This book fell so flat for me. Lots of interesting discussion about how we interpret art as an extension of the artist, how men view strong women, and how your appearance can color someone's perspective of you. Yet so much of this felt so pretentious and over the top. I couldn't connect with Harry or feel like I should even want to care about her. That said, the last 10% or so of this book, where the topic is no longer art, was some really phenomenal writing, and easily my favorite part of the book.