Who, you may ask, is this Miss Farwell? Probably the protagonist of a novel by Emily Gray Tedrowe, right?

Right. Let me explain (without spoilers!): Becky Farwell buys far too many original works of art — more than she can afford, more than she has wallspace for. The solution, of course, is to embezzle lots of money (which she plans to pay back, or so she convinces herself) and to turn her rural Illinois barn into an “Art Barn” by renovating it with plenty of internal walls.

Note that those observations aren’t spoilers, they are merely the setup. The Talented Miss Farwell is a totally absorbing work of fiction, based loosely on the real-life story of one Rita Crundwell, although Crundwell’s downfall was horses rather than art. The word “loosely” is key here: the true story provided the framework, and various details provided inspiration such as the occupation of the protagonist, but it’s definitely a novel, not a true-crime story. I don’t know about Crundwell, but Farwell is clearly drawn as a psychopathic personality with an admixture of OCD, accent on the O.

I don’t know whether art prices really collapsed in 1991, but they did in this novel: “For the past few months Becky had been on a buying binge. Art world prices fell by the week, and she scooped up everything she’d ever had an eye on. She knew she should rein in her spending, but she couldn’t. Everything was so cheap!”

A word about the title, which was obviously inspired by Patricia Highsmith’s The Talented Mr. Ripley (novels and movie highly recommended). As in Highsmith’s case, the deeply flawed protagonist is appealing — to the point that one almost roots for her to get away with her crimes. If for any reason that offends you, you’d better skip reading the Tedrowe book.

Let me finish by quoting a passage in the middle of the novel, with my editorial comment as a math teacher interrupting the second sentence:

The other problem was space. A lack of cubic square feet [huh? what?]. Crated art all over her Chicago apartment, when the condo was where she was supposed to view the art, to show it. She could keep pine boxes in Pierson, for Christ’s sake. But she was maxing out: both bedrooms, the combination living room/dining area, the small foyer, and even the kitchen were all covered with paintings. She’d even had to slide stacked canvases under both beds.

Fortunately I don’t know anyone who has that particular problem.

Categories: Books