Or the Meretricious Merits of the Mists of Yesteryear
I practically had an epiphany the other day.
Or rather, I would have, except I was too busy watching my childhood flash before my eyes. (It was mercifully brief, but very vivid; so Mike Horvath, if you’re out there, I want back the green Dinky Toy truck that I lent you in second grade please.)
I was webtrawling in the waters of turn-of-the-century illustration and illustrators, and looking up work by Gustaf Tenggren, when, among the work of his that I knew – mostly European myth and legend in a style not far removed from the likes of Rackham, Dulac or Neilson – what should appear but “The Poky Little Puppy”.
“THE POKY LITTLE PUPPY”! I hollered, bringing the rest of the family running, “It’s the Puppy! Little! Poky!” I nearly had cardiac arrest. They just exchanged those knowing looks you see when a member of the family is going soft in the head but should not to be subjected to contrariety and went about their business.
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This was the first – and completely and otherwise utterly forgotten – children’s book I ever owned. And by Tenggren of all people. Born in 1896, Tenggren emigrated to the US in 1920, was snapped up by Disney in 1936, and instead of spending his best years illustrating grand Norse epics or Celtic myth, he produced a bevy of children’s books in a totally different and rather broader style, like the one or two that ended up in my hands. (I also had his “Little Black Sambo” and suddenly recalled “The Little Red Hen” and “The Little Red Caboose” by other illustrators. Looking at them now, I wonder if they didn’t pick titles from a set formula: diminutive-colour-character.) Admittedly, with over 2 billion copies of the Little Golden Age books published over a good half a century – including fifteen million Poky Puppies – there was little likelihood of NOT seeing them.
Now of course, all this is now bathed in the rose-tinted glow of nostalgia (AND available on amazon NEW and USED from $2.99 – decidely we live in an age where we can have our memories and buy them new and used too) but nonetheless, it also brought to mind Dick and Jane.
Dick and Jane likely explains away a few generations of illiterate North Americans. I distinctly remember arriving in school on the very first day, already secure in the knowledge I count count pretty far, and was able to read my Poky Little Puppy and his animal and caboose friends at very least.
That’s when we kids met Dick and Jane.
Here’s a sample:
Dick.
Look Dick. Look, look.
Oh, oh. Look, Dick.
Oh. oh. See Dick.
Come on, nobody talks like that. How the teacher ever kept a straight face and how we kids even paid any kind of attention is beyond me. Likely the educators didn’t want to tax our little brains overmuch; at any rate, they certainly did wonders for our attention spans. It’s a miracle a year or so of Dick and Jane didn’t leave us lobotomized. (I heartily recommend “On Learning to Read”, by the controversial and outspoken but occasionally sober and readable Bruno Bettelheim for an overview of the kind of material produced in the US and Canada, at least the English speaking part, in the 50’s and 60’s. It is a VERY sobering read, though those of use who were force-fed Dick & Jane and who had phonics scrapped will probably find it has too many big words…)
I was the last first-grade class to be handed Dick and Jane, subsequent years were fortunate enough to be given actual story and textbooks, with real grammar in proper sentences, and words over a syllable long…
Now of course even Dick and Jane (and their equally edulcorated pals Spot, Puff, Sally, Tim, Mother, Father) are shrouded in the rosy mists of yesteryear, as well as being available in collected volumes and likely in boxed sets (“Now Dick and Jane and all their pals are back with revised editions of these classic readers for a whole new generation of readers to enjoy!”). Nevertheless, they provide an unrelenting and critical mirror of their times.
While I do not subscribe to the “good old days” approach to the past, and disapprove of the soppy nostalgia with which we signpost even the most mediocre of memory’s lanes, I am convinced of the persistence of vision. While I have no desire to actually see copies of these books again, I am grateful nonetheless to all the illustrators, immortal or forgotten, meritorious or middling, who made pictures for the books that passed through my young hands. I am grateful for all the images, vapid or vibrant, bold or bland, that made up my childhood. And even more grateful for the certitude that they are in my head somewhere, whether happenstance will afford me glimpses of them or not.
That’s why I work hard. I want to make sure that there are as many images stored away in as many heads as I can reach. Images are like stories. They are the things we share, whether we remember them or not.
Isn’t that how it’s supposed to be? You can never go back, but sometimes the pictures catch up with you again.
SPECIAL THANKS
I’d like to thank Bud Plant, whose monthly catalogue helps me ceaselessly redefine “want” and “need” and is as trying for my wallet as it is rewarding for my library.
Very special thanks to Jim Vadeboncoeur, who sent me the jpeg of the Poky Little Puppy. Jim, when he isn’t helping illustrators with their childhoods, edits ImageS, the absolutely in-dis-pens-able publication for anyone who loves late 19th and early 20th century art and illustration. I order every new issue practically before the ink is even dry. Jim is also responsible for the Illustrators site (and for the excessive number of bookmarks I’ve ended up saving for all those biographies…)
ImageS is worth every penny you should IMMEDIATELY spend on buying ALL the available issues NOW.
(I believe the first two are sold out.)
CAUGHT TALKING IN CLASS
Every time I give an interview about something punctual involving publishing, I feel like I am talking out of turn. One never knows what to say that may pre-empt something top-secret the publishers are holding in reserve. Also, posting images, which is so terribly tempting while they are brand new, is always governed by publishing dates.
So, you can imagine my delight, when this interview, which I had TOTALLY forgotten I had given, was sent my way by Kristofer Bengtsson of Fantasy Flight Games. The Gothmog he mentions is now in the portfolio: before and after.
I even actually enjoyed re-reading it, although this begs the question WHY do I identify with Boromir, who makes such a resounding mess of things and comes to such a sorry end?
FLY ON THE WALL
fly on the wall an unnoticed observer of a particular situation. • [as adj. ] denoting a filmmaking technique whereby events are observed realistically with minimum interference rather than acted out under direction : a fly-on-the-wall documentary.
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In this particular case, the illustrator has gone off to get a fly-swatter…
