I’ve read all of Brandon Taylor’s books, so I was thrilled to receive an ARC of this one. I thoroughly enjoyed “Real Life” when I read it, which led me to read all of Brandon Taylor’s books since then.

Unfortunately, there’s been a significant downslide in my ratings of all of his books since then. And this one is now my least favorite.

Taylor’s books are never plot driven, but this one really wandered off track for me—to the point that I almost considered stopping it. Wyeth, similar to many of Taylor’s main characters in his novels, became even more and more irksome as time went on. While I found the sections about his (friendship and romantic) relationships very intriguing and interested, they were buried in overly drawn out sections about the intricacies of the art world, which didn't interest me.

I’ll be more selective with his future novels and let others read them first. Given the length of 400 pages, I’m not sure this one is worth the time and effort.

"Minor Black Figures" by Brandon Taylor explores the life of a gay Black artist in New York. The story follows Wyeth, a newcomer from the South, as he tries to find his place among pretentious artists, dull gallery shows, and constant gossip in the art world. Although the idea had promise, the story soon gets weighed down by Wyeth's creative block and constant self-reflection, making it hard to stay engaged. For me, it felt more tiring than enlightening.

The relationship between Wyeth and Keating raises some interesting questions about race, art, and desire, but these ideas often get lost in long, wandering passages. Instead of drawing me in, the book's focus on the politics of art and identity felt repetitive and heavy-handed. This made it hard for me to connect with the characters emotionally. The slow pace and lack of action in the story made it tough to keep reading, and I found myself losing interest before I reached the end.

Another really wonderful novel from Brandon Taylor. When I read his work I sort of marvel at how well he continues the tradition of realist fiction—I guess I just mean I can feel the presence of Henry James somewhere in the work's DNA...So much precise, even granular information about the world of painting and visual art that made me wonder about just how much effort went into the research for the novel, which reawakened my interest in visual artists. Also, there's a character named Keating.

everyone wake up cus literary realism is soooo back!

i can hear some snoring already, which i know means that not everyone wants to read about a character going step by step through the coffee-making process, or about every single person/thing/event he happens to see on a walk. i think if this book wasn’t so specific to our time—both in its referentiality and its wide gestures towards the great crises of the current decade (representation in a world of hypermediation and hypervisibility, identity politics in the art world, faiths both sweeping and tiny and, conversely, faithlessness, picking up the pieces of a post-pandemic world (STAY WITH ME here because i know some people flee at the slightest inkling of temporal specificity and particularly in the form of referencing covid))—such detailed descriptions of the mundanities that crowd around these crises would not be as bearable. so much of the realist novel has been outmoded in contemporary fiction, which loves its fragments and obscurities and listlessnesses and poetics, that it does feel genuinely good to spend a few paragraphs making coffee in between heated discussions on subjectivity as translated through visual art.

and all of this is great already, but oh man, does taylor know how to write dialogue. here i specifically am thinking of writing dialogue that sometimes does not entirely make sense, because it’s not explaining something to the reader in the trite movie-script way, but rather depicting characters conveying themselves through the limitations of spoken communication. and indicating that sometimes the connecting link actually lies outside the words coming out of someone’s mouth. and showing that maybe there is no connecting link at all and the failure to communicate stoppers all exchange. and including the awkward isms and repetitivenesses and courtesies of daily speech. mm scrumptious.

because mediation is such a focal point of the novel, taylor’s prose is also profuse with references to all kinds of media—european films, classical music, and, of course, painters. i can only recall knowing one of these (rachmaninoff), which means there was probably a great deal of context i was missing, and also that i’m sure the novel will probably get accused of pretentiousness, because social media was only mentioned, like, once in comparison to its litany of (to me) mostly opaque references. for me i just kind of wish i knew fully what was going on, because having it explained is never as satisfying as knowing off the bat. so maybe i’m not pretentious <i>enough</i>, then (/s).

anyway, i think the characters themselves do lay out quite clearly what the novel is <i>about</i>, and in fact sometimes literally end up doing what the narrator is pontificating about, so there’s not only a kind of referential but also self-referential quality to taylor’s realism—representation as a closed circuit, almost? i feel as though this is partly what makes the feel book so distinctly contemporary, aside, obviously, from its content and ultramodern lexicon. it builds a world that talks about mediation through mediation of the world itself, moving through a quite anxious and existential type of storytelling that feels very current. but does this make the novel’s representational project more transparent than its plot and characters? idk. i sort of wanted to know more about wyeth and keating and all of the novel’s secondary characters. or maybe i’ve seen too much press content about what the book is trying to do. ultimately i cannot be the arbiter of its success, but i did very much enjoy the read.

My second try with this author. For whatever reasons, I’ve not been able to connect with his writing, characters, or plots, all of which fall flat for me. I can sort of understand why others like him, and can appreciate the various representations, so I am willing to recommend his books, both as a reader and as a librarian. For my own part, I can’t see myself trying a third book.

