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SoHo Sins
They were the New York art scene’s golden couple until Amanda Oliver was found murdered, and her husband Philip confessed to shooting her. But was he a continent away when she died? Art dealer Jackson Wyeth sets out to learn the truth, and uncovers the secrets of Manhattan’s galleries and wild parties, a world of beautiful girls growing up too fast and men losing their minds. But even the worst the art world can imagine will seem tame when the final sin is revealed…
240 pages, ebook
First published June 7, 2016
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January 14, 2021
”Philip extended his hand. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘My name is Philip Oliver, and I believe I murdered my wife.’
‘Everybody thinks about the death of their spouse; everybody fantasizes a nice clean escape from the trap. There’s a tricky thing about marriage, though. Once you’re in it, you never really get out.’
‘But the things I wish for come true,’ Philip said.”
Philip and Amanda Oliver are a power couple, glamorous, beautiful, rich, and suave. They are the type of people that everyone invites to their dinner parties and people wiggle up to the dynamic couple in the hopes that some of that special sparkle will rub off on them. There is this special synergy created when two extravagantly attractive people pair up. They become larger than their component parts, and once one drifts from the other, neither ever regains that mystical, awe-inspiring glow. A blurb on the back of the book says, ”The Great Gatsby meets Raymond Chandler.” Well, this isn’t Gatsby; this is actually Tender Is the Night. Philip and Amanda are Nick and Nicole Diver, and the Rosemary Hoyt of this story is a bodacious, Italian artist named Claudia Silva.
Philip and Jackson Wyeth, art dealer, are really good friends, and when Philip sees Claudia’s picture in a magazine, he calls up Jackson for some intel on her.
’’’What’s the scoop--is her art as good as her ass?’
‘You won’t know what to grab first.’”
We never know what conversations will prove to be important.
If we want to tie in The Great Gatsby, Jackson Wyeth is the character that has the role of Nick Carraway. It seems like Jackson is a part of the inner circle, but he is always the third wheel, and at the end of the evening, the glamour pair always leave him on the other side of the bedroom door.
It is shocking when Philip leaves Amanda for Claudia. All their friends are shocked. This isn’t supposed to happen. They were the ideal, and if the ideal can’t make it work, how are the rest of us supposed to make it work? To further complicate things Philip is suffering from a syndrome that is slowly eroding his brilliant mind. Was his disease fueling his lack of Claudia inhibitions, or is this just old-fashioned lust? Maybe it is a midlife crisis, and he wants to roll the cosmic dice to feel young once again?
Amanda doesn’t stay home to cry and brood. She takes up with a young, handsome artist named Paul Morse.
Infidelity is as common in the art community as a tube of titanium white. Even Jackson, when he was married, was a serial adulterer, and so was his French wife. Stepping out on a marriage is one thing, but actually leaving the wife for the mistress in the 1990s was still a bit shocking. Philip is too rich to care. Philip’s ex-wife Angela, before Amanda, sort of sums up their sins succinctly: ”We’ve all screwed ourselves and each other. We deserve whatever we get.”
So Amanda is shot through the back of the head in their deluxe apartment in the sky, and Philip’s compromised brain isn’t sure whether he murdered her or not, but the still working, analytical part of his brain thinks he must have. Jackson and his cop friend Ed Hogan team up to try and determine who had the motive to kill her besides her husband, Philip.
In the course of their investigation, Jackson discovers that there is a pedaphile ring circling around Melissa, the beautiful, precocious twelve year old daughter of Philip and Angela. He sets up a sting to take them down. I kept thinking, as Jackson becomes immersed in the underworld of child pornography, that he is doing something I just couldn’t do. It takes real courage to expose yourself to such filth, but the question becomes, as Melissa toys with him, has he triggered something in himself that he didn’t even know he desired?
If F. Scott Fitzgerald had decided to write a hardboiled crime novel, he might very well have written a plot very similar to the one written by Richard Vine. ”There’s a fine art to murder” after all. Vine is the managing editor of the magazine Art in America, and his background in art adds clever nuances that give the book an extra edge of authenticity.
The lies are as tangled as Sparky Griswald’s Christmas lights, and as the truth begins to untangle some of those lies, new lies crop up until even the truth is too untrustworthy to believe. The truth sometimes is just the version of the truth we choose to believe.
If you wish to see more of my most recent book and movie reviews, visit http://www.jeffreykeeten.com I also have a Facebook blogger page at:https://www.facebook.com/JeffreyKeeten and an Instagram account https://www.instagram.com/jeffreykeeten/
‘Everybody thinks about the death of their spouse; everybody fantasizes a nice clean escape from the trap. There’s a tricky thing about marriage, though. Once you’re in it, you never really get out.’
‘But the things I wish for come true,’ Philip said.”
Philip and Amanda Oliver are a power couple, glamorous, beautiful, rich, and suave. They are the type of people that everyone invites to their dinner parties and people wiggle up to the dynamic couple in the hopes that some of that special sparkle will rub off on them. There is this special synergy created when two extravagantly attractive people pair up. They become larger than their component parts, and once one drifts from the other, neither ever regains that mystical, awe-inspiring glow. A blurb on the back of the book says, ”The Great Gatsby meets Raymond Chandler.” Well, this isn’t Gatsby; this is actually Tender Is the Night. Philip and Amanda are Nick and Nicole Diver, and the Rosemary Hoyt of this story is a bodacious, Italian artist named Claudia Silva.
Philip and Jackson Wyeth, art dealer, are really good friends, and when Philip sees Claudia’s picture in a magazine, he calls up Jackson for some intel on her.
’’’What’s the scoop--is her art as good as her ass?’
‘You won’t know what to grab first.’”
We never know what conversations will prove to be important.
If we want to tie in The Great Gatsby, Jackson Wyeth is the character that has the role of Nick Carraway. It seems like Jackson is a part of the inner circle, but he is always the third wheel, and at the end of the evening, the glamour pair always leave him on the other side of the bedroom door.
