Items related to Restoration: A Novel
A missing painting by a legendary suicide provides the key to John Ed Bradley’s mesmerizing novel of New Orleans–a city where art, sex, and race link the city’s decadent past with its decaying present.
The mysterious Levette Asmore was a legend in New Orleans even before he apparently threw himself off the Huey P. Long Bridge in 1941 at the height of his creative powers. Widely regarded as the finest and most original painter ever produced by the American South, Asmore won fame for a series of portraits depicting beautiful young women with whom he was rumored to be sexually involved. And while a certain promiscuity was long tolerated in the old, benighted city, there was no hiding Asmore’s secret past in the dark heart of Depression-era Louisiana. When a newspaper reported that the WPA mural he was painting laid waste to sexual taboos and the prevailing racial order, Asmore was ordered to whitewash the masterpiece before the public was allowed to see it. Weeks after doing so, he was dead.
New Orleans, present day. A young journalist named Jack Charbonnet and the woman he desperately wants, painting restorer Rhys Goudeau, discover that Asmore might not have destroyed his infamous mural after all. If they can find the painting and restore its damaged surface, it promises to answer the riddle of Asmore’s violent death and reveal the reasons for his tortured life. The mural also will be worth millions–more than any other art object ever created by an artist from the region. But to save the painting Goudeau and Charbonnet must outmaneuver their rapaciously greedy rivals in the small but wealthy world of Southern art collectors.
What starts as a comic novel of manners quickly deepens to one of tragic consequence as Charbonnet begins to realize that the Asmore mural–and the frantic hunt for it–are not just about reclaiming a valuable work of art. Rather, the painting represents the murky and troubled history of the South itself, where a legacy of racial intolerance has destroyed its greatest artist as well as his most important creation.
Novelist John Ed Bradley, himself a passionate collector of Southern regionalist paintings, uses his insider knowledge and years of research to create a masterful portrait of the city where he lives and its obsession with the past. In the story of the doomed Asmore, Bradley has written of a time in the South when painting had little to do with decoration and an artist courted death with every stroke of the brush.
The mysterious Levette Asmore was a legend in New Orleans even before he apparently threw himself off the Huey P. Long Bridge in 1941 at the height of his creative powers. Widely regarded as the finest and most original painter ever produced by the American South, Asmore won fame for a series of portraits depicting beautiful young women with whom he was rumored to be sexually involved. And while a certain promiscuity was long tolerated in the old, benighted city, there was no hiding Asmore’s secret past in the dark heart of Depression-era Louisiana. When a newspaper reported that the WPA mural he was painting laid waste to sexual taboos and the prevailing racial order, Asmore was ordered to whitewash the masterpiece before the public was allowed to see it. Weeks after doing so, he was dead.
New Orleans, present day. A young journalist named Jack Charbonnet and the woman he desperately wants, painting restorer Rhys Goudeau, discover that Asmore might not have destroyed his infamous mural after all. If they can find the painting and restore its damaged surface, it promises to answer the riddle of Asmore’s violent death and reveal the reasons for his tortured life. The mural also will be worth millions–more than any other art object ever created by an artist from the region. But to save the painting Goudeau and Charbonnet must outmaneuver their rapaciously greedy rivals in the small but wealthy world of Southern art collectors.
What starts as a comic novel of manners quickly deepens to one of tragic consequence as Charbonnet begins to realize that the Asmore mural–and the frantic hunt for it–are not just about reclaiming a valuable work of art. Rather, the painting represents the murky and troubled history of the South itself, where a legacy of racial intolerance has destroyed its greatest artist as well as his most important creation.
Novelist John Ed Bradley, himself a passionate collector of Southern regionalist paintings, uses his insider knowledge and years of research to create a masterful portrait of the city where he lives and its obsession with the past. In the story of the doomed Asmore, Bradley has written of a time in the South when painting had little to do with decoration and an artist courted death with every stroke of the brush.