Many thanks to NetGalley and the publishers for a digital ARC of this book in exchange for my honest review.

This book is wonderful. On the surface, it follows an artist grappling with the search for meaning and direction in his work, caught between internalized self-doubt and the external pressures of expectation - particularly those tied to his identity as a Black artist. But it delves into so much more: the politics of identity and "wokeness," gay male intimacy, art restoration, the art world's often performative ethics, the financial and emotional precarity of surviving in New York, and the love of cinema that compels someone to try to paint it. It captures the ambivalence of loving/hating your peers while constantly measuring yourself against them, the alienation of online identity, and so much more. Despite juggling so many themes, the novel never feels scattered or overreaching. Its protagonist, Wyeth, is a richly drawn character - riddled with uncertainty, contradictions, and a sense of restlessness as he navigates the thirsty, often cynical terrain of the contemporary art scene (and a new situationship with a white guy who was close to becoming a priest).

One of the book’s little pleasures is how Taylor name-drops artists/films/books with specificity, yet occasionally withholds names, offering sly nods that feel like secret handshakes to the deeply well-read. It’s playful, provocative, never pretentious. My only complaint is that some of the descriptions about art restoration went on a bit long but even then, the plot within that thread (Wyeth investigating an artist from the 70s/80s) was extremely compelling. Anyway, fantastic book!!

I liked this VERY much. Not instantly. For a while the introspection and darkness were difficult and alienating. But as Wyeth’s life and alterations came into focus, so it all softened and I grew more tolerant of the agonizing self- consciousness haunting him. Did the art material intrude a little too much, now and then? I think so, but it was bearable.
Mostly I felt a sense of revelation about a particular character and an appreciation of the author’s efforts to capture it.
Bravo.

This is a very specific kind of book - cerebral, artsy, inward-looking - but I think it has a broader appeal than that description might imply. In the author's own words, "The novel follows Wyeth, a painter living in New York, as he grapples with what it means to be a painter in an era of hyper-mediation, and what it means to be a Black painter in an era of identitarian grift and the commercialization of identity. I wanted to write about a painter coming to terms with his own political expression when the very fact of political expression can sometimes feel like a pose or a gesture. It’s a book about painting and cinema and the gaze. It’s about COVID. It’s about New York. It’s about the fall of Roe. It’s about protest. It’s about silliness. It’s about a certain kind of spiritual crisis of the aging millennial in the face of History’s totality, trying to find a name for that crisis." And all of that could have gone wrong in the hands of a less skillful writer or one who is prone to pat answers or moralizing. The thing I love about Brandon Taylor, both in his fiction and in his various other writings, is his refusal to slide easily into the accepted grooves of thought on any given subject without coming across as simply contrarian. In this book, that refusal results in a main character who is grappling what all those well-worn grooves mean for his identity not only as a painter, but as a person who needs to interact with and form relationships with other people. And even if you've never painted or even thought much about visual art, I think you'll still appreciate and relate to Wyeth's attempts to make sense of his place in the particular slice of the world that he inhabits.

This novel is a layered exploration of art, love, identity, and the realities of living and surviving in New York City. What stayed with me most was the emotional depth of the Wyeths’ and Keating's relationship, which is raw, quietly tender, and beautifully human. Keating is vividly portrayed, from the tactile detail of his working hands to the reflection of his blond hair.

There's a quiet, intimate power in how we first meet Keating, yearning for a cigarette, and how that small, unspoken ritual carries through to their final moment together. It’s in those sidelong glances and the silence between drags that their deepest conversations happen. The novel closes by affirming that “choosing happiness isn’t selfish,” and it’s through these tender, unguarded moments, where they don’t even make eye contact, that their connection feels most honest and profound.

I appreciated the commentary on choosing between "work to work" and "real work," a conflict that resonates especially for those of us from working-class, immigrant, and first-generation backgrounds. While Wyeth has the privilege of pursuing their passions freely, it comes with many layers and guilt. We learn about all the steps necessary to pay rent and afford living in NYC.
Similarly, I enjoyed the discussion about social media and privacy, which addresses a sentiment many of us share: the disconnect between our online personas and true selves. It prompts us to consider how much of our relationships are based on curated information rather than authentic, in-person connections.

Personally, there were some bumps for me. At times, the prose wandered into long, observational tangents that, while rich in detail, occasionally lost momentum. The mix of plot threads: narrative of art restoration, Dell Woods, COVID-19, social commentaries, and relationships (random hookup that came out of nowhere) sometimes made it hard to grasp the story's direction. Still, the novel offered valuable insight, particularly in how it framed representation in art, specifically Black art, and explored themes of religion and cult-like communities. It made me think about who gets represented, who tells the stories, and at what cost.

A heartfelt and layered novel that thoughtfully explores love, labor, identity, and life in New York City. Despite its occasionally wandering structure, the emotional depth and beautifully crafted relationships make it a highly recommended read. As a fan of Real Life, I’m excited to continue supporting Brandon Taylor’s work.