LOVE AND THINGS

A man and a woman fall in love, headily, rosily. Full of its flush, they exchange a flurry of letters and gifts, pet-names and promises. But time and trial erodes much of this; the giddiness evaporates, the arguments sharpen. What was ripe and lovely becomes a détente.

It is a classic and tired story, but Leanne Shapton, an artist and writer, has done something new: she has captured the full arc of a love affair in a novel that resembles an auction catalogue. "Important Artifacts and Personal Property From the Collection of Lenore Doolan and Harold Morris, Including Books, Street Fashion, and Jewelry" chronicles a four-year relationship through artefacts put up for sale, including romantic notes and ominous letters, diary lists and saved cookie fortunes. Each lot is carefully itemised, priced and arranged chronologically. Their meaning builds incrementally, and the effect is satisfyingly voyeuristic--as compelling as a motor-accident. But it feels tawdry to stare. (Lot 1216, a handwritten note: "It's like you don't value who I am."; Lot 1303, a stuffed squirrel.)

All auction catalogues tell a story--that someone has died or run out of money, perhaps, or that a family is fighting. In this case the pages are full of sentimental bric-a-brac, such as hand-embroidered vintage napkins, antique thimbles, folded photographs and theatre programmes with scribbled messages in the margins (Lot 1055: "Leave at intermission?/Ok with you?/Yes/I love you"). Early postcards are duly fulsome and desirous (Lot 1020: "Missing you my sweetest tart. Hal X"), while later notes are more reticent, contrite, demanding (Lot 1216: "I want this to work, but there are sides to you I just cant handle sometimes."). Portentous marginalia graces some books. Endearing figurines come chipped.

And these people are so very stylish, self-consciously so. Observing this couple through the many things they carefully (and lovingly) collected feels fetishistic in its materialism. We discern that Harold Morris is an elegant older photographer--glamorously itinerant and arrogant, with a taste for expensive clothing and a possible drinking problem. We gather that Lenore Doolan is a spry, young chef with a cake column in the New York Times, a bottle of anti-depressants in her cosmetic case and anxieties about her weight. (In the pages that detail the full contents of their travelling cases, I read every single item. Really, I couldn't look away.)

The catalogue opens with a recent postcard from Harold to Lenore, written years after the end of their relationship ("It would be good to see you. I've written letters to you, but they are still here in my drawer"). It seems all is not lost, despite such detailed evidence of their romantic dissolution. Like all true love stories, the final chapter of theirs has not yet been written.