Don’t know what the intention of this book might have been: to make fun of people? (critics, NY literary and art lovers); to chronicle an era ( abstract impressionism, the late 50s); to fabricate (story and pictures of a person who never lived); to warn others about how easy it is to pull the wool over other people’s eyes; to create a myth; to comment on the fabric of the media and how once words are “in a book” people believe them.

None of the reasons, except perhaps, to chronicle an era and to comment on the media seem worthwhile. However, the writing is so smug and quasi-academic (overuse of passive voice, which allows no one to be accountable), and the story line ( poor little talented rich boy-orphan)  that I give this one a thumbs down. The talents of William Boyd, David Bowie and whoever put the money into publishing this sham can be utilized to serve the public and the art world in a more sincere and less mocking wasteful fashion. The world needs less cynicism and disdain.