"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
About the Author:
JOHN ED BRADLEY is the author of several highly praised novels, including Tupelo Nights and My Juliet. A former staff writer for the Washington Post, Bradley has contributed e feature stories to Sports Illustrated, Esquire, and GQ. He lives at historic Coliseum Square in New Orleans’ Lower Garden District.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
ONE
When the old car pulled up, I was waiting by the gate, gazing past a colorful shroud of crape myrtles and wisteria at a plantation house I had long admired. The rent sign hanging from the finials on the tall, iron fence appeared to be hand-done, as the lettering was clumsily formed and running in streaks. you can live here, the sign said, and provided numbers for a local business called High Life Realty.
I cracked a smile at the spectacle of the approaching car. Its exhaust pipe was dragging the ground and shooting sparks in a great, feathery arc. After parking against the curb in front, the driver made a furious attempt to open his door. It wouldn't budge, and so he slid across the seat and got out on the passenger's side. He was an odd-looking fellow with a flaming-red complexion, thinning blond hair and, today, a crust of dried shaving cream on the side of his face. Perhaps because of his company's name, he was not at all what I'd expected. In other words, there was nothing of the high life about him. Cat hair clung to his cheap navy coat. His shoes were brown brogans caked with mud. "You Jack?" he said, ambling toward me with a hand to shake.
"Yes," I answered. "You Mr. Marion?"
"Patrick. Call me Patrick, please." He was the agent representing the rental; I'd phoned him less than an hour before. "It's only eight hundred dollars a month," he said, "but it isn't for the main house, Jack. It's for the bachelor's quarters--the garconniere--attached to the rear of the building."
"Does someone live in the main house?"
He nodded. "The owner, an elderly man named Lowenstein. I'd offer to introduce you to him but he's not well, I'm afraid. He keeps a maid and a nurse, and if you rent the place you're likely to see more of them than of him. Except for the occasional afternoon when he rolls out for coffee on the back gallery, he tends to remain hidden."
"He's in a wheelchair, then?"
"Well, part of the time, when the arthritis flares up. He doesn't exactly welcome personal questions, but that's how the nurse described his condition."
I followed Patrick to the back of the house and the garconniere. The apartment was small, dark and cramped, and the floors were badly warped from water damage. Ceilings reached upward to a height of twelve feet and each of the three rooms had a fireplace. I checked to make sure the shower worked and the toilet flushed properly, and when I stepped out of the bathroom Patrick was waiting for me with a familiar look on his face. "Jack, have we met before?"
"I don't think so."
"Then how do I know you? I'm certain I've heard your name before."
"You read the paper?"
"Always."
"I'm Jack Charbonnet," I said, pronouncing it the French way, as we do, Shar-bo-nay. "I write a column . . . well, I did write one. I resigned last week."
"And how old are you, Jack? If you don't mind my asking."
"Thirty-two."
"Thirty-two and you've resigned? How wonderful."
"If I look familiar it's probably because the paper ran my mug shot with the column." I imitated my pose in the photo. "Maybe you've seen it."
He pulled a hand down his long face and gave me another look. He shook his head finally, and then pointed to the ground at his feet, no doubt intent on getting back to the issue at hand. "If you want privacy and seclusion, Jack, this is the spot."
"It does inspire, doesn't it? I'm almost embarrassed to admit this, but a moment ago I had a flash of dej^ vu."
This seemed to please him, and he answered with an energetic nod. "You're perfect for the place, I can tell. Except for the modern conveniences like plumbing and air-conditioning, it's just as it was in 1830, when the house was built. Maybe you lived here in another life, Jack. Maybe you will live here in many lives to come. In any case, the garden in back is yours to enjoy. Every pink azalea and purple iris, every olive jar, the garden oak and the giant palm . . . even the ghost."
"A ghost, is there?"
"Mr. Lowenstein asked me to make sure to mention it, in the spirit of full disclosure. Unexplained footsteps in the middle of the night, the sound of someone weeping. You get up to see who it is and there's no one. Frankly it strikes me as a bunch of hogwash. But the old man insists it's real." Patrick slapped another hand on my shoulder. "I hope that doesn't kill the deal."
"Not at all. If you live in New Orleans, they can't be avoided, can they?"
"Who's that?"
"Ghosts," I said. "Ghosts and termites. They own this town."
