From “Smoot, a Rebellious Shadow.”
From “George and His Shadow.”
Picture books about shadows, darkness and echoes are perennial and enduring. Still I was surprised to see that this fall, three attractive books about shadows are being published, and in all three, the shadows — in one way or another — become detached from the protagonists, showing their divergent and distinctive personalities. They are uniformly more playful, brave and clever than their human counterparts. I typically stay away from children’s books that dispatch moral instruction with a sense of authority, but as it turns out, when it comes to shadows, the impulse to impart wisdom is especially difficult to suppress. Shadows are proxies for the unconscious, repressed or unrealized side of the self. It’s not a bad thing to offer stories for children that foster confidence through introspection. It’s not a bad thing to encourage children to be more courageous. But as these three shadow stories show, a book can rise or fall on the strength of how it does those things.
In “Smoot, a Rebellious Shadow,” the tables are turned, and the story is told from the perspective of Smoot, the shadow. Smoot’s adventure begins with the words, “But shadows can dream and when they do, the dreams are filled with color.” Not unlike Pinocchio, Smoot desires a real life — a life filled with adventure and “colored freedom.” Colored freedom? And then, just like that — “pop,” we read — he becomes unstuck and embarks on a raucous adventure filled with bravery and bravado (just like a real boy).
The other shadows take note and remark, “If he can follow his dreams, we can too.” Smoot’s brief adventure — which, weirdly, happens against a Tuscan or Umbrian hilltop backdrop — has a positive influence on the entire world of shadowy figures. In the end, there is only one person who still needs Smoot’s help — the boy who cast the sooty shadow in the first place. He was watching all along. And now (spoiler alert) he wants to be more like Smoot.
As in his previous books like “Sidewalk Flowers” and “The White Cat and the Monk,” Sydney Smith’s illustrations have a sort of effortless freedom that belies the careful pacing and thoughtful page designs. There is one glorious, wordless spread where Smoot cuts across the gutter against a clamor of color. In the end, it’s the illustrations I admire most in this book.
I have been an admirer of Serge Bloch (“Reach for the Stars,” “Butterflies in My Stomach”) for a long time, and “George and His Shadow” didn’t let me down. For me, his offbeat artwork is reminiscent of the best French poster art from between the world wars — artists like Villemot or Savignac. If you ever wonder things like, Who would have thought that a puck of raw hamburger topped with a raw egg would be delicious? Well, Bloch might have!
From “George and His Shadow.”
Picture books about shadows, darkness and echoes are perennial and enduring. Still I was surprised to see that this fall, three attractive books about shadows are being published, and in all three, the shadows — in one way or another — become detached from the protagonists, showing their divergent and distinctive personalities. They are uniformly more playful, brave and clever than their human counterparts. I typically stay away from children’s books that dispatch moral instruction with a sense of authority, but as it turns out, when it comes to shadows, the impulse to impart wisdom is especially difficult to suppress. Shadows are proxies for the unconscious, repressed or unrealized side of the self. It’s not a bad thing to offer stories for children that foster confidence through introspection. It’s not a bad thing to encourage children to be more courageous. But as these three shadow stories show, a book can rise or fall on the strength of how it does those things.
In “Smoot, a Rebellious Shadow,” the tables are turned, and the story is told from the perspective of Smoot, the shadow. Smoot’s adventure begins with the words, “But shadows can dream and when they do, the dreams are filled with color.” Not unlike Pinocchio, Smoot desires a real life — a life filled with adventure and “colored freedom.” Colored freedom? And then, just like that — “pop,” we read — he becomes unstuck and embarks on a raucous adventure filled with bravery and bravado (just like a real boy).
The other shadows take note and remark, “If he can follow his dreams, we can too.” Smoot’s brief adventure — which, weirdly, happens against a Tuscan or Umbrian hilltop backdrop — has a positive influence on the entire world of shadowy figures. In the end, there is only one person who still needs Smoot’s help — the boy who cast the sooty shadow in the first place. He was watching all along. And now (spoiler alert) he wants to be more like Smoot.
As in his previous books like “Sidewalk Flowers” and “The White Cat and the Monk,” Sydney Smith’s illustrations have a sort of effortless freedom that belies the careful pacing and thoughtful page designs. There is one glorious, wordless spread where Smoot cuts across the gutter against a clamor of color. In the end, it’s the illustrations I admire most in this book.