It is shocking when Philip leaves Amanda for Claudia. All their friends are shocked. This isn’t supposed to happen. They were the ideal, and if the ideal can’t make it work, how are the rest of us supposed to make it work? To further complicate things Philip is suffering from a syndrome that is slowly eroding his brilliant mind. Was his disease fueling his lack of Claudia inhibitions, or is this just old-fashioned lust? Maybe it is a midlife crisis, and he wants to roll the cosmic dice to feel young once again?
Amanda doesn’t stay home to cry and brood. She takes up with a young, handsome artist named Paul Morse.
Infidelity is as common in the art community as a tube of titanium white. Even Jackson, when he was married, was a serial adulterer, and so was his French wife. Stepping out on a marriage is one thing, but actually leaving the wife for the mistress in the 1990s was still a bit shocking. Philip is too rich to care. Philip’s ex-wife Angela, before Amanda, sort of sums up their sins succinctly: ”We’ve all screwed ourselves and each other. We deserve whatever we get.”
So Amanda is shot through the back of the head in their deluxe apartment in the sky, and Philip’s compromised brain isn’t sure whether he murdered her or not, but the still working, analytical part of his brain thinks he must have. Jackson and his cop friend Ed Hogan team up to try and determine who had the motive to kill her besides her husband, Philip.
In the course of their investigation, Jackson discovers that there is a pedaphile ring circling around Melissa, the beautiful, precocious twelve year old daughter of Philip and Angela. He sets up a sting to take them down. I kept thinking, as Jackson becomes immersed in the underworld of child pornography, that he is doing something I just couldn’t do. It takes real courage to expose yourself to such filth, but the question becomes, as Melissa toys with him, has he triggered something in himself that he didn’t even know he desired?
If F. Scott Fitzgerald had decided to write a hardboiled crime novel, he might very well have written a plot very similar to the one written by Richard Vine. ”There’s a fine art to murder” after all. Vine is the managing editor of the magazine Art in America, and his background in art adds clever nuances that give the book an extra edge of authenticity.
The lies are as tangled as Sparky Griswald’s Christmas lights, and as the truth begins to untangle some of those lies, new lies crop up until even the truth is too untrustworthy to believe. The truth sometimes is just the version of the truth we choose to believe.
If you wish to see more of my most recent book and movie reviews, visit http://www.jeffreykeeten.com I also have a Facebook blogger page at:https://www.facebook.com/JeffreyKeeten and an Instagram account https://www.instagram.com/jeffreykeeten/
August 12, 2016
This is a fine example of buying a book for it's cover. Not being familure with Mr. Richard Vine, about halfway through reading the book "SoHo Sins", I took the opportunity to look him up on GR to see what else he has published. The man has quite a number of art books to his name and yet no real biographical information was forthcoming. I next did an internet search and found little to no information about the man himself.
The book deals with the New York art world and various artists and art galleries in the SoHo region of the city. The book also deals heavily with pornographic pedophila. The closest literary equivalent I can equate this book to is perhaps "Lolita" . Both books contend with a highly obviously intelligent man fascinated with a young girl. In "Soho Sins" the young girl happens to be twelve years old.
Mr. Vine is a competent author, the first three hundred and thirty pages told a pretty good story, however, I now wish that I had not read the last fifty pages of this book. Some where I read a comparison of Richard Vine to Jim Thompson. I have to disagree.
The book deals with the New York art world and various artists and art galleries in the SoHo region of the city. The book also deals heavily with pornographic pedophila. The closest literary equivalent I can equate this book to is perhaps "Lolita" . Both books contend with a highly obviously intelligent man fascinated with a young girl. In "Soho Sins" the young girl happens to be twelve years old.
Mr. Vine is a competent author, the first three hundred and thirty pages told a pretty good story, however, I now wish that I had not read the last fifty pages of this book. Some where I read a comparison of Richard Vine to Jim Thompson. I have to disagree.
February 6, 2022
SoHo Sins, like other novels from Hard Case, is a story of murder, depravity, cruelty, jealousy, and more. It is, however, very much unlike most of the Hard Case
catalog. It does not harken back to fifties-era pulp fiction. It does not feature petty criminals, card sharks, or drifters who somehow get caught up in something more than they bargained for. Rather, the
story centers around the uber-wealthy elite of the Manhattan art galleries, of the cyber-tech bubble of the late nineties, of sojourns in Paris, and high-end prep schools.
It is a world of broken marriages, of young Italian mistresses, of cocktail parties, of slow deaths from AIDs, Cancer, Brain damage, broken arms, and more.
The tone and the pace of this novel are unlike much of what you find in pulp fiction. It is narrated in an introspective, confessional manner by someone who has lived a full life and can now look back on these events from a distance. And, unlike many pulp novels, the pace is not
a frenetic cross-country chase, but a slow building of tension. There's murder to be sure, and there's an investigation, but a slow methodical inquiry by a criminal defense investigator for a confessed
murderer who has literally lost his mind, accompanied by the narrator who knows all the parties involved and is himself involved with all the players.
As the novel progresses, there are portions that will probably make you uncomfortable- portions that are extremely creepy in a Lolita-fashion. That's part of the shock value.
Overall, this novel fits well into the Hard Case lineup, although it is longer and more introspective than most crime novels. It is a psychological portrait of a world of wealth and self-absorbed decadence of the SoHo art world. The more you look inside the rabbit 🐇 hole, the darker and more sinister it all becomes.
catalog. It does not harken back to fifties-era pulp fiction. It does not feature petty criminals, card sharks, or drifters who somehow get caught up in something more than they bargained for. Rather, the
story centers around the uber-wealthy elite of the Manhattan art galleries, of the cyber-tech bubble of the late nineties, of sojourns in Paris, and high-end prep schools.
It is a world of broken marriages, of young Italian mistresses, of cocktail parties, of slow deaths from AIDs, Cancer, Brain damage, broken arms, and more.