We sat at a small table on the front gallery and he spread out a collection of papers in front of me. I began filling out an application form and paused when I came to the question of employment. Patrick raised an eyebrow as I wrote the word Self.
"If you have no job, Jack, how will you pay rent?"
"I've recently come into some money. By way of inheritance. My father left me some assets. My credit history's strong. I assure you I'm a good candidate."
"I ask only because Mr. Lowenstein will want to know."
"Of course," I said.
"I'd just returned to the office from putting my sign up when the phone rang and you asked to have a look."
"Then it really was meant to be," I said.
To finish the paperwork I wrote out a list of references, then Patrick and I walked across Moss Street and stood staring back at the house from the grassy bank of the bayou. The wind was blowing and pink and violet dust from the trees swirled in the dense, sun-bright air. I could see the windows past the second-floor gallery, in one a lamp glowing against the counterpane.
"Mr. Lowenstein collects paintings," Patrick said. "Has them scattered all over the house, from floor to ceiling in some rooms. He's a bachelor, never married. Probably gay. Or he was gay when he was younger and that sort of thing mattered."
"You mean when sex mattered?"
"Yes, Jack, I do mean sex." He touched my shoulder again. "But back to the paintings. It might interest you to know that Lowenstein even owns some landscapes by that fellow Drysdale." Patrick pronounced the artist's name this way: Driz-dul. "You'll have to get him to show you sometime," he said.
"Drysdale," I repeated.
"Maybe you've seen the stuff. He painted oak trees and Louisiana bayou scenes, most dating to the early part of the century. People today pay bloody fortunes for them. I was never one for the primordial--my idea of camping out, you understand, is staying at a Holiday Inn on the edge of the woods--but these Drysdales are kind of inviting if you're only having to look."
Patrick was quiet as he inspected me once again. Immediately after scheduling the appointment, I'd shaved my face and trimmed back my sideburns, I'd combed the curtain of hair out of my eyes, and I'd put on freshly laundered clothes, a gray tweed jacket, and my best shoes, with socks. Still in all, Patrick seemed keen to my fakery. He saw past the shine. For a second I thought for sure he'd dismiss me as a rental candidate, but then a smile came to his face and he nudged me with an elbow. "I don't mean to be presumptuous," he said, "but are you a Chambers man, Jack?"
"A Chambers man?" I had never heard of such a person.
"I'm referring to the stove, built by Chambers. Mine dates to '29 and is the rarest of all colors." He seemed to be waiting for me to say it. "That's right, a red one. We Chambers men must stick together, Jack. Remember that."
How do you respond to such an assessment of yourself? In the past people had judged me to be many things but never this: I was a Chambers man, of all things.
"Chambers men have little use for the present," Patrick explained. "The past is where their hearts reside. They are smitten with cobwebs and dust. Consequently they spend a lot of time gathered around the stove, and on barstools."
"Patrick, would you like to join me for a cocktail?"
"See there," he answered. "I knew I'd read you right."
We returned to the house a couple of hours later, as dusk was settling in, and Patrick, still pitching the place, offered another look at the rear garden and garconniere.
"Doesn't it just drip with old New Orleans charm?" he said. "It drips, Jack. It absolutely drips . . ." He'd had a few more than I had, but it didn't show in how he carried himself. I was impressed by the fluidity of his movements, all the more so because I found it necessary to touch trees and statuary to maintain balance.
"I'm having guests over Friday night for supper," he said. "It promises to be great fun. I hope you'll join us. You'll meet a nice lady or two. Better still, you'll have a chance to see the Chambers in action."
We'd already got halfway drunk together. I could think of no reason to decline. "Shall I bring anything?" I said.
He seemed to think about it. "Dreams," he said. "Bring your dreams, Jack. And if you know how to make one, a nice big Jell-O salad. I'm crazy for the stuff."
We sat on the garden bench and watched the house for a while, then Patrick walked up to the back door and rapped on it with a fist. I was standing next to him. When Lowenstein failed to answer, we moved to the very rear of the property. Here we could see the place more clearly and observe the full length of the upper windows as well as the lower ones.
I put my hands around my mouth and called out Lowenstein's name--I shouted i...