I have been an admirer of Serge Bloch (“Reach for the Stars,” “Butterflies in My Stomach”) for a long time, and “George and His Shadow” didn’t let me down. For me, his offbeat artwork is reminiscent of the best French poster art from between the world wars — artists like Villemot or Savignac. If you ever wonder things like, Who would have thought that a puck of raw hamburger topped with a raw egg would be delicious? Well, Bloch might have!
From “Hortense and the Shadow.”
George, the book’s main character, lives a truly unremarkable life — a sort of shadow of what might have been. The book begins with, “It seemed like an ordinary day. A day just like any other.” The short, clipped words and sentences complement Bloch’s illustrative approach perfectly. It’s as though the writer, Davide Cali, wrote the book with Bloch in mind. (“He’ll want to draw a vacuum cleaner sucking up the shadow at some point, I suppose.”)
Here too, the protagonist’s castaway shadow — defying George at every turn — forces him out of his monotonous, humdrum routine. In the end, the shadow helps George to become more comfortable with who he is: some middle-aged French guy with Le Corbusier glasses and a green tartan fedora. Still, I’d really like to go over to his apartment sometime for Calvados and steak Tartare — and who knows what else?
Two sisters named Natalia and Lauren O’Hara are the makers of “Hortense and the Shadow,” a handsome debut picture book. According to a publicity note they wrote, they grew up in a “grim little town in the north of England” but are descended from both Austro-Hungarian nobility and Polish butchers — an ideal background for these self-professed admirers of Lemony Snicket, Hans Christian Andersen and Carson Ellis. (What about Edward Gorey?)
When we meet Hortense, she is angry and sad that her shadow follows her everywhere. What a pain. Perhaps her shadow is a metaphor for the fate of that annoying Austro-Hungarian nobility — always tagging along, unwanted and uninvited. So Hortense finds a way to lose her shadow.
That’s going great for her, until she is saved from a band of marauding nighttime bandits by none other than her decidedly braver shadow. Full of remorse, she exclaims, “Oh, shadow, I saw things all wrong. … What’s a page without ink, or a deer without spots, or a moon without night? You’re part of me, shadow. Please come back!” Does Hortense’s shadow return? You’ll have to buy the book to find out. It’s beautifully designed, with excellent production values, and if the story doesn’t quite live up to its formidable ambitions, it’s worth noting that they are admirably big indeed.
George, the book’s main character, lives a truly unremarkable life — a sort of shadow of what might have been. The book begins with, “It seemed like an ordinary day. A day just like any other.” The short, clipped words and sentences complement Bloch’s illustrative approach perfectly. It’s as though the writer, Davide Cali, wrote the book with Bloch in mind. (“He’ll want to draw a vacuum cleaner sucking up the shadow at some point, I suppose.”)
Here too, the protagonist’s castaway shadow — defying George at every turn — forces him out of his monotonous, humdrum routine. In the end, the shadow helps George to become more comfortable with who he is: some middle-aged French guy with Le Corbusier glasses and a green tartan fedora. Still, I’d really like to go over to his apartment sometime for Calvados and steak Tartare — and who knows what else?
Two sisters named Natalia and Lauren O’Hara are the makers of “Hortense and the Shadow,” a handsome debut picture book. According to a publicity note they wrote, they grew up in a “grim little town in the north of England” but are descended from both Austro-Hungarian nobility and Polish butchers — an ideal background for these self-professed admirers of Lemony Snicket, Hans Christian Andersen and Carson Ellis. (What about Edward Gorey?)
When we meet Hortense, she is angry and sad that her shadow follows her everywhere. What a pain. Perhaps her shadow is a metaphor for the fate of that annoying Austro-Hungarian nobility — always tagging along, unwanted and uninvited. So Hortense finds a way to lose her shadow.
That’s going great for her, until she is saved from a band of marauding nighttime bandits by none other than her decidedly braver shadow. Full of remorse, she exclaims, “Oh, shadow, I saw things all wrong. … What’s a page without ink, or a deer without spots, or a moon without night? You’re part of me, shadow. Please come back!” Does Hortense’s shadow return? You’ll have to buy the book to find out. It’s beautifully designed, with excellent production values, and if the story doesn’t quite live up to its formidable ambitions, it’s worth noting that they are admirably big indeed.
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