The Way Back » Home » Posts tagged 'children’s picture books'

  • Posted on April 20, 2021

The Rock from the Sky

The Rock from the Sky is loopy, seriously loopy, and it is Jon Klassen’s best book.    

With his usual, but elevated signature qualities – the desert dry humour, the entirely original and occasionally subversive storytelling, the shifty-eyed critters – The Rock from the Sky is the Apotheosis of Klassen.

A huge rock, perhaps an asteroid, figures into each of the five short but interrelated stories. Sometimes it acts as a prop, sometimes as a looming, ominous presence, and in one singular instance, a deliverer of salvation. A sense of doom permeates the book, but kid-level doom along similar lines as Wile. E. Coyote’s anvil of fate. As readers, we are delightfully in on all of the drama even if the characters are not. This is one of the many joys of The Rock from the Sky. 

And it’s not just The Rock the characters – a turtle, a weasel, and a snake – must contend with. There is also the alien – an eyeball on stilts that shoots death rays at flowers, resembles the tripods in H.G. Wells’ The War of the Worlds (with a nod to the symbolist art of Odilon Redon), and like The Rock, has an altogether unexplained provenance. All of Klassen’s books tend to have an otherworldly quality, but when you add an alien, you’ve got science fiction. It’s unexpected and laugh out loud funny. 

“What is it?”

Characters in Klassen’s books contemplate their predicaments. They ponder, sometimes over several pages. Movement is economical, words are sparse, senses are heightened but not frenetic, occupying a kind of slow world with spurts of weird, often existential drama. In The Rock from the Sky, a sense of community and the need for connection weaves gently through the book, albeit at Klassen’s familiar low-key vibe. Wanting to be heard gets several characters out of harm’s way. A negotiation, a little movement to the left or right, makes all the difference.  

The illustrations mirror this understated approach, although each page is quietly beautiful. Rendered digitally and in watercolour, there is much to love here, from the artful use of subdued and speckled earth tones (the ever-shifting skies are particularly impressive) to the simple, hilariously expressive characters, all of whom sport (yes!) hats and a set of eyeballs that somehow convey suspicion, alarm, and obliviousness in equal measure. The alien is its own kind of eyeball, wreaking havoc on the otherwise bucolic landscape.    

I purposely did not read any reviews of The Rock from the Sky, nor did I read it in the shop where I picked it up. Longer than his usual books, I wanted to savour the experience, and I was not disappointed. Like all of Klassen’s books, the apparent simplicity belies a very calculated design, both in words and art, but it never looks laboured. Particularly in his self-authored books, the illustrations do much of the storytelling, and this is true of The Rock from the Sky, which could easily be wordless. We know what the characters are thinking because of the precise placement of their pupils. There is nothing extraneous, even in the landscapes, which have just enough gorgeous detail to swoon over, including several flowers which fall victim to the rock and the alien, respectively. This still makes me laugh, even after multiple readings.   

“I like to sit and watch the sunset.”

I’ve loved all of Jon Klassen’s books, including those where he just illustrates the cover, like the beautiful Pax, by Sara Pennypacker and The Nest, by fellow Canadian Kenneth Oppel. The Rock from the Sky is my favourite because it is both more of the same, and an escalation. It’s funnier, stranger, and (impossibly) more lovely than his other books. It touches on fate and serendipity, but also the pleasures of silliness, imagination, and shared experiences. In Klassen’s world, life is always a little messy and unpredictable, but it is never dull.       

I won’t lie, I am ridiculously proud of the fact that one of the world’s best children’s picture book illustrators is Canadian, even if he now calls California home. Born in Winnipeg, Klassen is the 2013 winner of the Caldecott Medal in Illustration for This is Not My Hat (which also received the Kate Greenaway Medal), as well as two Caldecott Honors (for Sam and Dave Dig a Hole and Extra Yarn). In 2009, he received Canada’s highest honour, the Governor General’s Award for Cats’ Night Out, and in 2018, he was appointed a Member of the Order of Canada for his transformative contributions to children’s literature as an illustrator and author.

The Rock from the Sky is published by Candlewick Press, 2021. Note: I picked this up at The Prints and the Paper in Edmonton, Alberta. Please support local.   