The tone and the pace of this novel are unlike much of what you find in pulp fiction. It is narrated in an introspective, confessional manner by someone who has lived a full life and can now look back on these events from a distance. And, unlike many pulp novels, the pace is not
a frenetic cross-country chase, but a slow building of tension. There's murder to be sure, and there's an investigation, but a slow methodical inquiry by a criminal defense investigator for a confessed
murderer who has literally lost his mind, accompanied by the narrator who knows all the parties involved and is himself involved with all the players.
As the novel progresses, there are portions that will probably make you uncomfortable- portions that are extremely creepy in a Lolita-fashion. That's part of the shock value.
Overall, this novel fits well into the Hard Case lineup, although it is longer and more introspective than most crime novels. It is a psychological portrait of a world of wealth and self-absorbed decadence of the SoHo art world. The more you look inside the rabbit 🐇 hole, the darker and more sinister it all becomes.
August 8, 2016
Jackson Wyeth is the owner of a New York art gallery. His 'friends' are the privileged members of the New York art world. When the wife of Philip Oliver (Amanda) is found murdered in her apartment, Philip confesses. But how could he have killed her? He was 3,000 miles away when she met her end. Philip suffers from a degenerative brain disease that makes his confession unreliable, if not utterly unbelievable. Maybe he hired a someone to kill her & now can't recall who. Who else had a motive? There are only about 6 people who may have had a motive or the opportunity to kill Amanda.
Jackson seems to sleepwalk through his affluent life following the death of his unfaithful wife, unable to connect with others, making him vulnerable to forbidden temptations. Jack narrates this tale & together with his P.I. pal, Hogan, they attempt to discover Amanda's murderer & clear Philip's name.
There seems to be not a single character in this narrative who isn't fatally flawed in some way. Rich, privileged, superficial; the majority of characters in this story have the means to indulge every vice, to the extent their vices leave them empty, insatiable & their appetites unbound. Along with the murder of Amanda, there is a child pornography ring that lends an unsettling undercurrent. Though there's no overt sex or violence in this narrative, there is a sense of menace that pervades every page.
“Face it Jack, the crossing begins the moment you first imagine, too vividly, just how the encounter would unfold, what you would see, how forbidden & good it would feel. The beauty, the excitement. That was sin. Even if you're an artist-or like me, an artist's pimp.”
This is a psychological mystery, with a Noir sensibility. Reminiscent of a Jim Thompson novel, if he were writing in the 21st century & his characters New Yorker's, rather than Texans. There's that same sense of encroaching “Oh, shit” moments, where I remember thinking “Don't go there!”
I thoroughly recommend 'SoHo Sins' by Richard Vine. This is a real page turner.
5 stars from me.
Jackson seems to sleepwalk through his affluent life following the death of his unfaithful wife, unable to connect with others, making him vulnerable to forbidden temptations. Jack narrates this tale & together with his P.I. pal, Hogan, they attempt to discover Amanda's murderer & clear Philip's name.
There seems to be not a single character in this narrative who isn't fatally flawed in some way. Rich, privileged, superficial; the majority of characters in this story have the means to indulge every vice, to the extent their vices leave them empty, insatiable & their appetites unbound. Along with the murder of Amanda, there is a child pornography ring that lends an unsettling undercurrent. Though there's no overt sex or violence in this narrative, there is a sense of menace that pervades every page.
“Face it Jack, the crossing begins the moment you first imagine, too vividly, just how the encounter would unfold, what you would see, how forbidden & good it would feel. The beauty, the excitement. That was sin. Even if you're an artist-or like me, an artist's pimp.”
This is a psychological mystery, with a Noir sensibility. Reminiscent of a Jim Thompson novel, if he were writing in the 21st century & his characters New Yorker's, rather than Texans. There's that same sense of encroaching “Oh, shit” moments, where I remember thinking “Don't go there!”
I thoroughly recommend 'SoHo Sins' by Richard Vine. This is a real page turner.
5 stars from me.
May 30, 2021
Jackson Wyeth, an art dealer, is drawn into the murder of Amanda Oliver, one of the darlings of New York’s art scene. Her husband has confessed to the killing but Jackson believes the truth lies elsewhere. His search for the truth takes a journey through the darkest and most decadent depths of the Soho art community. A very well written and enthralling whodunnit.
July 1, 2017
One of the reasons I enjoy reading the Hard Case Crime series is because every once in a while they publish a novel that is surprising and different and unexpected like this one. Richard Vine is the editor of Art in America magazine, a widely respected author and art critic. In his debut novel, he draws back the curtain to provide a glimpse into the seamy side of this highly mythologized and controversial world. He throws in a more than decent murder story in the bargain.
Set in the mid-1990’s, the story revolves around one wealthy patron murdered in her apartment. Her mentally ill husband immediately confesses despite having what appears to be an airtight alibi. There is no shortage of suspects—greedy business associates, lovers, and ex-spouses galore. The plot is fun, but the best parts of the book are those detailing the mechanics and personalities of the New York art scene.
“You can’t deal successfully in art if you dwell on where the money comes from and how it gets made. I concern myself with my clients’ tastes and credit ratings, not their ethics.”
With these words narrator Jackson Wyeth, a decadent New York art dealer and real estate agent, encapsulates the corruptions and contradictions inherent in the art industry. It is a subculture full of flamboyant young people out to shock the establishment. (Half the fun for me was googling the real-life artists that make cameo appearances.) However, the market is exclusively dominated by old, uber-wealthy collectors who decide arbitrarily, with their money and clout, what has value and what does not.
As Jackson declares: “The art world, like Moloch, consumes its young. Eager kids fresh out of grad school, ready to throw themselves into the searing arms of dealers like me. The younger the better, for our name-driven market, with the promise of a fresh vision now and rising prices for years to come.”
One prominent subplot running through the novel is about how certain artists blur the line between art and pornography. In those largely pre-internet days, this also meant a number of pedophiles were attracted to certain types of art, it created a community for them to find each other, which sometimes led to tragic consequences.
