Tuesday, May 8, 2012

A World Without Sendak


Whenever a celebrity dies, there seems to be this tendency to aggrandize his or her accomplishments... even those artists who had long since fallen into obscurity. People seem to come out of the woodwork to proclaim the virtues of deceased. I've never really been one for that sort of thing... but today I find myself mourning the loss of a true giant. It is impossible, I think, to overstate the importance of the work of Maurice Sendak.

For many, many years, the technology of printing books made the idea of a children's picture book an artist's dream. Certainly, Tenniel's illustrations in Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass are among the most famous in all of children's literature. Denslow's illustrations for The Wonderful Wizard of Oz incorporated the use of color in new and interesting ways, but it wasn't until the twentieth century that publishers even had the ability to produce a “real” picture book. Children's books inherited a tradition of using illustrations to support text—and the idea that the illustrations could themselves serve a truly narrative function was one that developed slowly... but much more quickly after Sendak's groundbreaking work.


Those who have been following my blog (and my professional work) know that children's literature has long been the object of derision by literary critics and scholars. Children's picture books, with their simple storylines and basic vocabulary, had a difficult time winning over adult audiences—who tended to dismiss the entire enterprise as “kid's stuff.” The first chapter of Beverly Lyon Clark's Kiddie Lit: The Cultural Construction of Children's Literature in America contains an excellent discussion of the cultural prejudice against works of literature for children (and the prejudices faced by children in general). The fact of the matter remains, though, that early-twentieth century children's picture books did tend to lack narrative complexity, and the illustrations peppering the texts tended to be superfluous to (and not very integrated with) the storytelling.

Kudos should go to Dr. Seuss and “The Cat in the Hat” (1957) for refusing to talk down to children and giving them a narrative in which the words and illustrations were weighted equally... but even Seuss's work relies heavily on the lyrics to tell the story. It wasn't really until Sendak published “Where the Wild Things Are” in 1963 that the narrative art of the children's book was definitively established. (And, guess what? Adults still disliked it.)

The prose in “Where the Wild Things Are” is used incredibly sparingly. In fact, the whole tale is comprised of 338 words. Sendak used 338 words to craft one of the most enduring works of fiction in the English language! Sendak's diction is impeccable, wasting not single one of those words.

One is propelled through those words, though, by the pictures. Max puts on his wolf suit to make mischief “of one kind”...


and another.” Notice here, how (perhaps for the first time in all of children's literature) the picture is more (or at least as) central to the storytelling experience as the words. What kind of mischief does Max create? Sendak's economy of words forces the child to read the illustration in addition to the text. (The detailed and engaging pictures practically beg to be scrutinized in all their beautiful detail, anyway.)



We are sixteen pages into the book before we've gotten to the end of the second sentence. There is a tension built on each page as it ends mid-sentence. The reader is drawn deeper and deeper into the story, turning page after page, pulled into vivid illustration after illustration.

What is also fascinating is the interplay between text and illustration. When Max was in his room, we were able to see how the forest “grew-- and grew-- and grew.” 


 The words and pictures refer to one another in a way that had not been fully explored in a children's picture book before. A far cry from the traditional picture-to-help-the-reader-visualize-the-scene, Sendak's words and pictures mutually supported one another. The minimalism of the words, combined with the denseness of the drawings, created a new type of reading experience.



Moreover, the use of negative space in the illustrations also helps forge this experience. The first illustration, a small rectangle surrounded by the large white space of the paper, is replaced by a slightly larger rectangle and slightly less white space. As each page is turned, we experience more drawing and less empty space, being slowly pulled into Max's imagined world—the forest grows and grows, until eventually there is no space on the page for words at all. We have a multi-page wild rumpus—in which all of the narrative is presented through the pictures. Eventually, though, the pictures start getting smaller and smaller, until we are back inside Max's room.


In sum, Sendak's work in “Where the Wild Things Are” was the genesis of a new form of narrative art. The innovative use of picture and language demonstrated to a whole generation of picture book artists what could be done with the medium—how a sequence of pictures could be used, not to illustrate a story, but to tell one. This is something nobody (not Tenniel, not Denslow, nor even Seuss) had done before. For this reason, “Where the Wild Things Are” is, indisputably one of the most important works of literature (for children or adults) of the twentieth century.

