The Lonely Life.

Jack Pierson's art makes glamour out of emotional disappointment. His is a melodramatic world of false promises, lovers who left, and the wish that things could have worked out. His latest book, The Lonely Life, further explores his melancholy artistic territory. With grainy, luminous photographs of sun-drenched but desolate landscapes and beautiful boys in rumpled hotel beds, Pierson creates a visual complement to fabulously moody songs by the Smiths. His pictures capture a hangover feeling, accented with a colorful postparty scatter of confetti and cigarette butts.

As part of the so-called Boston School--a group of New England artists that includes photographer Nan Goldin--Pierson brings a legendary credibility to his artistic biography. Like many in that group, Pierson often appears in his own pictures, constructing a role for himself as a wistful gay romantic. It's an appealing part, one that has landed his work in high-profile gallery and museum shows--among them the prestigious "1993 Biennial Exhibition" at New York City's Whitney Museum of American Art. To art-world insiders, Pierson seems the heir apparent to the vibrant gay vision of David Hockney--albeit for a downsized decade.

In a populist spirit, Pierson has perhaps done his best work in the form of breathtaking photo books. He honed his signature style--close-cropped juxtapositions of steamy sensuality and embroidered despair--in All of a Sudden, his confectionery coffee-table classic of 1995. Lonely Life isn't quite as appealing, but with images of Pierson's drawings and gallery installations, it gives more of a sense of his range.

There's even a hint of visual narrative at the book's beginning: It's an amber-hued portrait of a guy scribbled over in expressionistic strokes. Maybe he's an ex-lover being excised from memory, but the star-shaped scrapes at his eyes also give him an angelic quality that hints at a more mortal sense of loss. This soon gives way to a swirl of emotionally charged pictures and texts: In one drawing Pierson scrawls the word SOMEWHERE over a background smeared with fingerprints. On the facing page he writes three scrawled words--HOPE, DREAMS, YOU--each crossed out like items on a laundry list. Where does one go after such major disappointments?

Pierson comforts himself by focusing on his tortured-artist persona--a strategy that sometimes seems narcissistic. There are numerous photos of his work on gallery walls and one where this successful artist pouts for a camera crew. The inclusion of gallery as setting--a locale rarely seen in his earlier publications--makes this less a strikingly creative document and more a stately museum catalog. While this may grant Pierson respectability as an artist and celebrity, it's a detour from his visual strengths. And it has the effect of making fans yearn for a better, more complete fix of Pierson's exquisitely romantic vision.