In the end, Jackson asks one character:
“[Do] you know what art is for these days and what it means?
“Of course, it is for the rich and it doesn’t mean anything?”
There are some twists in the plot, some work better than others, but make no mistake this story goes to dark places. In the best noir tradition of James Cain, Vine leaves you feeling slightly soiled and badly used. Even the good guys can be worse than you imagined. He leaves a few unanswered questions that, honestly, we realize we may be better off not knowing.
Set in the mid-1990’s, the story revolves around one wealthy patron murdered in her apartment. Her mentally ill husband immediately confesses despite having what appears to be an airtight alibi. There is no shortage of suspects—greedy business associates, lovers, and ex-spouses galore. The plot is fun, but the best parts of the book are those detailing the mechanics and personalities of the New York art scene.
“You can’t deal successfully in art if you dwell on where the money comes from and how it gets made. I concern myself with my clients’ tastes and credit ratings, not their ethics.”
With these words narrator Jackson Wyeth, a decadent New York art dealer and real estate agent, encapsulates the corruptions and contradictions inherent in the art industry. It is a subculture full of flamboyant young people out to shock the establishment. (Half the fun for me was googling the real-life artists that make cameo appearances.) However, the market is exclusively dominated by old, uber-wealthy collectors who decide arbitrarily, with their money and clout, what has value and what does not.
As Jackson declares: “The art world, like Moloch, consumes its young. Eager kids fresh out of grad school, ready to throw themselves into the searing arms of dealers like me. The younger the better, for our name-driven market, with the promise of a fresh vision now and rising prices for years to come.”
One prominent subplot running through the novel is about how certain artists blur the line between art and pornography. In those largely pre-internet days, this also meant a number of pedophiles were attracted to certain types of art, it created a community for them to find each other, which sometimes led to tragic consequences.
In the end, Jackson asks one character:
“[Do] you know what art is for these days and what it means?
“Of course, it is for the rich and it doesn’t mean anything?”
There are some twists in the plot, some work better than others, but make no mistake this story goes to dark places. In the best noir tradition of James Cain, Vine leaves you feeling slightly soiled and badly used. Even the good guys can be worse than you imagined. He leaves a few unanswered questions that, honestly, we realize we may be better off not knowing.
April 8, 2017
Like the boring N.Y. art parties it slogs thru, nothing happens until the booze and pills are introduced, and privileged people can fake understanding life while judging everyone except themselves. Too long. Pedophiles might like it.
January 20, 2020
Richard Vine's Soho Sins made we want to take a shower to wash the dirt off. Don't get me wrong this was a very entertaining read. The twist at the end (and by extension he impact of the whole book) was diminished because I worked out the whodunit aspect of the novel early on. I am not a genius by the way I imagine a lot of other readers did too. This is still a well written and well plotted work that allowed me to visit a setting I've rarely experienced-the New York art scene. Good stuff but probably one of the more tawdry things Hard Case Crime has published.
October 3, 2016
My review from USA Today:
“Every marriage is a mystery, especially to its victims.” That wisecrack comes early in this melancholy mid-century throwback, and encapsulates both its plot lines and its knowing tone. Jack Wyeth, an art dealer, learns with horror that a friend and client has been murdered; her husband confesses, but given his recent mental decline that’s less decisive than it might appear. Richard Vine’s debut is peppered with references to contemporary art, but its heart lies with Raymond Chandler and Ross Macdonald, their insouciant women, arch dialogue, tough-egg investigators, and most tellingly, in the book’s solution, a certain tinge of their archaic psychosexual hysteria. Yet it’s more than pastiche: Vine writes strikingly well at moments, and his narrative is intricate but nicely readable. Soho Sins is thus the perfect emblem of the excellence of its publisher, Hard Case Crime, which has carved out a leading place in the recent hardboiled revival.
“Every marriage is a mystery, especially to its victims.” That wisecrack comes early in this melancholy mid-century throwback, and encapsulates both its plot lines and its knowing tone. Jack Wyeth, an art dealer, learns with horror that a friend and client has been murdered; her husband confesses, but given his recent mental decline that’s less decisive than it might appear. Richard Vine’s debut is peppered with references to contemporary art, but its heart lies with Raymond Chandler and Ross Macdonald, their insouciant women, arch dialogue, tough-egg investigators, and most tellingly, in the book’s solution, a certain tinge of their archaic psychosexual hysteria. Yet it’s more than pastiche: Vine writes strikingly well at moments, and his narrative is intricate but nicely readable. Soho Sins is thus the perfect emblem of the excellence of its publisher, Hard Case Crime, which has carved out a leading place in the recent hardboiled revival.
October 3, 2017
Soho Sins is not what I was expecting - in a good way. The art world is full of danger darting behind dark corners ready to pounce on the young and vulnerable; there’s a deceptively deadly undercurrent of menace for the means to accumulate wealth through exploitation and extermination. Narrated through art dealer and property mogul Jackson Wyeth’s viewpoint, Soho Sins showcases something a little different from other books in the Hard Case Crime series which continues to diversity its range of books. There’s a sense that the narrator isn't entirely truthful nor as clear cut as he’s portrayed with some cut scenes of him dabbling in debauchery and thinking impure thoughts of which he should not conjure; it’s a far more involved mystery than the synopsis lets on.
August 11, 2017
I really enjoyed the more than I thought I would. Starting off in the world of art dealing is not the typical way I delve into a mystery. But this world has its share of debauchery. Think "Great Gatsby" meets "The Big Sleep" and you get a good feel for how the book will flow. There's great language here, and the atmosphere is bubble-up-between-your-toes thick. I believed every single character in this book, save one. But if I discuss that, I'll spoil the book.
July 6, 2020
Heartless husks of selfish perversion dance their malignant minuets in the wealth and privilege of the New York art world.
