A perfect picture book is a rare thing. So much of what gets published is forgettable; poorly illustrated, drearily unoriginal productions that pander to popular tastes, however fleeting. Not to despair. There are children’s picture book illustrators, writers and publishers hell-bent on bringing excellence to the table with original stories, inventive language, gut-busting humour, and as I’ve said many times before, the most beautiful art to be found anywhere, in any venue. The current purveyer of picture book perfection is French illustrator Béatrice Rodriguez and her crew of animal adventurists, including a determined hen and the fox who sweeps her off her claws, a loyal but easily fatigued bear, his rabbit companion, and one mightily ticked-off rooster. Characters such as these cannot be contained to one book, and I am happy to report that Rodriguez has extended their adventures to two more rollicking tales, and the result is a trilogy of wordless picture books amongst the best to be published this, or any year. The Chicken Thief arrived first in 2010, followed by Fox and Hen Together in spring 2011 and finally, Rooster’s Revenge, to be hatched this September. I haven’t been this excited about a trilogy of books since Philip Pullman put armour on polar bears.
Along a Long Road
Occasionally, children’s picture book art takes a left turn from traditional paint and pencil illustration into the somewhat sterile world of computer-generated imagery. Perhaps this is a moot point…it’s either good, or it’s not. Graphic imagery within a design context can be quite pleasing, but in general, I’m not a fan of digitalized art for picture books. Nevertheless, I suspect I am viewing it more often than I think I am. In fact, a few of my favourite artists use computers to augment their ‘old style’ illustrations, including Emily Gravett and Poly Bernatene, and I have to assume there are others. For what it’s worth, knowing that at some point an artist’s hands got messy is important to me. It’s like eating those perfectly peeled, tube-shaped baby carrots from the grocery store; they are so far removed from the dirt they are grown in, it’s hard to appreciate them as carrots.
But then…along comes Along a Long Road, a beautifully illustrated, completely charming picture book executed entirely on Adobe Illustrator. I can’t say whether or not Frank Viva’s hands got dirty making this book, but he was most certainly engaged in very detailed, creative work. And the medium, in this particular case, is perfect for the story. A digitalized palette is still a palette, even if nothing gets squeezed out of a tube.
Becoming Seuss
It’s sheer coincidence that two back to back posts are picture book biographies of the early lives of famous people. Last week, it was Jane Goodall. This week, it’s Dr Seuss, aka Theodor Geisel. It’s fascinating to look back at a childhood and pluck out the experiences that in hindsight are the set pieces for an extraordinary life. This could be said of any life, famous or otherwise, but with someone like Dr Seuss, whose stories and illustrations are so idiosyncratic, so recognizably Seuss, it’s downright thrilling.
In The Boy On Fairfield Street: How Ted Geisel Grew Up to Become Dr. Seuss, Kathleen Krull does a masterful job of distilling the formative experiences of the great man’s early life. Interestingly, the pictures accompanying the story are not by Seuss but by Steve Johnson and Lou Fancher, the husband and wife super duo responsible for some of the most beautiful picture books of all time (in my opinion), including Peach & Blue, a 32 Pages favourite. It’s a coalition of amazing talent, and even if you don’t know a Who from a Sneetch, The Boy on Fairfield Street is a witty and moving account of growing up odd in a factory-issue world.
Planet of the Chimps
This post is part four in my continuing love letter to Patrick McDonnell: artist, writer, and from what I have observed thus far, the kindest man on earth. In addition to fathering comic strip characters Mooch and Earl, Patrick is the author and illustrator of several picture books, three of which have been profiled in this blog. No surprise that his latest non-Mutts outing, Me…Jane, is about Jane Goodall, a fellow champion of the environment, especially where animals are concerned. It seems inevitable that McDonnell would find a kindred soul in Jane Goodall, just as Jane found hers in the shorter and hairier inhabitants of the Gombe Stream in Tanzania.
Me…Jane is a story of the awakening passion of Jane Goodall, before she was the renowned chimpologist and animal advocate. The beautifully illustrated biographical picture book introduces us to Jane as a young, inquisitive girl with an adventurous heart and a stuffed chimp named Jubilee. We see her climbing trees, reading Tarzan of the Apes, and taking note of all the living things around her. Other than a brief postscript at the back of the book, Me…Jane concentrates solely on her childhood years, and includes some of Jane’s own drawings from the Alligator Society, a nature club she founded at the age of 12.
