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The aesthetic achievement of Ostlund's new graphic novel, "Keeping It Up With The Joneses," is even more astonishing. Ostlund's (who, at 49, is three years younger than Ruben) first national book sensation, "The Station Agent," remains a comic bestseller in re-runs on PBS. "Keeping It Up With The Joneses" is the culmination of that remarkable career, which was born of his ambivalent feelings about New York's art establishment. Ostlund seems to have emerged, with his razor-sharp eye, from the ranks of the contributors to "The New Yorker," which has not been this influential since the heyday of correspondents like Janet Flanner, Brendan Gill and William Shawn.
When Ostlund visited New York in 2008, he was received with an enthralling combination of respectful curiosity and full-scale snobbery. First he drove past a caustic graffiti of his own toothy grin written on the side of the MOMA, then drove past the Museum of Modern Art, where he had been a student. Then, on the Upper East Side, a planeload of VIPs, including curator Barbara Gladstone, opened a red-carpeted car shed for him at his local gallery, Sean Kelly. The dealers greeted him warmly and he backpedaled into their sanctum, where they poured him the usual toothy chat-up line. He did not hear a word they said, so to amuse himself he made a few entries into the gallery's computerized photo-assignment list, which listed photographs that would benefit from calligraphy by John Updike, Grant Wood, etc. d2c66b5586