September 25, 2016
In C.S. Lewis' The Screwtape Letters, helpful senior tempter Screwtape offers advice to his nephew, the novice Wormwood, on how to turn his "patient" towards the infernal realms. Despite what many say, Screwtape warns, the pursuit of pleasure will not be enough by itself, for real pleasure and joy are the province of the Enemy. Screwtape longs for the day when Hell's minions can create a truly artificial pleasure, one which humans will pursue avidly but find utterly empty when finally achieved. Success at this endeavor is promised regularly but still eludes the best demonic efforts.
Uncle Screwtape would be very happy with the cast of Richard Vines' debut murder mystery, SoHo Sins. Almost to a man and woman they've been hollowed out by decadence into walking voids of manic ennui, scrambling to fill themselves with the emptiness of each other.
Amanda Oliver has been murdered, and her husband Philip has confessed to the crime but his degenerative brain disease makes his confession suspect. His lawyer hires an investigator to probe the crime, and the investigator uses his friend art dealer Jackson Wyeth (!) as his guide to the strange world of the SoHo art scene in which all of them moved. Wyeth is also one of Philip's oldest friends and wonders if his increasingly unbalanced pal may have shot Amanda -- unless it was Philip's first ex-wife, Angela, or his new mistress, Claudia. Or one of the someone else's we meet along the way.
Although this is Vines' first novel, his role editing a major art magazine has obviously sharpened his writing skills. Jackson has a barbed and cynical wit deployed to excellent effect as he tries to help uncover what really happened when Amanda died. Since Vines has also curated exhibitions at several museums, he knows the world of his novel and offers vivid pictures of its cast and their scene.
Which is really the problem. Every last one of these people is creepy, except for the ones who are downright sickening. Their casual cruelty towards each other doesn't come off any better when we see it stems not from any great passion, only appetite. None of these people actually hate -- they would have to start caring to hate, and caring wouldn't fit the image. Jackson, our narrator, is no better and may in fact be worse given how much information his introspective musing asides offer about what's in his head.
A mystery is generally built around the question of a crime and who committed it. Murder mysteries ask, "Who killed the victim?" But in SoHo Sins, the only thing that sets the murder victim apart from those characters still walking around is that she's dead on the outside, while they're all just dead on the inside, and "Get me out of here" replaces "Whodunit?" as the reader response.
Original available here.
Uncle Screwtape would be very happy with the cast of Richard Vines' debut murder mystery, SoHo Sins. Almost to a man and woman they've been hollowed out by decadence into walking voids of manic ennui, scrambling to fill themselves with the emptiness of each other.
Amanda Oliver has been murdered, and her husband Philip has confessed to the crime but his degenerative brain disease makes his confession suspect. His lawyer hires an investigator to probe the crime, and the investigator uses his friend art dealer Jackson Wyeth (!) as his guide to the strange world of the SoHo art scene in which all of them moved. Wyeth is also one of Philip's oldest friends and wonders if his increasingly unbalanced pal may have shot Amanda -- unless it was Philip's first ex-wife, Angela, or his new mistress, Claudia. Or one of the someone else's we meet along the way.
Although this is Vines' first novel, his role editing a major art magazine has obviously sharpened his writing skills. Jackson has a barbed and cynical wit deployed to excellent effect as he tries to help uncover what really happened when Amanda died. Since Vines has also curated exhibitions at several museums, he knows the world of his novel and offers vivid pictures of its cast and their scene.
Which is really the problem. Every last one of these people is creepy, except for the ones who are downright sickening. Their casual cruelty towards each other doesn't come off any better when we see it stems not from any great passion, only appetite. None of these people actually hate -- they would have to start caring to hate, and caring wouldn't fit the image. Jackson, our narrator, is no better and may in fact be worse given how much information his introspective musing asides offer about what's in his head.
A mystery is generally built around the question of a crime and who committed it. Murder mysteries ask, "Who killed the victim?" But in SoHo Sins, the only thing that sets the murder victim apart from those characters still walking around is that she's dead on the outside, while they're all just dead on the inside, and "Get me out of here" replaces "Whodunit?" as the reader response.
Original available here.
September 12, 2017
If you're going to mimic all the misogyny and racism of a noir-era novel in 2017, you'd better have a good excuse and idk I don't think "to make my male protagonist very, very sad and SoHo very, very gritty" is good enough. That the sexism and racism are expressed by characters with, like, terrible morals doesn't really serve as an indictment of those behaviors when every facet of it is wrought to be titillating entertainment.
Also, SPOILER, but the plot device of an 11 year old girl being essentially an evil sexual mastermind is pretty fucking gross and plays into the myth that any girl expressing sexuality of any kind is a mature adult, that girls mature faster than boys, that girls and women are inherently sexual beings, all that shit.
The book was well-written but it sure was disgusting ;-)
Also, SPOILER, but the plot device of an 11 year old girl being essentially an evil sexual mastermind is pretty fucking gross and plays into the myth that any girl expressing sexuality of any kind is a mature adult, that girls mature faster than boys, that girls and women are inherently sexual beings, all that shit.
The book was well-written but it sure was disgusting ;-)
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
January 1, 2016
I have no idea what to say about this novel, which will be published by Hard Case Crime in July of 2016. First of all, I don't want to give away any of the plot twists. Secondly, I am still thinking about it. I can tell you it's about a murder in the trendy art circle of NYC in the '80s. It's narrator is an art dealer, who, like Bartleby, has sort of withdrawn from emotional life. He sees much but from a dispassionate distance. Vine, who comes from the art world, is definitely a writer to watch. This is not the typical Hard Case noir novel; it has the sophistication of Preminger's film version of LAURA, spiced up for contemporary readers. I think I liked it but it shook me to the core. I can say no more.
May 21, 2018
Its been some time since I cracked open a Hardcase Crime novel. This one happened to cross my eye at Barnes and Noble.
Soho Sins is a gritty tale into the seedy underbelly of the art world. What lurks behind the smiling faces, art exhibitions and chic neighborhoods.
An art dealer is asked by an old friend to help with a murder case.
And Jackson the art dealer knows how to navigate this minefield of desperate artists and deciet.