When the old car pulled up, I was waiting by the gate, gazing past a colorful shroud of crape myrtles and wisteria at a plantation house I had long admired. The rent sign hanging from the finials on the tall, iron fence appeared to be hand-done, as the lettering was clumsily formed and running in streaks. you can live here, the sign said, and provided numbers for a local business called High Life Realty.
I cracked a smile at the spectacle of the approaching car. Its exhaust pipe was dragging the ground and shooting sparks in a great, feathery arc. After parking against the curb in front, the driver made a furious attempt to open his door. It wouldn't budge, and so he slid across the seat and got out on the passenger's side. He was an odd-looking fellow with a flaming-red complexion, thinning blond hair and, today, a crust of dried shaving cream on the side of his face. Perhaps because of his company's name, he was not at all what I'd expected. In other words, there was nothing of the high life about him. Cat hair clung to his cheap navy coat. His shoes were brown brogans caked with mud. "You Jack?" he said, ambling toward me with a hand to shake.
"Yes," I answered. "You Mr. Marion?"
"Patrick. Call me Patrick, please." He was the agent representing the rental; I'd phoned him less than an hour before. "It's only eight hundred dollars a month," he said, "but it isn't for the main house, Jack. It's for the bachelor's quarters--the garconniere--attached to the rear of the building."
"Does someone live in the main house?"
He nodded. "The owner, an elderly man named Lowenstein. I'd offer to introduce you to him but he's not well, I'm afraid. He keeps a maid and a nurse, and if you rent the place you're likely to see more of them than of him. Except for the occasional afternoon when he rolls out for coffee on the back gallery, he tends to remain hidden."
"He's in a wheelchair, then?"
"Well, part of the time, when the arthritis flares up. He doesn't exactly welcome personal questions, but that's how the nurse described his condition."
I followed Patrick to the back of the house and the garconniere. The apartment was small, dark and cramped, and the floors were badly warped from water damage. Ceilings reached upward to a height of twelve feet and each of the three rooms had a fireplace. I checked to make sure the shower worked and the toilet flushed properly, and when I stepped out of the bathroom Patrick was waiting for me with a familiar look on his face. "Jack, have we met before?"
"I don't think so."
"Then how do I know you? I'm certain I've heard your name before."
"You read the paper?"
"Always."
"I'm Jack Charbonnet," I said, pronouncing it the French way, as we do, Shar-bo-nay. "I write a column . . . well, I did write one. I resigned last week."
"And how old are you, Jack? If you don't mind my asking."
"Thirty-two."
"Thirty-two and you've resigned? How wonderful."
"If I look familiar it's probably because the paper ran my mug shot with the column." I imitated my pose in the photo. "Maybe you've seen it."
He pulled a hand down his long face and gave me another look. He shook his head finally, and then pointed to the ground at his feet, no doubt intent on getting back to the issue at hand. "If you want privacy and seclusion, Jack, this is the spot."
"It does inspire, doesn't it? I'm almost embarrassed to admit this, but a moment ago I had a flash of dej^ vu."
This seemed to please him, and he answered with an energetic nod. "You're perfect for the place, I can tell. Except for the modern conveniences like plumbing and air-conditioning, it's just as it was in 1830, when the house was built. Maybe you lived here in another life, Jack. Maybe you will live here in many lives to come. In any case, the garden in back is yours to enjoy. Every pink azalea and purple iris, every olive jar, the garden oak and the giant palm . . . even the ghost."
"A ghost, is there?"
"Mr. Lowenstein asked me to make sure to mention it, in the spirit of full disclosure. Unexplained footsteps in the middle of the night, the sound of someone weeping. You get up to see who it is and there's no one. Frankly it strikes me as a bunch of hogwash. But the old man insists it's real." Patrick slapped another hand on my shoulder. "I hope that doesn't kill the deal."
"Not at all. If you live in New Orleans, they can't be avoided, can they?"
"Who's that?"
"Ghosts," I said. "Ghosts and termites. They own this town."
We sat at a small table on the front gallery and he spread out a collection of papers in front of me. I began filling out an application form and paused when I came to the question of employment. Patrick raised an eyebrow as I wrote the word Self.
"If you have no job, Jack, how will you pay rent?"
