and memory, history and geography, courage and compassion and every kind of love.”  Jon Clinch,  author of Finn

“Romano-Lax is singularly gifted: she creates full-fledged, engaging characters and writes compelling narrative. Some of her descriptive passages take your breath away. ”  David Keymer, Library Journal

“Ernst’s story is an engrossing one. It also serves as a means by which the author demonstrates the insidious role of Nazi culture in ordinary lives… A very satisfying novel.” The Washington Independent Review of Books

“The Detour  is a gem, combining a fascinating storyline about art acquisition in Hitler’s Germany, an entrancing setting darkened by impending war, rich symbolism and engaging characters.”   David Hendricks, San Antonio Express-News

“The ethical issues of the book are thought provoking, contrasting the artistic perfection of classical sculpture with basic human values. Ultimately, the sculpture itself provides the answer. Just as the discus thrower leans to balance the weight of the outstretched arm and the heavy disc, Ernst must learn to balance his love for classical art with personal morality, to reach for love, even while acknowledging it is more than any of us deserve.”  ForeWord Book Reviews

Nazi art and physical imperfection: three quick questions about The Detour

The Nazis spent all of World War II plundering art. Why set this story so early, before their art acquisition project had gained momentum, and before the war?

During the war, the Third Reich stole over a million artistic works from both public and private hands. Many of those works were repatriated after the war. Others remain missing to this day. But before the Nazis’ schemes were fully understood by a horrified world, and before Hitler stole and looted art, he bought it. One of the most significant early acquisitions was an ancient Roman statue, copied from an earlier Greek statue, called The Discus Thrower, purchased from an Italian owner in 1938, against the objections of many, and no doubt with some help from Mussolini. Robert Edsel, in Rescuing Da Vinci, calls this purchase “theft by any other name.” The narrator of The Detour, Ernst Vogler, calls it “one of the earliest symbols of our questionable intentions.”

It’s easy now to recognize the rapaciousness of the Third Reich, as reflected both in its “Final Solution” and its unparalleled looting of European art. More interesting to me, as a novelist, was trying to imagine how these issues would have seemed before the war, especially to someone living at the geographical heart of Nazism. I wanted to imagine the difficulties faced by an average German who doesn’t know what’s coming, who can’t seem to extricate himself from the activities and influence of the Third Reich, who may feel that his own livelihood—even his own life—are at stake. Given a simple job—catalog art, and visit another country to retrieve it—should he have any qualms? By framing the story before the war, it places us in the position of imagining difficult choices made without the benefit of retrospective, historically-informed wisdom. In our own lives, we are more like Ernst. We don’t know what’s coming, and we are influenced most by own our experiences, our own hopes and fears.

Ernst knows a lot about classical art. But he is self-taught, and only narrowly. He doesn’t know much about the history of more recent art, or anything about modern abstract art—which in Germany was declared as “degenerate.” What is the significance of this naivete?

Ernst admits that 1938 is not the time to be a Renaissance man. It is the time for “the deep, clean, and relatively painless cut of narrow knowledge.” (Not the only cut in the novel, by the way.) His ignorance spares him. In his mind, it’s a valid excuse—he doesn’t choose to speak up against some of the Nazi’s views about abstract “degenerate” art, for example, because in most cases he doesn’t even know the arguments. But it’s still an excuse. Of course, after working in art curation for two years, he could have learned more and developed some opinions. He certainly has enough taste (he realizes the Nazi collectors favor some real contemporary dreck, in addition to the masterpieces) to start forming some questions or to think about defending the artists the Nazis were ostracizing, if he wanted to look up from his basement office and catalog cards. But Ernst is reflective enough to realize his narrowness, and able to recognize it as both a form of self-defense and a source of weakness. A price will be paid.

We discover that Ernst has a physical defect—a very small one. What role does this play in his professional life, and what evidence is there that such a small defect might concern a German man of his time?

Ernst’s defect is common and minor. But to him, it suggests some internal inferiority lurking within his genetic makeup, at a time when eugenics are a national obsession. In the 1930s and early 1940s, hundreds of thousands of non-Jewish Germans judged to be physically or mentally inferior were put to death, for conditions as common as epilepsy. In addition, hundreds of thousands were forcibly sterilized. It’s disturbing to note that during this same period, compulsory sterilization campaigns were also taking place in many countries around the world, including the United States.