Soho Sins is a gritty tale into the seedy underbelly of the art world. What lurks behind the smiling faces, art exhibitions and chic neighborhoods.
An art dealer is asked by an old friend to help with a murder case.
And Jackson the art dealer knows how to navigate this minefield of desperate artists and deciet.
September 29, 2016
Ooo, this book is so dark. Just want I wanted for these darkening fall evenings. This book does not have a single likeable character....PERFECT! I was reading this instead of my homework. It is really a page turner.
Highly recommended. Not for the faint of heart.
Highly recommended. Not for the faint of heart.
October 2, 2020
DNF this one. 1/3 of the way through I quit out of boredom. I read some reviews before I quit and found that some nasty stuff was happening later in the book that I was not interest in reading.
September 4, 2019
Originally published online at BORG.com.
Crime stories are full of dark places and dark characters, characters like Waldo Lydecker in Vera Caspary’s Laura, Rebecca DeWinter in Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca, Jim Williams in John Berendt’s Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, Barbara Sabich in Scott Turow’s Presumed Innocent, Catherine Trammell in Joe Eszterhas’s Basic Instinct, Noah Cross in Robert Towne’s Chinatown. But what if you were to populate an entire story with only the most vile of these characters, everyone despicable, reprehensible, soulless. Then you would have Richard Vine’s crime novel Soho Sins.
The New York City in Vine’s novel can’t really exist, and if it does it explains a lot about its perceived debauchery-filled subculture of million dollar art deals and even bigger real estate deals. Most noir novels take you into places that dip into the dark, but along the way you meet a few “cool” characters, characters that have a trait or two you’d want to emulate, even if they are bad at their very core in a nice, pulp novel way. That’s not the case in the Soho of Vine’s New York of two decades past (for those not familiar with New York, Soho is the lower Manhattan neighborhood known for its artist lofts and art galleries). Nobody is personable, likeable, enviable, charming, or authentic. And this ugliness means that as you forge ahead in a densely crafted 384 pages, the way Vine tells his story and the way he incorporates the shock and awe of the depravity, self-hatred, and apathy, is necessary to keep you engaged. To Vine’s credit, it all works, complete with a couple of eleventh hour whoppers at the end of the tale. Not bad at all for a first time novelist.
Vine takes you on a journey through New York City that illustrates in fine detail everything that is bad about the city, primarily in its wealthiest, seediest corners. Vine brings his years of experience in the contemporary art world to provide a peep show peek into a world where artists and dealers live for no purpose other than to impress and outdo each other. Our tour guide is a member of this vapid class, art dealer and real estate owner Jackson Wyeth, whose lack of true compassion and concern for anyone including himself at first make it difficult to tag along. Vine partners him with an old friend, an ex-cop private eye named Hogan, who is a welcome relief from all the banality of the modern art trade and its actors, but ultimately, he and Wyeth are just two sides of a tarnished coin. Hogan is after the murderer who shot Wyeth’s best friend Philip Oliver’s wife Angela, and Hogan uses Wyeth to introduce him to the art scene, a close-knit club, to prove whether or not Philip committed the murder. And, by the way, Philip has already confessed to the crime.
In fairness to the 1990s art scene, Wyeth exists in the cruddier ranks of the modern art world–the artists and their art that is witnessed by P.I. Hogan as he maneuvers from suspect to suspect is the fringe stuff, performance art where artists hang upside down by their nipples, incorporate used needles, and create lude photography meant to exploit rather than enlighten. But so many inside the modern art world have heaped praise on Soho Sins (one art museum director quoted in the cover blurb praises Vine for “bringing the underbelly of the art world to the forefront”) that the reader is left to wonder if that world is any different today. And the book isn’t really about the art, as much as the people who use art as an excuse to make money, drink, take drugs, cheat on their spouses, and only pretend to be alive. Anyone could have murdered Angela Oliver. Hogan spares no character as he meets up with Philip’s ex-wife, his current girlfriend, his wife’s lover, an entire world of art world rogues, even Wyeth.
An amalgam of the seediest episodes of Law & Order that drifts in and out of Lolita territory, but hovers closer to the approach of John Berendt’s Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil–a visit to a strange, new place, but without the colorful, quirky characters–Vine’s story really kicks in after the first 50 pages, and then you’ll be compelled to stick around until the end.
Every unique world deserves a story as detailed and enthralling as Soho Sins. But don’t be surprised if by the end you wish Richard Vine had spent his past 25 years in some place less repulsive. Now available in paperback.
Crime stories are full of dark places and dark characters, characters like Waldo Lydecker in Vera Caspary’s Laura, Rebecca DeWinter in Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca, Jim Williams in John Berendt’s Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, Barbara Sabich in Scott Turow’s Presumed Innocent, Catherine Trammell in Joe Eszterhas’s Basic Instinct, Noah Cross in Robert Towne’s Chinatown. But what if you were to populate an entire story with only the most vile of these characters, everyone despicable, reprehensible, soulless. Then you would have Richard Vine’s crime novel Soho Sins.
The New York City in Vine’s novel can’t really exist, and if it does it explains a lot about its perceived debauchery-filled subculture of million dollar art deals and even bigger real estate deals. Most noir novels take you into places that dip into the dark, but along the way you meet a few “cool” characters, characters that have a trait or two you’d want to emulate, even if they are bad at their very core in a nice, pulp novel way. That’s not the case in the Soho of Vine’s New York of two decades past (for those not familiar with New York, Soho is the lower Manhattan neighborhood known for its artist lofts and art galleries). Nobody is personable, likeable, enviable, charming, or authentic. And this ugliness means that as you forge ahead in a densely crafted 384 pages, the way Vine tells his story and the way he incorporates the shock and awe of the depravity, self-hatred, and apathy, is necessary to keep you engaged. To Vine’s credit, it all works, complete with a couple of eleventh hour whoppers at the end of the tale. Not bad at all for a first time novelist.