"I've recently come into some money. By way of inheritance. My father left me some assets. My credit history's strong. I assure you I'm a good candidate."
"I ask only because Mr. Lowenstein will want to know."
"Of course," I said.
"I'd just returned to the office from putting my sign up when the phone rang and you asked to have a look."
"Then it really was meant to be," I said.
To finish the paperwork I wrote out a list of references, then Patrick and I walked across Moss Street and stood staring back at the house from the grassy bank of the bayou. The wind was blowing and pink and violet dust from the trees swirled in the dense, sun-bright air. I could see the windows past the second-floor gallery, in one a lamp glowing against the counterpane.
"Mr. Lowenstein collects paintings," Patrick said. "Has them scattered all over the house, from floor to ceiling in some rooms. He's a bachelor, never married. Probably gay. Or he was gay when he was younger and that sort of thing mattered."
"You mean when sex mattered?"
"Yes, Jack, I do mean sex." He touched my shoulder again. "But back to the paintings. It might interest you to know that Lowenstein even owns some landscapes by that fellow Drysdale." Patrick pronounced the artist's name this way: Driz-dul. "You'll have to get him to show you sometime," he said.
"Drysdale," I repeated.
"Maybe you've seen the stuff. He painted oak trees and Louisiana bayou scenes, most dating to the early part of the century. People today pay bloody fortunes for them. I was never one for the primordial--my idea of camping out, you understand, is staying at a Holiday Inn on the edge of the woods--but these Drysdales are kind of inviting if you're only having to look."
Patrick was quiet as he inspected me once again. Immediately after scheduling the appointment, I'd shaved my face and trimmed back my sideburns, I'd combed the curtain of hair out of my eyes, and I'd put on freshly laundered clothes, a gray tweed jacket, and my best shoes, with socks. Still in all, Patrick seemed keen to my fakery. He saw past the shine. For a second I thought for sure he'd dismiss me as a rental candidate, but then a smile came to his face and he nudged me with an elbow. "I don't mean to be presumptuous," he said, "but are you a Chambers man, Jack?"
"A Chambers man?" I had never heard of such a person.
"I'm referring to the stove, built by Chambers. Mine dates to '29 and is the rarest of all colors." He seemed to be waiting for me to say it. "That's right, a red one. We Chambers men must stick together, Jack. Remember that."
How do you respond to such an assessment of yourself? In the past people had judged me to be many things but never this: I was a Chambers man, of all things.
"Chambers men have little use for the present," Patrick explained. "The past is where their hearts reside. They are smitten with cobwebs and dust. Consequently they spend a lot of time gathered around the stove, and on barstools."
"Patrick, would you like to join me for a cocktail?"
"See there," he answered. "I knew I'd read you right."
We returned to the house a couple of hours later, as dusk was settling in, and Patrick, still pitching the place, offered another look at the rear garden and garconniere.
"Doesn't it just drip with old New Orleans charm?" he said. "It drips, Jack. It absolutely drips . . ." He'd had a few more than I had, but it didn't show in how he carried himself. I was impressed by the fluidity of his movements, all the more so because I found it necessary to touch trees and statuary to maintain balance.
"I'm having guests over Friday night for supper," he said. "It promises to be great fun. I hope you'll join us. You'll meet a nice lady or two. Better still, you'll have a chance to see the Chambers in action."
We'd already got halfway drunk together. I could think of no reason to decline. "Shall I bring anything?" I said.
He seemed to think about it. "Dreams," he said. "Bring your dreams, Jack. And if you know how to make one, a nice big Jell-O salad. I'm crazy for the stuff."
We sat on the garden bench and watched the house for a while, then Patrick walked up to the back door and rapped on it with a fist. I was standing next to him. When Lowenstein failed to answer, we moved to the very rear of the property. Here we could see the place more clearly and observe the full length of the upper windows as well as the lower ones.
I put my hands around my mouth and called out Lowenstein's name--I shouted i...
"About this title" may belong to another edition of this title.
- PublisherDoubleday
- Publication date2003
- ISBN 10 0385502613
- ISBN 13 9780385502610
- BindingHardcover
- Edition number1
- Number of pages320
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