Throughout the book, there are faint prints of ornamental engravings from the 19th and 20th centuries, ‘collectively evoking Jane’s lifelong passion for detailed, scientific observations of nature.’ The biographical elements of Jane’s young life are conveyed in a few well-chosen words, leaving the rest of the narrative to the colourful strokes and daubs of McDonnell’s paintbrush. As with all of his books, the watercolour illustrations are the very essence of sweet simplicity and gentle humour. Even the paper has an aged patina, as if these were pages from an old scrapbook. In every way, Me…Jane is a celebration of a extraordinary girl and woman, but it is also a paean to the natural world, to quiet observation, and to being outdoors, an increasingly endangered activity. This is beautifully captured in a double spread of Jane and Jubilee, lying in the grass amongst the chicks and the butterflies:
“It was a magical world full of joy and wonder, and Jane felt very much a part of it.
Kinda makes me want to find some grass. And a monkey.
Jane Goodall was born in London, England in 1934. Dreaming of a life in Africa, and finally arriving in 1957, she met with famed anthropologist Louis Leakey shortly thereafter and began working with chimpanzees in the Gombe Stream Game Reserve.
Goodall’s work became the foundation of primatological research and helped to redefine the relationship between humans, chimpanzees, and every creature in between. Some primatologists have called into question Goodall’s methodology, specifically her practice of naming the chimps rather than numbering them. It was thought, and perhaps still is thought that the number system allows for greater objectivity and prevents emotional attachment. I get it. Sort of. Much harder to fall for chimp #62 than a ‘David Greybeard’ or a ‘Humphrey’, two of the names chosen by Goodall. Anthromorphism holds little truck in the monkey business, which is why I’m not welcome at their parties. Nevetheless, Ms Goodall’s chimpanzee research abides, and her organizations, www.rootsandshoots.org and www.janegoodall.org continue to raise awareness of the plight of chimpanzees and environmental conservation. Jubilee, Jane’s stuffed monkey, still sits on her dresser in London.
Patrick McDonnell was born in 1956. Throughout his life he has been both an advocate of comic book art and artists, as well as an animal lover and protector. McDonnell has written and illustrated a pawful of picture books, including collections from his cartoon strip Mutts, the newest of which is Earl and Mooch (Andrews McMeel, 2010.) He sits on the board of the American Humane Society, and lives with his wife, dog and cat in New Jersey.
The creatures of this earth have no greater or more tireless friends than Ms Goodall and Mr McDonnell. I continue to be inspired…
Me…Jane by Patrick McDonnell, published by Little, Brown and Company, 2011
(Please note, my scanner doesn’t read watercolours very well, hence the loss of vibrancy. Buy the book.)
Other appreciations of Mr McDonnell:
South (Little, Brown 2008)
Hug Time (Little, Brown 2007)
Guardians of Being (New World Library, 2009)
Also HIGHLY recommended, Mutts: The Comic Art of Patrick McDonnell (Abrams, 2003)
Border Crossings
There has been a lot of discussion in the news of late regarding the pervasiveness of dystopian young adult literature, and whether or not it’s appropriate to expose kids to the darker aspects of life, real or imagined. I think we are kidding ourselves if we believe that children and young adults exist in bubbles, and are not in some way already exposed to the full spectrum of humanity.*
When I was a young girl, maybe 13 or 14, I abandoned what was ‘appropriate’ for my age and fell headfirst into the novels of Stephen King, Kurt Vonnegut and even Margaret Laurence because what I was reading did not reflect the unpredictability and to a degree, the harshness of my life at that time. Nevertheless, most of us in Canada and elsewhere in the developed world lead a comparatively pampered life. Some more pampered than others, but the bulk of us grow up with a roof over our heads, food in our bellies, and if we’re lucky, a sense of permanency, all of which is taken for granted because it is the rule, not the exception. Migrant is the story of a girl who lives the exception, but in the most poetic way, brings a beauty to the unpredictable life around her and to the world she imagines for herself and her family.
