Review: Where’s Jackson Pollock? by Jim Davidson

A casually hilarious caper through the dirty end of the art world, Where’s Jackson Pollock? by Jim Davidson delivers a twisted plot and a swirling cast of cutthroat characters.

Russell Henderson is a charming white-collar criminal in dire straits, and with his offshore accounts drying up, he decides to liquidate two of his unexpected assets – a Mark Rothko and a Jackson Pollock that have been hanging in his bedroom for years. Despite their decidedly sketchy origins, his ex-art dealer girlfriend, Victoria Scarsfield, offers to help him move the high-end art through her old stomping grounds of Richmond, Virginia, without attracting unwanted attention from those who might suspect their provenance.

When Victoria reconnects with her old gallery and its new owner, Jackie, it brings Chris Hamilton and Sophia Garcia into the mix, bringing along her unique ability to read people and his nose for mischief. Slipping the two modern masterworks into Jackie’s gallery re-opening is just what Russell and Victoria need to launder the authenticity of their stolen spoils, not to mention pull off a forgery scheme that could land the gallery in hot and fraudulent water.

Just when it seems like every player in the game is going to get what they want, or at least what’s coming to them, the prized paintings are stolen yet again, launching a panicked hunt by the original swindlers to recover their treasures. Chris and Sophia, armed with a sixth sense and a streak of loyalty, work their own angles of investigation, desperate to save Jackie from public embarrassment, a high-profile arrest, or worse.

This tangled tale of double-crosses, deep pockets, and desperate deceptions is a consistent thrill, keeping readers guessing and grinning from the beginning. Davidson’s language is instantly captivating, with an engaging mixture of detail, panache, and droll humor that will have readers savoring every line. Even the smallest exchanges are marked by sharp repartee, and each of the characters stands out from the crowd, with no overused archetypes or familiar foils to be found.

The narration is also patient and intimate, probing deeply into characters’ identities and eccentricities, hinting at complexity before being gradually revealed. It’s rare for prose to be both manicured and informally whimsical, swinging between red herrings and clever ripostes, while also never veering into the farcical. The story reads at once like a thriller, a satire, and an art world exposé, pulling back the curtain on the criminal cogs and dubious dealings that maintain the facade of fine art – an exceptionally tough balance of tones for the author, but one that is handled masterfully.

That said, there are some clunky moments of backstory-heavy dialogue, particularly between Chris and Sophia, which can feel like the author spoon-feeding exposition to the readers. That is a minor critique in a novel that is both entertaining and illuminating – there remains a nebulous cloud of mystery around the goings-on of the art world, and this book boldly strips that away, revealing the darker and less dignified side of galleries and museum galas. Firing on all narrative cylinders, this is an intensely compelling read from a wickedly witty pen.