‘I really loved The Violet Hour . . . On one level it functions as a highbrow whodunnit, and grippingly so, but it’s much more than that, building into a meditation on mortality and the unreliable consolations of art, love and materialism’
PATRICK GALE, author of Mother’s Boy
‘A thrilling story told in seductive, shimmering prose. Beauty, money, power, seduction, betrayal. It’s all here in this bewitching and all too often troubling backstage pass to the commercial art world’
CHLOË ASHBY, author of Wet Paint
‘Pulsing with violence and longing, this is a sumptuous, sinister morality tale’
CLARE POLLARD, author of Delphi
‘Artists are slaves to their vanity. But in the end, in time, they see things as they really are.’
Thomas Haller has achieved the kind of fame that most artists only dream of: shows in London and New York, paintings sold for a fortune. The vision he presents to the world is one of an untouchable genius at the top of his game. It is also a lie.
Who is the real Thomas Haller? His oldest friend and former dealer, Lorna, might once have known – before Thomas traded their early intimacy for international fame. Between his ruthless new dealer and a property mogul obsessed with his work, the appetite for Thomas and his art is all-consuming.
On the eve of his latest show, the luminaries of the art world gather. But the sudden death of a young man has put everyone on edge, and a chain of events begins that will lead the friends back into the past, to confront who they have become.
A story of deception, power play and longing, The Violet Hour exposes the unsettling underbelly of the art world, asking: who is granted admission to a world that only seems to glitter and who is left outside, their faces pressed to the glass?
PRAISE FOR TIEPOLO BLUE
‘The best novel I have read for ages . . . masterly’
STEPHEN FRY
‘An exhilarating, erudite read’
VOGUE.COM
‘Electric’
GUARDIAN
‘Startlingly impressive’
DAILY MAIL
PATRICK GALE, author of Mother’s Boy
‘A thrilling story told in seductive, shimmering prose. Beauty, money, power, seduction, betrayal. It’s all here in this bewitching and all too often troubling backstage pass to the commercial art world’
CHLOË ASHBY, author of Wet Paint
‘Pulsing with violence and longing, this is a sumptuous, sinister morality tale’
CLARE POLLARD, author of Delphi
‘Artists are slaves to their vanity. But in the end, in time, they see things as they really are.’
Thomas Haller has achieved the kind of fame that most artists only dream of: shows in London and New York, paintings sold for a fortune. The vision he presents to the world is one of an untouchable genius at the top of his game. It is also a lie.
Who is the real Thomas Haller? His oldest friend and former dealer, Lorna, might once have known – before Thomas traded their early intimacy for international fame. Between his ruthless new dealer and a property mogul obsessed with his work, the appetite for Thomas and his art is all-consuming.
On the eve of his latest show, the luminaries of the art world gather. But the sudden death of a young man has put everyone on edge, and a chain of events begins that will lead the friends back into the past, to confront who they have become.
A story of deception, power play and longing, The Violet Hour exposes the unsettling underbelly of the art world, asking: who is granted admission to a world that only seems to glitter and who is left outside, their faces pressed to the glass?
PRAISE FOR TIEPOLO BLUE
‘The best novel I have read for ages . . . masterly’
STEPHEN FRY
‘An exhilarating, erudite read’
VOGUE.COM
‘Electric’
GUARDIAN
‘Startlingly impressive’
DAILY MAIL
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Reviews
A tale told with thunder of an art world smitten with itself and peppered with characters who encapsulate the tremendous accomplishments, delusion and mysteries of art
James Cahill gets better and better. I really loved The Violet Hour, trying, and failing, to ration myself rather than reading in a greedy rush. Its evocation of the wonders of art and the dehumanising horrors of the art industry are spot on, of course, but as a novelist what I really admired was his narrative structure and sly choreography of his principal characters. On one level it functions as a highbrow whodunnit, and grippingly so, but it's much more than that, building into a meditation on mortality and the unreliable consolations of art, love and materialism. I can't wait to see what he does next
James Cahill has done it again. The Violet Hour is a thrilling story told in seductive, shimmering prose. Beauty, money, power, seduction, betrayal. It's all here in this bewitching and all too often troubling backstage pass to the commercial art world
A riveting, immersive journey into the unsettling underbelly of the art world
Cahill allows us a private view of the art world in all its rancid glamour. The artist Thomas Haller - like Wilde's Dorian Gray - has sold his soul. As painters, gallerists and collectors move between New York and the Venice Biennale, auction houses and apartments hung with Mapplethorpes or Picassos, a reckoning is coming. Pulsing with violence and longing, this is a sumptuous, sinister morality tale
A hugely enjoyable yarn by an author hitting his literary stride
As sensuous and glimmering as it is dark and unsettling, The Violet Hour depicts the art world's many troubling facets: glamour, money, jealousy, politics, moral corruption and betrayal. Written in Cahill's rich, melodic prose, it's a reflection on materialism, love, and the purpose of art, but more than anything, it is a pure delight to read. A novel to get sucked into
The international contemporary art market is rich territory for a novelist, and James Cahill mines its excesses and absurdities with precision and panache
A brilliant reimagining of T. S. Eliot's world of fragmentation and fleeting social encounters, here filtered through the madness of the modern art market . . . It's a novel of beautifully realised surfaces but also alluring (and sometimes alarming) depths, like a Rothko painting seen in vivid, vital glimpses
The Violet Hour had the same effect on me as Tiepolo Blue did - again I'm overwhelmed by the beauty of James Cahill's writing and storytelling. There is such mastery over language and character here, in this disarmingly immersive tale of the infinite potency - and at times the sense of the vacuous futility - of art and the artist