Colouring Outside the Lines
This blog is devoted to exquisite picture books. Story books, with pictures. However, not all illustrated children’s books are narrative in nature. Sometimes they tell us about the boreal forest, or the gifts animals bestow upon us. And others, like My Beastly Book of Silly Things, defy categorization. It is a colouring book, yes, but it is also a quirky collection of drawings, puzzles, and activities, beautifully illustrated, with deliciously subversive instructions to colour outside the lines. Not directly, of course, but slyly…through a series of exercises designed to push the boundaries of creativity…and perhaps taste, but only if you’re an adult. My inner eight year old boy found this book hilarious, especially the page with instructions to ‘draw farts for everyone’, but even though this sort of humour skews toward boys, many girls will find the book funny too, especially those preferring MAD magazine to Bieber Beat. The appeal, however, is broader than children of the crayon age, and to be honest the book made me laugh, and made other so-called adults around me laugh, with nary a crayon or a lego in sight. My Beastly Book of Silly Things is the colouring book you wish you’d had as a kid.
Who Let the Dogs Out?
Ralph Steadman, that’s who; the maestro of caricature, the prince of ink, the spewer of satire, the Big I Am. Yes, Ralph Steadman is God, and I will accept no argument to the contrary. He is a true original, and his sardonic, splattered wit has been copied by generations of illustrators, myself included. Most of his books have found a home on my shelves, and I am slightly ashamed to admit that on a trip to Newcastle in the 1993, I dragged my sister and newborn niece to see a showing of his work in Aberdeen, Scotland. It was a long train ride, but worth every minute to be in the same room with Ralph Steadman originals (or so my 6 month old niece gurgled.)
The Ralph Steadman Book of Dogs is his latest publication, and it is wonderfully and gorgeously daft. Also, a bit rude, in keeping with Ralph’s life-long illlustrative embrace of the less than lovely aspects of being human, or in this case, being dog. Expect to see a few steaming piles alongside brilliant drawings of dogs in all their idiosyncratic glory. But make no mistake, Ralph Steadman is a dog lover. This is his fourth book on dogs, and as per usual, there is no end to the inventiveness of his line. This is a man who mastered the finer points of drawing a long time ago and now, with a flick of his pen, expertly (and effortlessly) captures the essense of whatever or whomever is the subject of his ferocious intellect, be it Osama bin Laden or a poodle.
Pleased to Meet You
“And once it’s written, the history of the blues. They’ll cheer a dead man’s genius. Never ask them whose.”
I know nothing about The Blues. When I was growing up, Dean Martin and the comedy records of Bill Cosby were the only sounds coming from our console stereo. Once I started buying my own music, it was decidedly north of the Mississippi. Way north. While others were discovering the Delta Blues for the first time, I was still dancing to Swedish Pop. I’ve liked what I’ve heard over the years, and I have more than a passing aquaintance with the melancholic state of being that drives the lyrics, but I am a novice when it comes to understanding the music. Black Cat Bone is a window into an unfamiliar world, and appropos to this blog, the road to the blues is paved with illustrative gold.
The Magnificent Ten
Here’s a book that’s got it all: beautiful illustrations, wonderfully inventive text, and pigeons. Or at least I think they’re pigeons. Plumper than pigeons perhaps, and lovelier, but the eyes are quintessential squab. Don’t get me wrong, I love pigeons, just not on my bird feeder. Cybèle Young’s pigeon-like birds, on the other hand, would be welcome at my feeder at any time. Not that they would ever get there of course, at least not before all the seeds had been consumed by the sparrows and nuthatches. Faced with the dilemma of having to get to the other side of the river, ten birds devise ten unique methods of negotiating the gap. It’s not so much a case of why did the chicken (pigeon) cross the road, but how. And I can promise you one thing: these birds think out of the box. Way out out of the box.
C’mon Get Happy
A reasonable response to an episode, or perhaps a lifetime of gluttony is a return to simplicity. I am, of course referring to gluttony of the eyes and I believe there is nothing wrong with this sort of extravagance per se, or at least I hope there isn’t as I am at all times surrounded by visual brilliance. Complex masterpieces line my walls and bookshelves, and in spite of my great esteem for the achingly lovely, it can be, on occasion, too much. A book such as The Happy Day by Ruth Krauss is like a lemon sherbet in a world of thickly iced chocolate cakes. It’s minimalist approach is just the thing for an overstimulated brain, and though it seems quaintly vintage in some respects, the sweet story and gentle illustrations make it timeless. It is still an extravagance, but it’s a whisper, not a shout.
