The Violet Hour by James Cahill review – soapy and satisfying art-world yarn

John Self

Feb. 23, 2025, 11 a.m.

Artists, gallerists and collectors vie for power in a rollicking mystery that pokes fun while also examining desire and regret

James Cahill’s debut novel, Tiepolo Blue, was full of interesting things but weakened by implausibilities. In his second novel, he gets around this by setting it in the world of modern art, where the implausible and ridiculous are de rigueur.

After a punchy intro in which a young man falls to his death in London (“abruptly, he toppled back – his body separating from the building”), we’re introduced to three vivid characters, each circling the others. There’s Leo Goffman, a New York-based octogenarian real estate mogul and art collector, a man who sees money everywhere. His walls are lined with Richters and Warhols, and to mark his character for the reader, he obligingly yells at his housekeeper when she throws out his favourite magazine.