Dear Reader,

Five years ago, when my first novel came out, a barrier existed between author and reader. Certainly, I received emails—wonderful emails—but I took a while to answer them, I neglected a few, and for the most part, I was overwhelmed to hear so directly from people who had spent so many patient hours inhabiting a fictional world I had created.

Do you remember a cheesy old movie called “The Boy In the Bubble?” Thanks to Google, I just looked it up. Yep, 1982, John Travolta. Wow. I can laugh now, but I remember how that movie captivated me. I was fascinated and horrified by the sense of a person cut off from the physical world, and the idea that he might just die suddenly if the barrier was breached, and the notion that in some cases, that risk would be worth taking. Who wants to stay in a bubble?

Email, Facebook, instantly downloadable ebooks, online reader reviews, instant sales metrics and more have breached the author-reader barrier. Now, authors are expected to communicate more directly with their readers. At the very least, readers have gained power, able to talk back instantly, to enter a cultural conversation that was once open only to professional reviewers and the editorial mandates of a limited number of venues.  

For an author, it’s a little scary at first. What if a writer gets sucked into interacting too often, compromising time for writing? (It certainly happens.) What if readers insist on making off-point comments in their reviews? What if readers are unfair? Whose book is this, anyway?

The truth is: it’s the reader’s book. The author had her chance—two years, or five. The editor had her chance as well. But now, like a teenager leaving the nest, insisting upon independence and individuation, the book shakes off its previous ownership and steps out into the wider world.

Occasionally, I’ve disagreed with or winced at remarks from readers and reviewers. But more often, I’ve enjoyed reading some really well-written summaries and analyses of my novels. Nearly always, there are surprises: readers liking and responding to things that I, the author, wasn’t so sure readers would like, or taking away a different message from the one I intended. Or the one reader in twenty who is particularly critical, but in a way that makes me think, “I agree!” – not that I want to add any ammunition. Or the readers who gravitate to a certain character, not the one I expected. Or the readers who assume I’m a man, or European, or much older, based on what I’ve written. Or the reader who finds some very nifty symbolism that I didn’t intend. (I’m willing to accept credit, of course.) Or the reader or interviewer who digresses from my plotline into a larger philosophical or historical question or argument and I think: Yes, go there. I’m thrilled to hear how this relates to something else happening in the real world, especially if it’s something you’ve personally experienced.  

Perhaps I’m supposed to stay in my bubble, but frankly, I find these comments and reviews and conversations more interesting and encouraging than not. Do I prefer five-star reviews over three- or four-star reviews that argue or quibble? Actually, I like them both. What encourages me most is the idea that people are taking the time, not only to read, but to respond, to recommend, to talk back, to advocate or disagree, to grab a book and give it a good shake, to make it their own.

Whether we meet elsewhere, at a book event or online, I’m glad you stopped by. I look forward to hearing or reading your side of the conversation, whether it’s about a book I’ve written, or about books in general.

Andromeda

Leonardo as Ernst, Paul as Pablo: Hollywood dreaming

OK, twist my arm. Make me consider which actors I wish would play my fictional characters. Marshal Zeringue of the website “My Book, the Movie” asked me to do just that and it took me, oh, about five minutes to comply.

For Feliu, the main character in my first novel The Spanish Bow (originally inspired by Pau a.k.a. Pablo Casals), I chose Paul Giamatti. And why wouldn’t my favorite actor, star of “Sideways” and the John Adams series, not want to play a Catalan cellist? Picture this man holding a cello bow and flirting, however inexpertly, with the Queen of Spain.

For Ernst Vogler, the 24-year-old (and later 34-year-old) narrator of The Detour, I’m plugging for Leonardo DiCaprio. I know– everyone wants Leonardo– but I think there’s something extra cool and coincidental about the fact that DiCaprio is both Bavarian and Italian, and that he first kicked (inside his Mamma’s belly) while she was touring an art museum. Miracolo!