Kiki Man Ray eschews straightforward biography for an impressionistic portrait, a meditation on how artists fomented a movement while loving and despising each other...Despite the rare misstep—Mr. Braude calls Alfred Stieglitz 'Arthur'—the book is its own enchantment...With the immediacy (if not the intimacy) of Patti Smith’s 'Just Kids,' he transports us back to the City of Light just after World War I, reeling from the butchery of millions of young soldiers...At the dawn of the Jazz Age, it seemed everyone wanted to kick up their heels, drink champagne and sleep around...Mr. Braude lavishly evokes this milieu, mining Kiki and Man Ray’s memoirs and correspondence, and supplementing them with accounts from friends, colleagues and patrons...Kiki Man Ray features cameos a-plenty: Duchamp, Picabia, Peggy Guggenheim, Picasso, Erik Satie, Hemingway...In the background looms the commodification of the avant-garde, ushered in by the Age of the Machine; no sooner had Dadaism reached its zenith then it gave way to Surrealism, as wealthy collectors (many of them American) scrambled for the next Big Thing...Kiki was foremost a catalyst, the right person at the right place at the right time, a fulcrum for Man Ray and others, her influence shaping the oeuvres of writers, filmmakers and singers...She played a poor hand brilliantly, shuffling identities as a declaration of selfhood, insisting on a cabaret of one’s own...She bridges the divide between the 19th-century model—think Victorine Meurent, Manet’s muse and herself an accomplished painter—and the autonomous, libertine women of her own era, such as Josephine Baker and Louise Brooks, and those that came after World War II...Kiki Man Ray rescues its protagonist from the dustbin of history and advocates eloquently for the vitality and importance of the world she helped to forge..