The relationship between the illustrations and text was not the only way in which “Where the Wild Things Are” broke new ground. I attended a fascinating paper at this year's annual meeting of the Popular Culture Association (Ammanda Moore's “Stirring the Embers of Childhood: The Effects of Romanticism on the Children's Literature of Today”) that traced thread of 19th century romanticism from the poems of Wordsworth to those of Dr. Seuss. In fact, Romantic notions of the innocence of childhood have proven shockingly long-lasting. The concept of the perfect, innocent, even angelic, child pervades modern American culture—including and especially popular media (with the notable exception of the horror genre in which evil children are the rule, rather than the exception).
Sendak's work, however, never seemed to gel around this Romantic notion of childhood. Max, certainly, is not the image of innocence. He chases his dog, threateningly waving a fork. We get the sense that he wasn't exactly lying when he told his mother, “I'll eat you up!”  He becomes the king of the “wild” things. Darkness underlies much of Max's character—and this is a darkness that seems to resonate with the child readers. Not surprisingly, this was also a source of severe criticism of Sendak's work (by adults, of course).

I had a rough day with my youngest daughter today... It started out wonderfully, but as the day dragged on—and she grew more and more tired, she became an increasingly wild thing. So, we pulled out our well-loved copy of “Where the Wild Things Are” and had a bedtime story. It is a story that understands what it is actually like to be a child. It is a story that acknowledges that children create mischief, that they have dark thoughts and feelings, that they don't have the moral development to prevent themselves from acting on those impulses. It is a story that allows the child to fantasize about the logical conclusions of those feelings and work through them. Finally, it is a story that lets children know that their parents will always love them for the people they are, not the people we Romantically wish they were. My daughter learned that no matter what she does, there will always be dinner waiting for her when she's ready return to her loving home (and it'll still be hot)—or she would have learned that if she had been awake to hear the ending.

Maurice Sendak's death today hit me rather hard. Tonight's Sendak bedtime story was judiciously selected given the significance and the unique needs of the day. Last night's selection, “Bumble-Ardy” (another book fully aware of the darkness of childhood) was coincidental. After finishing it last night, I remember thinking, “I wonder what other amazing work Sendak has left in him.” As it turns out, we will now never know... and the world is a darker place for it.

I've concentrated in this post on “Where the Wild Things Are.” In part, this is because the work is his masterpiece. I could easily have lauded the importance of In the Night Kitchen (a prime example of adults simply not seeing Sendak's work through a child's eyes). Mickey's naked nighttime romp still lands the book on the most frequently banned books list (#24 over the last decade): http://www.ala.org/advocacy/banned/frequentlychallenged/challengedbydecade/2000_2009
Nearly fifty years after “Where the Wild Things Are” adults still just don't seem to get it... Also, the book's place in the history of comic books/graphic novels remains strikingly unexplored; I get this sense that some of the negative reception is (still!) a result of lingering prejudices against that medium. I would love to see more work on the book's role in legitimizing comics as an at form.

I could also have selected Outside Over There, the Little Bear books, or even Sendak's behind-the-scenes work with Sesame Street and the Children's Television Workshop. Sendak has enriched the lives of children in immeasurable ways—both directly and indirectly—and he will be missed.

A colleague of mine forwarded this link to a recent NPR interview with Sendak:
While most of this post has intellectualized my feelings about Mr. Sendak, I am covering up a great sense of loss. Sendak seemed prophetic about the end of his life and career:

"I have nothing now but praise for my life. I'm not unhappy. I cry a lot because I miss people. They die and I can't stop them. They leave me and I love them more. ... What I dread is the isolation. ... There are so many beautiful things in the world which I will have to leave when I die, but I'm ready, I'm ready, I'm ready."

It is bittersweet to know that you were ready, Mr. Sendak, but I wasn't ready. You died, and I couldn't stop you. I will miss you.

Thursday, March 22, 2012

Violence and Children’s Literature: The Case of The Hunger Games



I am a pacifist, and, as such, I am very sensitive to images of violence. This blog has heretofore been used exclusively to discuss issues surrounding L. Frank Baum and the Oz series. Baum, too, was highly sensitive to images of violence in children’s literature, on the one hand, lauding fairy tales for fostering imagination in children, but deriding them, on the other hand, for their (often graphic) depictions of violence. Reading the works of the Grimm brothers, one is struck by the overt discussions of bloody violence (Rapunzel’s beau being blinded by thorns in the eyes stands out in my mind). It was with this in mind that Baum wrote in the introduction to The Wonderful Wizard of Oz that his book would dispense “with all the horrible and blood-curdling incidents devised by their authors to point a fearsome moral to each tale.” Baum was, by and large, true to his vision of pleasing, relatively violence-free storytelling—the general scariness of the film version of the Wicked Witch aside.


Arguably, fairy tales were never initially intended to serve as children’s literature, but that doesn’t imply that children’s literature hasn’t (from its inception) been a violent literary landscape. The German tales of Shock-headed Peter (Der Struwwelpeter [1845]) were filled with harrowing punishments for children’s misbehavior. Even Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland is filled with jokes about the death of children: falling off houses, drowning in pools of their own tears, or being decapitated (“Off with her head!”). Watership Down is a violent little book. Without belaboring the point too much, nineteenth century children’s literature is frequently extremely violent.

