The Electric Michelangelo [Paperback]

‘Here is a writer of heart-stopping genius.' --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

"'Here is a writer of show-stopping genius' Guardian; 'Her prose is rich, clear, cold, full of images and immensely sensual.' The Times 'Hall is a writer to indulge, and her sensuous, poetic prose is every bit as evocative as and poured from a pocket at the end of a holiday.' Daily Mail; 'Her gorgeously embellished prose compels the narrative, along with the beguiling vignettes she conjures up... the effect is intoxicating' Financial Times"

On the windswept front of Morecambe Bay, Cy Parks spends his childhood years first in a guest house for consumptives run by his mother and then as apprentice to alcoholic tattoo-artist Eliot Riley. Thirsty for new experiences, he departs for America and finds himself in the riotous world of the Coney Island boardwalk, where he sets up his own business as 'The Electric Michelangelo'. In this carnival environment of roller-coasters and freak-shows, Cy becomes enamoured with Grace, a mysterious immigrant and circus performer who commissions him to cover her entire body in tattooed eyes.

Hugely atmospheric, exotic and familiar, The Electric Michelangelo is a love story and an exquisitely rendered portrait of seaside resorts on opposite sides of the Atlantic by one of the most uniquely talented novelists of her generation.

Sarah Hall was born in Cumbria in 1974. She received a BA from Aberystwyth University, Wales, and a MLitt in Creative Writing from St Andrews, Scotland. She is the author of Haweswater, which won the 2003 Commonwealth Writers Prize for Best First Novel, a Society of Authors Betty Trask Award, and a Lakeland Book of the Year prize. In 2004, her second novel, The Electric Michelangelo, was short-listed for the Man Booker prize, the Commonwealth Writers Prize (Eurasia region), and the Prix Femina Etranger, and was long-listed for the Orange Prize for Fiction. Her third novel, The Carhullan Army, was published in 2007, and won the 2006/07 John Llewellyn Rhys Prize, the James Tiptree Jr. Award, a Lakeland Book of the Year prize, and was short-listed for the Arthur C. Clarke Award for science fiction. Her fourth novel, How to Paint a Dead Man, was longlisted for the 2009 Man Booker Prize and won the Portico Prize for Fiction 2010. She was shortlisted for the BBC National Short Story Comp 2010 for Butcher's Perfume while Vuotjavi was longlisted for the Sunday Times Short Story Award 2011.

Eliot Riley swore he was the first man to try graduated black shading and make it work, though Cy would hear that claim repeated in the booths of Coney Island a decade later. Riley could create an illusion on a flat surface of skin. The things he could do with black ink and shading on flesh were quasi-magical. He was an engraver, like William Blake. He was a sculptor, he was a Bernini, had Cy heard of Bernini?

– No.

– Well what in God's great name is being taught in the school these days if not the finer aspects of art, sonny?

– We did draw fish on the beach when the war was on.

– Fish on the fucking beach?

Riley had him cornered by the bait and tackle shop, next to the printers in Strickland Street, in the late afternoon drizzle. Cy knew it was him, the face and eyes were unforgettable. He had a visage that was photographic, not attractive in its looks but memorable, bringing back images of it during previous meetings with a flash of the brain's bulb and the fizzle of recollection like burnt celluloid. It was a face that was architectural, having a structure that was soundly constructed and defined and heavily employed, as a bridge that carries too much traffic. His skin about the scaffolding of bones was smooth and opaque and olive, as some of the Welsh or southern Celts will have accompanying dark hair. He was unshaven, as blue-eyed as a Siamese cat, and apparently not one for conventional conversation. He slapped Cy's hand away as Cy tried to turn up the collar of his coat against the fine rain to prevent it from blowing into his ear, and continued outlining what was some oddly mannered work proposal. This apprenticeship was a fucking honour, Riley stated, if he wanted it, if he was visionary enough to see it. He said his own technique and style were dimensional in a way others would kill for in the industry. Likely kill for mind, such was the game he played. And if Cy spoke of these skills out of turn to anyone, after being taught, if he got loose lipped in the pub at weekends, he'd pay for it with a hiding such as he doubted the boy had had since his father passed, rest him. Cy did not mention that he'd never met his father, that the man had been dead long before Cy's backside had been ripe for any kind of hiding. If any of Riley's designs made their way down to any of the other tattoo shops in town, particularly Larrikin Harry's, that cheap tuppenny scraper on Lowther Street, Cy would be held directly responsible for it. And get a hiding. Genius, and make no mistake, Riley was a genius, was to be protected fiercely as a knight protects a king, did he understand that concept? With a bit of luck Cyril Parks might learn a thing or two about honour along with tattooing. If he wanted the apprenticeship.

– I've got a job, Mr Riley.

One eyelid flickered down and up on the whiskered face of the man like an insect stalling in the air. Making him look threatening, delinquent even. Riley let his jaw go slack, the too-big tongue swelling out in the rain. Perturbed, Cy looked away, into the window of the novelty sweet shop opposite, to escape the madman's stare. There was a sign in the window that Cy had made which read ‘World's first lettered rock'. Underneath was a stack of white sugar tubes with ‘Morecambe' written through them in red. Then a booming, spitting laughter erupted from the man, splattering the left side of Cy's face, interrupting his distraction and drawing his attention back to Riley.

– Right, you do lad, you do, but it's about as useful as a mickey in a nunnery.

The laughter was an erratic feature, which Cy would become used to from his future employer over the years, though he would not become any more astute in predicting it. He looked back at the man, found that he was now grinning with his large top teeth resting on his full lower lip. Eliot Riley was dressed like a buffoon, with an old long-tailed suit and a white smock shirt underneath it, a woollen hat – the one Cy had seen appearing from his window during the Peace celebrations – and woollen gloves. It was as if he'd visited every charitable church sale and flea market in Morecambe and been donated each item separately. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.