Vine takes you on a journey through New York City that illustrates in fine detail everything that is bad about the city, primarily in its wealthiest, seediest corners. Vine brings his years of experience in the contemporary art world to provide a peep show peek into a world where artists and dealers live for no purpose other than to impress and outdo each other. Our tour guide is a member of this vapid class, art dealer and real estate owner Jackson Wyeth, whose lack of true compassion and concern for anyone including himself at first make it difficult to tag along. Vine partners him with an old friend, an ex-cop private eye named Hogan, who is a welcome relief from all the banality of the modern art trade and its actors, but ultimately, he and Wyeth are just two sides of a tarnished coin. Hogan is after the murderer who shot Wyeth’s best friend Philip Oliver’s wife Angela, and Hogan uses Wyeth to introduce him to the art scene, a close-knit club, to prove whether or not Philip committed the murder. And, by the way, Philip has already confessed to the crime.
In fairness to the 1990s art scene, Wyeth exists in the cruddier ranks of the modern art world–the artists and their art that is witnessed by P.I. Hogan as he maneuvers from suspect to suspect is the fringe stuff, performance art where artists hang upside down by their nipples, incorporate used needles, and create lude photography meant to exploit rather than enlighten. But so many inside the modern art world have heaped praise on Soho Sins (one art museum director quoted in the cover blurb praises Vine for “bringing the underbelly of the art world to the forefront”) that the reader is left to wonder if that world is any different today. And the book isn’t really about the art, as much as the people who use art as an excuse to make money, drink, take drugs, cheat on their spouses, and only pretend to be alive. Anyone could have murdered Angela Oliver. Hogan spares no character as he meets up with Philip’s ex-wife, his current girlfriend, his wife’s lover, an entire world of art world rogues, even Wyeth.
An amalgam of the seediest episodes of Law & Order that drifts in and out of Lolita territory, but hovers closer to the approach of John Berendt’s Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil–a visit to a strange, new place, but without the colorful, quirky characters–Vine’s story really kicks in after the first 50 pages, and then you’ll be compelled to stick around until the end.
Every unique world deserves a story as detailed and enthralling as Soho Sins. But don’t be surprised if by the end you wish Richard Vine had spent his past 25 years in some place less repulsive. Now available in paperback.
December 7, 2016
Long story short, Richard Vine's "SoHo Sins" is just plain garbage. It's a pretentious and overwritten story about pretentious and artsy folks in the trendy SoHo neighborhood of New York City.
These people have no morality and too much money, and they are all horrid individuals. This includes the narrator. At first, this book seems to be about a really boring murder. Then it slowly devolves into a meditation that lovingly (yuck!) details the pedophiles running amok in the art world. The murder becomes beside the point once the narrator fixates on his 12 year old pseudo-niece.
Yes, I'm sure the author would use the "Lolita" defense for his work, especially the part where his narrator's hand lingers on the thigh of the 12 year old girl in his bed. Just disgusting.
But there is a pro-social take on it all. The "bad" pedophiles are punished and the "good" pedophiles (though I don't believe that there is such a thing) are rewarded. This book, however seems to want to excuse their criminal and immoral behavior because it's all done in the pursuit of "art." And it all reads like a maudlin, self-indulgent "mid-life crisis" project, where the dissolute narrator whines at length about his bad marriage and boasts of all his empty affairs with women.
You can tell that the last chapter before the epilogue, in which it is revealed that the narrator did have all kinds of sex with his young female ward--implying she is carrying his child--was something that was written in such a way that it could be removed if the publisher was offended. It doesn't state explicitly when he started having sex with her, but the fact that he was her legal guardian from 12 to 18 makes it all pretty horrible. Even though she is revealed to be a charming sociopath, that still doesn't make any of this story okay. Not at all.
I am no paragon. I don't often go around in moral outrage. But this story has no redeeming value whatsoever. It is competently written, for the most part, but it's pretty damn dull and long-winded and full of existential jibber-jabber. If it wasn't, it would amount to far less than it already does. I'm sure the French might love this book, but it's trash as far as I'm concerned.
Here's something from page 186 of the hardcover edition.
"Storybooks are written for all kinds of bad reasons."
"Oh, such as?"
"Usually because some guy wants to make excuses for himself, or to pretend things worked out better than they actually did."
"And people never do that in real life?"
"Actually, they do it all the time. It's sort of the main thing they do."
To me, that says it all. Avoid "SoHo Sins" at all costs.
These people have no morality and too much money, and they are all horrid individuals. This includes the narrator. At first, this book seems to be about a really boring murder. Then it slowly devolves into a meditation that lovingly (yuck!) details the pedophiles running amok in the art world. The murder becomes beside the point once the narrator fixates on his 12 year old pseudo-niece.
Yes, I'm sure the author would use the "Lolita" defense for his work, especially the part where his narrator's hand lingers on the thigh of the 12 year old girl in his bed. Just disgusting.
But there is a pro-social take on it all. The "bad" pedophiles are punished and the "good" pedophiles (though I don't believe that there is such a thing) are rewarded. This book, however seems to want to excuse their criminal and immoral behavior because it's all done in the pursuit of "art." And it all reads like a maudlin, self-indulgent "mid-life crisis" project, where the dissolute narrator whines at length about his bad marriage and boasts of all his empty affairs with women.
You can tell that the last chapter before the epilogue, in which it is revealed that the narrator did have all kinds of sex with his young female ward--implying she is carrying his child--was something that was written in such a way that it could be removed if the publisher was offended. It doesn't state explicitly when he started having sex with her, but the fact that he was her legal guardian from 12 to 18 makes it all pretty horrible. Even though she is revealed to be a charming sociopath, that still doesn't make any of this story okay. Not at all.
I am no paragon. I don't often go around in moral outrage. But this story has no redeeming value whatsoever. It is competently written, for the most part, but it's pretty damn dull and long-winded and full of existential jibber-jabber. If it wasn't, it would amount to far less than it already does. I'm sure the French might love this book, but it's trash as far as I'm concerned.