This, of course, begs the question: how should we feel about exposing children to violent tales? Should we take the Baum approach? Or is there reason to believe that violence in children’s literature is acceptable (or perhaps even beneficial)?

In the wake of The Graveyard Book winning the Newbery Medal, Neil Gaiman appeared on The Colbert Report in which he had to address that very question. Gaiman’s book is a wonderful case-in-point. The book begins with the bloody murder of a toddler’s entire family and his escape to a nearby graveyard. I’ve included a link to the interview here, if you wish to see it for yourself, but Gaiman brings up exactly the same argument. The main conflict in The Tale of Peter Rabbit is Peter’s attempts to stay out of one of Mr. McGreggor’s meat pies. Even literature for very young children is replete with allusions to (if not descriptions of) many violent acts.

http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/221843/march-16-2009/neil-gaiman

I am currently working pretty heavily on finishing my book about horror films that take place in educational institutions. One of the central issues of the work concerns how school violence is depicted on film. I have been surprised (after having seen dozens and dozens of horror films) that despite the gory, bloody violence, they tend to be much more responsible in their depictions of violence than their action counterparts. The victims of the violence in horror films are terrified, their family and friends mourn for them; the horror film frequently focuses on the effects of violence in a way that action films simply don’t. For a vivid example, compare The Last House on the Left with Death Wish. Both films feature a man who pursues vigilante justice after his daughter is brutally attacked—but one glorifies the vigilantism and the other uses it to explore how that response causes a man to lose his humanity. In the end, The Last House on the Left is far more brutally violent and difficult to watch, but the points that the film makes about that violence create a far more valuable film than Death Wish (a film which I see as unabashedly counterproductive to any reasonable discussion of societal violence). The broader point I am trying to make with respect to children’s literature is a related one. I am not especially concerned with whether a text for children is violent, but how that text is violent.

I have a four-year old. We talk regularly about what are inappropriate forms of touching. Frequently, my wife will come into the room to see what all the screaming is about when my daughter and I are practicing how we would scream if someone touched us in our private areas. The easiest way to create a child who will become a victim of violence is not to talk about violence. In this respect, it is imperative that we expose children to violent literature.

It can’t be just any violent literature, though. I was a child of the 1980s. As such, I was exposed to more than my fair share of G.I. Joe Cartoons.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gc8mVs2H4Vc

The problem with most violent texts for children is that they don’t treat violence responsibly. They create false good/evil dichotomies and they depict the use of violence as acceptable, if your cause is just… and they don’t encourage anyone to question whether their cause is just. Whether it is the preponderance of comic book superhero tales, Mighty Morphin Power Rangers, G.I. Joe, etc., etc., our children are bombarded with exactly the sort of violent tale they should NOT be watching. In fact, our children would benefit much more from seeing disturbing images of violence. Popular children’s culture creates a climate in which violence is rarely, if ever, disturbing. But, the fact of the matter is, we should want our children to be disturbed by violent images. We shouldn’t be speaking out against texts for children that present violence as scary, dangerous, and detrimental, because that is exactly the attitude toward violence we should be hoping to create in our children. We should be speaking out against those texts for children that show violence without showing its ugly effects.

With this in mind, I am having a daddy-daughter date with my eleven-year old tomorrow. She and I read The Hunger Games together, and she and I are going to see the movie together. Judging from the books, this will be a film containing graphic depictions of violent acts against children, perpetrated by children. The thing is, Katniss is an unwilling participant in the violence. She carries the deaths of her friends around with her for the rest of her life. We see how his own violent past drove Haymitch to substance abuse and mental illness. Yes, the premise of the film, teenaged children being forced to fight to the death for television entertainment, is shocking. It should be shocking! If it weren’t shocking, that would be the problem, because then we wouldn’t be thinking about the violence or its effects at all. (Plus, it isn’t really any more shocking than 1954’s Lord of the Flies, so we’ve had a few years to get used to the idea that this might be appropriate material for young adults.)

I love L. Frank Baum’s stories. Oz is a safe fairyland in which not-so-dangerous adventures occur, odd and magical creatures are met, and everything turns out wonderfully in the end. I’m sure some of my pacifist attitudes were shaped by my childhood love of the books. More of them, however, were a result of that hollow feeling I get in the pit of my stomach when I see an image of violence against an innocent…

Katniss Everdeen is not a superhero. She is a normal, teenage girl who loves her family and would do anything for them. Her story demonstrates the kind of change that can result from one average girl having the courage to stand up for what it right. Tomorrow, I am taking my daughter to what will likely be a disturbingly violent film. I am doing it because I want her to become the type of person who believes in doing the right thing, speaking and acting out against violence whenever she sees it, and who will have the tools to fix the world that we adults broke.