• Title: The Lonely City
• Author: Olivia Laing
• Genre/Subject: Art, Art history, NYC
• Publisher: Canongate
• Publication Date: 2016
• Start date: 12/6/24
• Finish date: 12/15/24

Review:

In selecting this book I am guilty of a logical fallacy, something akin to the gambler’s fallacy. The gamblers fallacy is esentially, I flipped this coin before and it came up heads twice, so there’s gotta be a third head up next. Or alternatively I flipped this coin before and it came up heads twice, so there’s gotta be a tails up next. Both are wrong because the result of the next flip is not affected by the previous results. I read Laing’s first book To The River a few weeks ago and it was extraordinary. So I assumed that her next book would be extraordinary as well and I was sadly disappointed.

To be fair and clear her writing skill and technique was still good, so no split infinitives or wandering tenses. But beyond that, the paths diverge. The Lonely City is subtitled adventures in the art of being alone, but that’s a bit of a play on words really. It’s not about the art of finding solitude or a meditation on the joys of quiet reflection. It is a series of stories about New York City artists and their unusually lonely lives. So, the art-as-in-artists of being alone as in lonely-or-outcast. Still, I thought, this could be really something.

There are a series of commercials on right now about how awkward it is when you book a vacation rental and the host or owner of the rental is staying there as well. This is the literary form of that in that it would have been a decent effort if she had simply related the artists’ stories without inserting herself in the narrative. Constantly and distractingly.

In her mid-thirties Olivia Laing moved to NYC from England and stayed in a series of her friends’ vacant apartments or sublets and found herself lonely, even though surrounded by the most dense population of humans anywhere in the USA. So in spite of, or because of this, she decided to explore the theme of the lonely city by the way of art and artists who had made New York City their home or the inspiration for their art. So, she explores Edward Hopper, Andy Warhol, so far so good. And then she explores the lives of three other people who I had never heard of and will never be interested in.

Edward Hopper may be more familiar to readers as the artist of the famous Phillies Diner or as it is titled Nighthawks painting. You know the one with the aquarium-like diner scene at night that you see hanging up in doctor’s offices and stockbrokers’ foyers. I love this painting and Edward Hopper’s many other works, but his life was dull, boring, uninteresting, and very private.

Andy Warhol needs no introduction I’m sure. This man was a weirdo and composed of equal parts undeserved notoriety, makeup, and vapidity. Well that’s my take, but Laing’s take was of course “a brilliant, prophetic, misunderstood man and an artist of exceptional ability” or some other such maudlin sentiment. The section of the book dedicted to Warhol’s story is titled My Heart Opens to Your Voice. Cue the Hallmark channel rom-com intro music…

And so it goes on throughout, with people who are always described as “brilliant but misunderstood” a “gentle soul trapped in a harsh world”. Yeah yeah. Getting cornholed under the boardwalk turning 10 dollar fag tricks does not make you Michelangelo. Making shitty art-for-arts-sake stop motion films does not make you Hitchcock or Polanski. Art takes many forms and talent sometimes gets subordinated to marketing. For every weird thing that Warhol or Yoko Ono did they made press, great press. Meanwhile thousands of talented artists just kept serving tables until they married and went to work in an office selling life insurance.

And then, the author weaves her own experiences living alone in the big city throughout. Curled on a sofa, solitary walks to the river or through the night city. Gazing out of windows as the city lights twinkle into life. All this was beautifully worded, but had the effect of seeming exceedingly self-absorbed. Her first book was written about her experiences following a breakup with a man. This one too. It’s not them, it’s you. For fucks sakes clean yourself up, lose the flip-flops, join a book club or a flag football team. Wear some make-up and make some friends instead of sitting by yourself in tiny apartments scrolling on social media for hours at a time. I’m only including the activities and appearances that the author mentioned in her own words. But if I had to extrapolate I’d bet serious bank on her pussy having never been within a meter of a wax strip. You’re lonely on purpose because you are all up in yourself all the time. People don’t hate you, you hate them.

Gah. Where was I? Okay, to finish up I will say that this was a book. Not a good book but not entirely bad, like people. We’re all flawed and needy, but we have community, we have communication, we have one another. We have art and sport and social interaction that keeps us safe and whole and gives our lives purpose. I’m not cancelling Olivia Laing but I think I’ll wait a while before reading her other books. This was far from being a waste of time, but it just wasn’t a great way to spend time. Will you like it? Give it a read, who knows? It was an international bestseller so all this may be just my opinions, but I think it’s much more likely that it sold because of name recognition. And the gambler’s fallacy.