Christine Coulson's Metropolitan Stories seems a book designed for me: a novel (my favorite literary form) that is sort-of magical realist (a favorite genre) set in the Met (one of my favorite of places), inflected with a sort of new materialist thread that reminds me of Jane Bennett's Vibrant Matter (a favorite approach to art history). And it is absolutely lovely. It's quick and charming book -- I read it cover to cover between my morning tea and my afternoon coffee on a lazy Sunday.
A French armchair has a surprisingly active series of longings. A group of muses, restrained and rococo, are called upon to serve their intended role. Workmen push carts full of light. And a rather famous work turns up most unexpectedly.
I had a friend years ago who served as a night guard at the Met, and it sort of sounded like the best job in the world. The novel makes me again long for a few shifts, at least.
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