“A novel of finely articulated tragic power .... Little short of a work of genius.”—The New York Times Book Review

Asher Lev is a Ladover Hasid who keeps kosher, prays three times a day and believes in the Ribbono Shel Olom, the Master of the Universe. He grows up in a cloistered Hasidic community in postwar Brooklyn, a world suffused by ritual and revolving around a charismatic Rebbe. He is torn between two identities, the one consecrated to God, the other devoted only to art and his imagination, and in time, his artistic gift threatens to estrange him from that world and the parents he adores.

As it follows his struggle, My Name Is Asher Lev becomes a luminous, visionary portrait of the artist, by turns heartbreaking and exultant.

Not a fan of this one.

The first-person narration causes a child's story to be told in an adult voice. It didn't work in To Kill A Mockingbird and it doesn't work here. Makes it seem like the author couldn't decide between a memoir (less detailed, abstract) and contemporaneous (told-as-it-happens) narrative.

The first half is yet another "growing up Jewish in post-War Brooklyn" story: some originality for using an Orthodox setting, but there's a feeling that I've read this a hundred times already. Everyone speaks "softly" and looks at the child "strangely". The child is indulged by parents, teachers, religious leaders, and so forth. Spoiled rotten, as they say (or used to).

About two-thirds of the way in, the child is taken under the wing of an artistic mentor, and things get interesting. Here we have some good development-of-the-artist stuff, though it is still packed full of strange looks and soft expressions of awe at the child's artistic genius.

The novel wraps up with the return of the child, now an adult, to Brooklyn in order to resolve the conflict between his upbringing and his art. The outcome has been telegraphed for the entire book, so this mostly amounts to a lot of hand-wringing (along with the requisite soft speech and strange looks) before an entirely predictable outcome.

Personally, I would have ended the novel before the purportedly-climactic art show. At least leave some room for an interesting outcome, if you're not going to provide one yourself. ( )

A very thoughtful, sad book about a misunderstood artist. ( )

Asher Lev, artist and painter of the controversial "Brooklyn Crucifixion" looks back on his life growing up as a Hasidic Jew. His father, an important man in their community who travels for the Rebbe, simply cannot understand why his son needed to draw, but even as a young child Asher had a gift. He discusses the experiences leading up to becoming the artist he is, and why an observant Jew would paint a crucifixion.

This is a quiet sort of story, almost a character study, in which I was surprised to find out how much I was invested in the family drama as Asher learns to carve his own path in life and art. I'm sure some references specific to Judaism teaching and thought went over my head, but at its heart it's a universal coming of age story in which a son has to decide whether to be true to himself or fall into line with what his father wants for him. I kept flipping back to the first few paragraphs, which essentially lay out the gist of the story, before Asher explains his family history, his experiences growing up, and ultimately what led to the notorious painting. ( )

I don't really have words for this book yet. It's probably the most important thing I have ever read, being a Jew and an Artist, and a little lost. I don't know if it will affect anyone else like it affected me, this second reading. ( )