Picture Books are Banta-ful?

This week I have decided to do deviate from my normal booktalking style. I have noticed that my previous two booktalks have thus far been scholarly criticisms (one) and literary discussions (one also). With this reality in mind, I have decided that I will, instead, write something that is reflective and relatable, rather than critical and, as it were, judgmental. The work I have chosen for this experiment is a scholarly one, entitled “Reading pictures: Searching for excellence in picture books,” by G. J. Banta.
In essence, this article discusses how important it is for librarians, like ourselves, to become visually literate. Although this term may sound pedantic, this conceptually based term, according to Banta, is rife with meaning. In the beginning paragraphs of her article, Banta argues that being visually literature provides a librarian (or presumably, anyone else) with a series of ten advantages (p. 31). I do not intend to recreate the entire list; please consult the actual article if you’re interested. Two of these argued advantages, however, caught my eye. The first of these two advantages was: “Enjoy a book with a preliterate child.” The second: “Understand and respect the skills and career of an illustrator.”
The first of Banta’s argued advantages once again made me, much like I did last week, think back to my oversized undergraduate psychology class. While I wholeheartedly agree with Banta that an appreciation of the unspoken power of a visual image can stir subconscious feelings and memories, isn’t there something greater at work when one shares a picture book with a preliterate reader? In essence, how does one draw the line between viewing the book as an inculcation tool meant to stir its intended audience member to rise to their next stage of development and viewing a picturebook, or any book for that matter, as a form of leisure?
If that preceding question wasn’t ponderous enough, consider Banta’s second postulate about illustrations. Do I really have to respect every illustrator of a picturebook? Obviously, I don’t think Banta is suggesting all children’s book illustrators are modern day Da Vinci’s, but some of them, like the illustrator of the book “Swimsuit” as we all saw in class, deserve some serious criticism. I honestly thought that in that one illustration the child was dissolving and not waist-high in water!
What does all this pontificating mean? What I think I’m trying to say is that articles that strive to develop guidelines about creative entities often come across as being preachy and underdeveloped. To think, I was hoping not to be overtly critical this week. Oh well.

Banta, G. J. (2004). Reading pictures: Searching for excellence in picture books. Children and libraries. 2(3), 30-34.

Hoban’s Black and White: Not So Black and White After All

Unlike last week when I focused my attentions to a scholarly work about children’s literature, this week I would like to discuss a primary work from our course’s reading list: Hoban’s Black and White. At first there was nothing whatsoever about this wordless book that seemed to be of the remotest interest to me. As one of the previously used adjectives infers, it contains absolutely no text within its pages; in addition, the illustrations within it are completely devoid of colour making it seems stark and austere. This reality seems quite disappointing because one expects a children’s book to be captivating and delightful rather than reductionist.

After this rather derogatory line of thought, I reflected on my line of conclusion. I simply had assumed that a book which has a series of non-chromatic images was base and, consequently, of little value. Fortunately, my faint memories of past (in fact, distant past) psychology classes surfaced and I realized that my conclusions about Hoban’s wordless book were categorically incorrect.

Take, for example, the book’s choice of colour (or, perhaps more appropriately, tone). By using just these two colours (and colours that could not contrast more), one gets the impression that the reason behind this choice is something beyond simple aesthetics. An article by Pereverzeva & Teller (2004) reveals that Hoban’s choice is not only helpful from a child development standpoint, but also inspired. This aforesaid article, which is in fact from a neuroscience journal, argues that the visual acuity of an infant is only basic. As such, an infant is often unable to visually and mentally perceive colours observed in their natural environment.

What this seemingly unrelated scientific argument means in terms of Hoban’s work is both subtle and profound. The argued subtle aspect is that Hoban herself does not make any mention of this developmental accommodation at any point in her work: not even in a forward note for parents. Secondly, Hoban’s inclusion of these non-chromatic drawings is also profound because she is actively seeking to ensure that her target audience, that is, infant readers, can observe and absorb the material which is being presented.

Hoban’s level of child developmental sophistication does not end there. The illustrations themselves also belie their apparent meaning. For example, inside this book are paired images of a bib and cutlery and a butterfly and a maple leaf. Evidently, these images are not only physical manifestations of physical and natural objects, but also representations of an infants’ personal experience.

In the end, what I have learned from Toban’s work is that derogatory assumptions about children’s literature are often foolhardy and erroneous. Hoban has, in fact, broached both the world of literature and science through her use of scholarly insight: a learned and noble feat indeed.

Hoban, T. (1993). Black on White. New York: Greenwillow Books.

Pereverzeva, M., & Teller, D.Y. (2004). Infant color vision: Influence of surround chromaticity on spontaneous looking preferences. Visual Neuroscience, 21(3), 389-395.

Sutherland’s Children and books: Knowledge Deficit to Confusion

After giving Sutherland’s chapter on the history of children’s books a perusal, I discovered that my state of ignorance had been replaced with a sense of critical unease. Starting with her chapter’s introduction, I became aware of Sutherland’s tendency to make sweeping generalisations about her chosen subject that even I, a children’s literature novice, was able to detect. Take, for example, her comments about modern day graphic novels.

In her preamble, she states: “…comic books…outdo the penny thrillers in superficiality of characterization and plethora of action” (p. 41). While it may seem a trifle pedantic to single out Sutherland for her brief comment about this style of children’s literature, her critical and evaluative tone belies, at least in my opinion, one of the principal tenets of library etiquette: namely, a neutral outlook towards a client’s literary preference. In addition, my experience with modern graphic novels like Transmetropolitan or Bone has led me to discover that this genre is not only complex, but eminently praiseworthy.

In their work about Reader’s Advisory, Genreflecting, Herald and Wiegand (2006) note that libraries should try and develop an inclusive approach to collection development and, in essence, give the clients “what they want.” This type of approach is, presumably, used in most modern public libraries to increase circulation and customer satisfaction. Granted, it seems extreme to assume that Sutherland is intimating the opposite is true through just this one comment, but there are other examples of this, as it were, condescending attitude towards certain types of juvenile literature in this chapter.

A few pages later, in her discussion of chapbooks of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, she relates these books were: “[badly] written [and] crudely illustrated.” She does, however, also add that these books were also responsible for preserving aspects of literature that children themselves love (p. 44). She also has a tendency to promote some novels over others, like Collodi’s Pinocchio, which she deems to be an “…enduring classic” (p. 55). Whether one thinks this is a classic is not the issue (I personally think it is) but the absence of neutral language makes it seem that Sutherland is creating a children’s literature hierarchy.

The latter part of this statement, as the title of this blog entry implies, is where my personal confusion about the meaning of this chapter began. Seemingly, Sutherland often condemns some types of children’s literature, while praising others without a discernible rationale. My confusion was only heightened when I consulted her bibliography; she notes that she used a work by John Ashton as her source for chapbooks. With that said, it would have been constructive to include in-chapter citations and footnotes in order to distinguish between personal and scholarly opinion. This is a shame, because as an overview, Sutherland’s work (in spite of my tone) is thorough, but as a critical evaluation, it often seems harsh, inaccurate and confused.

Herald, Diana Tixier and Wayne A. Wiegand. 2006. Genreflecting: a guide to popular reading interests, 6^th ed. Westport, CT: Libraries Unlimited.

Sutherland, Zena. 1997. Chapter 3: History of Children's Books. In Children and books, 9th ed., 41-61. NY: Longman.