Skip to main content

On Ezra Jack Keats

 A little sister is a major event, so there is a body of work specifically about "the big sibling acting out."


The big sibling can run away--as in "A Baby Sister for Frances." The big sibling can torment his sitter--as in Tomie dePaola's "The Baby Sister."

"Peter's Chair," a sequel to "The Snowy Day," has Peter in a rage, because his baby sister, Susie, is soaking up attention. Peter's high chair has been re-purposed; it's now pink. (The book comes from an earlier era, with some rigid ideas about gender. That's not to say that the ideas are now dead.)

Peter must shed his crib, his wall-paper; even a "toddler chair" seems to be on the verge of "going pink." Peter grabs it and throws a tantrum outside; it's only then that he discovers he no longer fits in the chair. Something seems to happen between the lines. Peter realizes he is a big boy; he can relinquish the chair. He can also play tricks; in a statement of independence, he stashes his shoes under a long curtain, then hides far away from the curtain, so his mother thinks she is dealing with the Invisible Man.

This book makes me believe that I'm reading about my own children; it's plausible, and it's not saccharine. It's just the truth. Also, it's a clear source of inspiration for Christian Robinson; both Keats and Robinson use collage, and they like to employ white newsprint (for carpets, or for snowflakes).

I wish Ezra Jack Keats were still around--but it's nice to think that his spirit lives on, in Robinson and in Kevin Henkes.

Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

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...
3 comments
Read more

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...
1 comment
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more