Other Jon Klassen books reviewed in this blog:

House Held Up by Trees (written by Ted Kooser, Candlewick Press, 2011)

I Want My Hat Back (Candlewick Press, 2011) 

This is Not My Hat (Candlewick Press, 2012)

The Dark (written by Lemony Snicket, HarperCollins, 2013)

Sam and Dave Dig a Hole – mini-review (written by Mac Barnett, Candlewick Press, 2014)

  • Posted on August 25, 2019

Nobody Hugs a Cactus

Many years ago, a former boss gave everyone on her team a cactus just before the Christmas break. It was an unusually pointy gift, and my suspicion about its inherent symbolism was confirmed a year later, when we all received knock-off Swiss army knives. Stay away – I am prickly. The fact that we already knew this about her was not the point, no pun intended. For some reason, she wanted to give us tiny versions of herself. We got the message, and we obliged.

In Nobody Hugs a Cactus by Carter Goodrich, the main character – Hank, the aforementioned succulent, is indeed, very prickly, and boy oh boy he does not want anyone or anything to come near. He is content to sit in his window perch, alone, staring out into the “hot, dry, peaceful and quiet” desert landscape.  

Hank watches suspiciously as a parade of well-meaning critters of the animal, reptile, human and tumbleweed variety pass by, all of whom try to woo Hank out of his self-imposed isolation. They are rebuffed, one by one.  

It’s a cowboy, striding in on hilariously long legs, who first suggests to Hank that he might need a hug, but then adds, “Too bad nobody hugs a cactus.”

One gets the impression that Hank may not know what a hug is, but whatever it is, he doesn’t want it, and so he doubles down on his next insult to a skittering lizard. “Just in case you’re wondering, I don’t want a hug.” The lizard is only too happy to comply. “That’s good, because I don’t want to give you one.” The tables have now turned, and it’s the visitors who reject Hank. A little hurt by the lizard’s remark, he begrudgingly offers to hug an owl, who abruptly turns him down.

For the first time, Hank feels lonely.  

We don’t always know what we need, or we do and we fear asking for it. In choosing a cactus with all its barbs and pointy spines to convey vulnerability, Goodrich is suggesting that underneath even the strongest, most impenetrable armour, there is always something soft. Something that needs attention. Lucky for Hank, in a moment of distress – amusing to the reader but not so much for Hank – he is rescued, literally and figuratively, by Rosie, a cheerful tumbleweed.

The way he thanks his new friend, by growing a flower for her, is the reason I bought this book. This illustration is so hopeful, so beautiful, so full of heart. The posture of his arm, outstretched, with “the best flower he could grow” is Goodrich at his best. He is able to convey feeling without being cloying or manipulative. His illustrations often make me laugh – and one with a jackrabbit made me laugh out loud in the bookstore – but they also make me love. Deeply. When he unveils this flower, I love Hank. And readers will love Hank. He is trying, very, very hard to make a connection. In opening up to kindness, Hank himself becomes kind.

This is not the end of the story, but suffice to say, Hank is a changed cactus.

In Nobody Hugs a Cactus, Goodrich paints the desert background in golden watercolour washes, the details diffuse, focusing instead on the wild array of characters who populate the otherwise sparse landscape. Expression, posture, emotion – this is Goodrich territory. With a deft hand and an empathetic heart, he imbues his characters, even a small, ornery cactus, with such lovableness, it is impossible not to care. This succulent may be prickly, but as Goodrich knows, it’s all surface. Bring it in, Hank.

I have long been a fan of Carter Goodrich. My entry drug was his beautiful and often politically barbed covers for the New Yorker, but it’s his trilogy of books featuring two dogs, Mister Bud and Zorro, that made me fall in love with this two-time Society of Illustrators gold medal winning illustrator. No surprise, Goodrich is also a character designer for such films as Brave, Despicable Me and Ratatouille, for which won the International Animated Film Society’s Annie Award for character design.

Nobody Hugs a Cactus by Carter Goodrich. Published by Simon & Schuster, 2019.

Check out Carter Goodrich’s website here.

Read my review of Mister Bud Wears the Cone

Read my review of Zorro Gets an Outfit

Read my review of Say Hello to Zorro!

  • Posted on June 21, 2018

The Honeybee

I love bees.

I may have begun another bee book review this way, but the sentiment remains true. I love bees, and I love books about bees. The Honeybee by Kirsten Hall and Canadian illustrator Isabelle Arsenault would make me fall in love with bees even if – gasp – I hated bees. Instead, this joyous, beautiful book makes me fall in love all over again.

I didn’t start out that way. Like most, I feared bees, especially their array of stinger accessories, but the more trails I walked, the more flowers and gardens and fields I observed, the more my admiration grew for these tiny, gentle pollinators.