Here's something from page 186 of the hardcover edition.
"Storybooks are written for all kinds of bad reasons."
"Oh, such as?"
"Usually because some guy wants to make excuses for himself, or to pretend things worked out better than they actually did."
"And people never do that in real life?"
"Actually, they do it all the time. It's sort of the main thing they do."
To me, that says it all. Avoid "SoHo Sins" at all costs.
April 16, 2016
Whew! I wasn't sure what to expect from this book, but it sure wasn't a page-turner that I would not be able to put down.
Seriously, this book kept me reading from the moment I picked it up until the ending that was still a surprise even though the author foreshadowed it well.
One of the more interesting things is that Mr. Vine uses his knowledge of the art world to create a milieu that breathes and writhes as if it was a living thing. His characters convey complexity, even those sketchily drawn. Following the plot twists could give you whiplash if you aren't careful.
One of my favorite writers, Jacqueline Lichtenberg, taught me long ago that the tension line is what moves a story's action from start to finish. Mr. Vine keeps the tension line high here, with the result that instead of being dragged through the book you are almost body-slammed from one situation to the next.
The cover notes that this is Mr. Vine's debut novel. I look forward to more from him.
Seriously, this book kept me reading from the moment I picked it up until the ending that was still a surprise even though the author foreshadowed it well.
One of the more interesting things is that Mr. Vine uses his knowledge of the art world to create a milieu that breathes and writhes as if it was a living thing. His characters convey complexity, even those sketchily drawn. Following the plot twists could give you whiplash if you aren't careful.
One of my favorite writers, Jacqueline Lichtenberg, taught me long ago that the tension line is what moves a story's action from start to finish. Mr. Vine keeps the tension line high here, with the result that instead of being dragged through the book you are almost body-slammed from one situation to the next.
The cover notes that this is Mr. Vine's debut novel. I look forward to more from him.
January 22, 2017
This book is incredibly well written and takes on subjects that are extremely disturbing, while asking the hard questions, in particular -- What is art?
The book is driven, like a classic noir, by the internal monologue of the main character. His insights into the murder that opens the novel lead to the readers insights about him. This view becomes unsettling as subplots grow in increasing importance. At times it had me saying, "No." And, other times I had to put down the book in order to come to terms with the truths of the characters and the plot became a little hard to bear. Liking the character, even for his fatal flaw, I had to go back and finish the book. I am glad that I did.
Here's to hoping, though, the art world truly isn't like this.
The book is driven, like a classic noir, by the internal monologue of the main character. His insights into the murder that opens the novel lead to the readers insights about him. This view becomes unsettling as subplots grow in increasing importance. At times it had me saying, "No." And, other times I had to put down the book in order to come to terms with the truths of the characters and the plot became a little hard to bear. Liking the character, even for his fatal flaw, I had to go back and finish the book. I am glad that I did.
Here's to hoping, though, the art world truly isn't like this.
August 16, 2020
This book was quite the journey, never exactly conforming to my expectations and providing some wild detours along the way. At its best, it's a dark, sophisticated thriller with an almost Cronenberg-ian sensibility. Unfortunately it's also meandering and some of the plot devices are hard to swallow (would the NYPD include private detectives in their busts? When would it ever be okay to use a child as bait in a sting operation without even telling her parents?). The sleaze is pretty intense, which can be fun sometimes, but some of this just came off as creepy. Still, there's a propulsive energy to it and I could see it being refined into great noir/thriller.
December 30, 2021
Beautifully written garbage.
October 20, 2016
Noir-est of the noirs! The review of this book in The New Yorker was intriguing: a murder mystery written by the Managing Editor of ART IN AMERICA; a first novel, set in the 1990's NY art world.
Books set in NY can be great fun, as actual people and places become part of the backdrop and the story. But in this case it was over the top, as if the author felt compelled to mention ALL the hot spots and hot artists of the time. The ennui and Marlow-esq musings of the narrator, Jack(son) Wyeth, became tedious. The whodunit was not that much of a surprise. Very depressing.
Books set in NY can be great fun, as actual people and places become part of the backdrop and the story. But in this case it was over the top, as if the author felt compelled to mention ALL the hot spots and hot artists of the time. The ennui and Marlow-esq musings of the narrator, Jack(son) Wyeth, became tedious. The whodunit was not that much of a surprise. Very depressing.
May 10, 2021
DNF. I usually don’t give reviews but I HATED THIS BOOK. If I could give this book -10 stars I would. Only pedophiles would think this book is ok or good. I only kept reading on because I wanted to see if my prediction of the murderer was right. I read on and had to just skip to the end because of how disgusted I was 35% through the book. Unfortunately, the end was even worse than I imagined and (no surprise) my prediction of the killer was right. I’m so glad I didn’t read the whole book, but just reading the end made me so sick I skipped dinner.
September 21, 2016
The art world is intriguing and complicated, but also filled with sophisticated deception, people feeding on one another... Hype, greed, all that. But, still, I read this book by an art-world insider, hoping to find both a good mystery and (maybe) a little redemption for the world this author inhabits. The plot pulled me right along. So, yes, a mystery. But the Soho described here is matter-of-factly grotesque and leaves you feeling slimy and choking for air. Art CAN hurt you.
April 2, 2017
Icky. Final twist fairly obvious 150 pages in, a lot of the plot is just absurd (including characters who are simply not believable humans) and the whole thing reeks of pedophilia. I guess we're supposed to read the whole thing ironically, with the narrator being just as bad as everyone else in his exploitation of kids, but yuck.
November 7, 2016
Lolita themed trip through the art underworld. Very readable page turner, but silly characterization and plot elements mar an otherwise promising debut. Don't think NYPD sting operations or collection of evidence work the way Mr. Vine thinks they do, for starters.
October 20, 2016
New York’s Soho in the 1990’s, art galleries, performance artists, painters, bars and clubs, are the setting for this classic noir crime novel. The writing is clean and simple, capturing the somewhat grim, world-weary tone you find in the best noir.
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