Skip to main content

Constant Reader

 "Tim and Lucy Go to Sea" starts with a normal problem: What is a kid to do all day? We're in fantasy terrain, so our kid, Tim, has a bizarre answer: Buy a yacht!


Tim persuades his new friends--Lucy and Mr. Grimes--to provide the funding. (It's good to kill off the parents in a picture book, and this one wisely neglects to mention a strict mom and dad. Mr. Grimes is a kooky benefactor; he can see no issue with putting small children in charge of a large boat.)


A boat brings new treats: fun jerseys with the boat name ("Evangeline") printed across the front, tales from the grizzled cook. You can stare out at sea, or up at the sky, at a passing plane. You can row a little lifeboat on short "day-trip" excursions. But any adventure also involves challenges, and this one has potential mutineers and a crabby governess, and it's unclear if Tim will win a battle on either front. (Hint: Tim manages the mutineers, and he wins over the governess.)


One thing that distinguishes a classic picture book from other picture books is: detail. Ardizzone wants to make us remember the governess, so he shows us her scowling face, he calls her "Mrs. Smawley" (a name that seems to combine "Small" with "Bawl"). In my favorite spread, one corner shows Tim staring out at the vast sea, alive with colors and shapes. In another corner, very tiny and cramped, Mrs. Smawley fights sea sickness and frowns in her narrow bed. Form reinforces content: The prison of Smawley's existence is suggested by the tight, cramped scale of the drawing. Also, when the mutineers arrive on the boat, the entire page seems in danger of tipping over: The haywire moral situation is underlined by the "tilted stage" for the drawing.


Am I seeing things that aren't there? I doubt it. I look forward to more Ardizzone.


P.S. Shun-lien Bynum has a new book on Tuesday. It's been around a decade! The book is called "Likes." I'm intrigued.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

Joshie

  When I was growing up, a class birthday involved Hostess cupcakes. Often, the cupcakes would come in a shoebox, so you could taste a leathery residue (during the party). Times change. You can't bring a treat into a public school, in 2024, because heaven knows what kind of allergies might lurk, in unseen corners, in the classroom. But Joshua's teacher will allow: a dance party, a pajama day, or a guest reader. I chose to bring a story for Joshua's birthday (observed), but I didn't think through the role that anxiety might play in this interaction. We talk, in this house, quite a bit about anxiety; one game-changer, for J, has been a daily list of activities, so that he knows exactly what to expect. He gets a look of profound satisfaction when he sees the agenda; it doesn't really matter what the specific events happen to be. It's just about knowing, "I can anticipate X, Y, and Z." Joshua struggled with his celebration. He wore his nervousness on his f...

Josh at Five

 Joshie's project is "flexibility"; the goal is to see that a plan is just an idea, not a gospel, not a guarantee. This is difficult. Yesterday, we went to a restaurant--billed as "open," with unlocked doors--and the owner informed us of an "error in advertising." But Joshie couldn't accept the word "closed." He threw himself on the floor, then climbed on the furniture. I felt for the owner, until he nervously made a reference to "the glass windows." He imagined that my child might toss himself through a sealed window, like Mary Katherine Gallagher, or like Bruce Willis, in "Die Hard." Then--thank the Lord!--I was able to laugh. The thing that really has therapeutic value for Joshie is: a firetruck. If we are out in public, and he spots a parked truck, he wants to climb on each surface. He breathlessly alludes to the wheels, the door, the windows. If an actual fire station ("fire ocean," in Joshie's parla...