The Honeybee takes us on a journey through the life of a bee, and a bee colony, as pollen is collected and honey created. The story trajectory is familiar – we all kinda know what bees do – but in word and image, The Honeybee stands alone as a thing of absolute beauty. Kirsten Hall’s playful poetry tells the story simply and humourously, but with a kind of meandering lilt, as if the words are perched on the hum of a bee. Isabelle Arsenault continues her run of stunning picture books, finding new ways to visually charm, and at the same time, comfort, with a throw-back warmth reminiscent of classic children’s picture book fare.

As the story begins, the reader is invited over a hill to a field of wild flowers, where a bee makes her debut in a celebratory, double-page spread.

A BEE!

Yes, a bee, with an affable, smiling face and a pair of big friendly eyes. Perhaps not quite an accurate portrayal of Apis mellifera, but true to the jubilant spirit of the book. This bee is an absolute darling, buzzing and humming through the pages as she whirls around fields of wild flowers collecting pollen. Who better than Isabelle Arsenault to imagine this blossomed landscape? The three-time Governor General Award-winning illustrator makes yellow and black, and its variations, the dominant colours – a nod to the bees’ striped apparel. The pops of pink and blue in the flowers are all the more stunning against this honeyed backdrop.

Like a hive, every element – from Hall’s storytelling to Arsenault’s glorious illustrations, work in balanced harmony. The text, which has a lovely hand-drawn quality, uses a font designed by Arsenault, named Honeybee. This book lives and breathes…and buzzes…its subject matter.

The Honeybee does what most children’s books with a message fail to do. It charms, eliciting an appreciation in the reader not only for bees and the work they do, but for the natural environment that supports their livelihoods, and tangentially, ours. Author Kirsten Hall has a deft hand, lovingly and reverentially telling the story of the honeybee. In making us fall in love, we are much more apt to respond with love. As she states in the postscript: “I wrote this story for an important reason. The honeybee is one of our world’s most marvelous creatures. And sadly, it’s in danger. In writing this book, I was hoping you might grow a new appreciation for the honeybee – and that you’ll join me in caring about its future.” Mission accomplished.

Kirsten Hall is a former preschool and elementary school teacher who has authored more than a hundred learn-to-read stories for emergent readers. Today, she is the founder and owner of a boutique children’s book illustration and literary agency, Catbird Productions. Hall is the author of the picture books The Gold Leaf and The Jacket, which was a New York Times Notable Book of 2014. Follow her at: hallwayskirsten.tumblr.com

Isabelle Arsenault is one of Canada’s – and the world’s – best and most celebrated illustrators. She studied graphic design at Universite du Quebec a Montreal, and in 2004 illustrated her first children’s book, Le Coeur de Monsieur Gauguin, for which she received Canada’s highest artistic honour, the Governor General’s Literary Award for Illustration. Following this, she was a finalist on three other occasions for the GG’s: My Letter to the World, Once Upon a Northern Night, and Migrant, which was also among The New York Times 10 best illustrated books of 2011. In 2012, Arsenault received her second Governor General’s Award for Virginia Wolf, and in 2013, she received her third Governor General’s Award for the French edition of the graphic novelesque picture book, Jane, the Fox and Me (Jane, le renard et moi). See more of her work here: isabellearsenault.com

The Honeybee by Kirsten Hall, with illustrations by Isabelle Arsenault. Atheneum Books, 2018.

Other Isabelle Arsenault illustrated books reviewed in 32 Pages:

Once Upon a Northern Night by Jean Pendziwol

Migrant by Maxine Trottier

Jane, the Fox & Me by Fanny Britt (included in a roundup)

Other BEEautiful books reviewed in this blog: UnBEElievables by Douglas Florian (Beach Lane Books, 2012)

  • Posted on March 09, 2011

My Plant, My Pet

I have a fern that is about 15 years old. Maybe 20. It’s not particularly attractive, at least in comparison to my other plants, and because it is rarely moved, the plant is lopsided; lush on one side (the public side) and bald on the other. I’ve named it Sideshow Bob because it sprouts dreads like Krusty’s infamous sidekick on the Simpson’s, but unlike the cartoon character, my Sideshow Bob possesses few, if any, homicidal inclinations. I should have turfed this plant a long time ago, but I have grown rather fond of ol’ Bob. My point? Anything can engender love — including plants, and books about plants.

From the moment I first laid eyes on the dirt-trailing, long-snouted stump of green foliage walking across the cover of Plantpet, I was in love. Like Bertie, the solitary, never-out-of-his-slippers human with the Don King hair in Elise Primavera’s story of unexpected friendship, I could not resist the charm of this tiny sprout, abandoned in a cage amongst Bertie’s junk. But is it a plant, or a pet? And is there a name (or treatment) for this type of love?

Read More