Category: Blog

Shaun Tan is one of those incredible picture book authors whom I can’t quite puzzle out just how they broke into mainstream publishing – but I’m eternally grateful that someone took a chance on this modern day master of surrealism. It’s commonly said that Maurice Sendak’s ‘Where the Wild Things Are’ probably wouldn’t get picked up by any publisher these days, but it’s nice to see artists like Shaun Tan bucking the trend in an industry mired in such identikit ‘meh’, that 90% of the product just makes me want to go back to bed and have a bowl of cornflakes.

My first encounter with his work was the often overlooked ‘The Rabbits’, written by James Marsden. Originating in and about Australia, but not overtly so, if the reader misses the subtle visual cues to the marsupial native animals or hasn’t heard of the rabbit-proof fence. This is a powerful indictment of colonial rule and empire-building. Tan’s art style turns what are usually cuddly balls of fluff into imposing figures, overrunning the landscape already overshadowed by their monolithic ships. This is partly a story of industrial and military might vs the natural world, and the minimal text is complemented by some heart breaking art and composition choices. Tan’s artwork inverts our perspective on the story, visual devices that can be seen as drafts for his later work, in particular ‘The Arrival’. It can be an uncomfortable book to read, especially when we realise that we – the readers – are the rabbits (or at least their descendants). The artwork puts a mirror up in front of us to show us how we look like to outsiders. Tan dissects and disassembles our clothing, our buildings and our technology into its component parts and bolts them back together in monstrous ways – we recognise our weapons, our animals and our cities, but now understand how they must have looked to the people whose land and lives we destroyed – alien and horrific.

Tan’s picture books share this theme – putting us in the place of someone lost or out of place. ‘The Lost Thing’ spells this out for us in it’s title. Inside, I wonder if it deliberately uses motifs established in The Rabbits – the walls around the beach keeping in the city that could be constructed from bits of household appliances. Honestly, I feel that there are a lot of mixed metaphors here, and based on his later work, it feels like a sketchbook, mapping out ideas for ‘The Red Tree’ or ‘The Arrival’. I feel that ‘The Lost Thing’ is occasionally a prisoner to it’s text, with the descriptions interrupting the visuals, and it’s noticeable that Tan’s later picture books reduce or abandon text altogether. On the other hand, ‘The Lost Thing’ would probably feel quite at home (no pun intended) in ‘Tales from Outer Suburbia’ with minimal artwork.

‘The Red Tree’ is another overlooked gem of a picture book, though admittedly a potentially difficult read and difficult to know who to recommend it to. It’s a far cry from conventional picture books that deal with feelings, and I feel that it needs an adult perspective to fully appreciate.

‘The Red Tree’ is about being lost, depressed, and seemingly alone in – as Tan puts it – a world without form or reason. Almost every page will be frighteningly familiar to its readers, being beautifully rendered metaphors or same reconstructed environments we live our daily lives in (like in The Rabbits, Tan throws our world back at us from the perspective of someone for whom its a badly fitting garment). Tan’s painting has evolved further, with richer colours and less reliance on line work. There’s a beautiful tactile quality to the pages, and a use of light that is impossible elsewhere in an industry seemingly obsessed with minimalism and the trappings of product design. It was no surprise to find that his roots were in theatre design. I’ve started to see this book as an illustrated poem rather than a picture book. The lack of text is deceptive and this really is one for older readers who are struggling with their place in the world.

‘The Arrival’ will likely remain as Tan’s most celebrated work, and quite rightly so. The ultra-detailed pencil work and stark realism of the characters is at odds with his previous (much of his later) work, though themes and ideas translate across. The story carries on the themes of being lost and displaced and alone in a place where everything is both familiar and strange. Tan abandons text altogether this time, allowing visual storytelling and metaphor to carry the story and exposition, and the realism of the artwork is stepped up accordingly, in particular in regards to the characters – these are real people inhabiting a world that is at once dreamlike and visceral. We meet our protagonist in his home country and his house in a familiar street that is at once anywhere and nowhere. Instead of clumsily describing his reasons for leaving and the danger he and his family faces, Tan simply draws sinister dragon-like tails weaving between the houses and lets us make our own interpretations.

As the story continues, lack of dialogue highlights the language barriers that our characters face, and emphasises the universal language of gestures, drawings, sharing of food and drink, music and simply cooperating over the rules of a game. The story moves from someone being alone and confused, to being about people being brought together. Every reader will translate Tan’s art in different ways, and in the classroom it’s a book for discussing, exploring, interpreting and reflecting that doesn’t restrict by pinning the themes of immigration and refugees onto a specific place or time.

Feel free to discuss these or other books by Shaun Tan – including any recommendations for use in the classroom. Other notable (and wonderful) books include ‘Tales from Outer Suburbia’, ‘Tales from the Inner City’, ‘Cicada’ and ‘Rules of Summer’.

Sandman Volume 1 : Preludes and Nocturnes

Or

“The start of a series that helped make Neil Gaiman a writing megastar”

Neil Gaiman’s ascendance to global writing superstar has been quite an organic process in a literary world that often seems characterised by overnight success stories, PR manufacturing, and the dominance of supermarket shelf-fillers. He really doesn’t fit any of those categories – instead, his position seems (to me at least) to be largely comprised of the rewards of years of hard work, and Sandman seems to be as good a place to start charting this journey.

Gaiman, these days, is quite a tricky writer to categorise, which could make him an unpopular proposition for publishers – he may sit within the fantasy genre, but I’m sure that authors envy him the luxury of being able to pick and choose audiences and subject matter seemingly at will. From YA roots (before YA really existed) to the adult market, the television, back to children’s fiction, to some wonderfully unconventional picture books, to riffing on the Jungle Book by including the undead, all the while continuing to write more weighty and ambitious novels for adults. But read his books and you actually realise that he’s keeping the same voice throughout. ‘Wolves in the Walls’ and ‘Coraline’ are Neil Gaiman doing his Neil Gaiman thing – they’re not talking down to children, they’re imparting the same themes and messages as ‘American Gods’, just without the horror, sex and violence.

The Sandman graphic novels were – I think most people would agree – Gaiman’s early break into the big-time, and we’re probably key to exactly how he’s been able to morph his way through every facet of the writing and publishing world. No one still really knows how to categorise comics (are they  for adults? Yes! Are they for kids? Yes!) Pitch anything to a book publisher and it MUST be attached to a specific age group (or perhaps to the modern genre of ‘coffee-table picture book for anyone’), but Neil Gaiman just writes, and it seemed that nobody in the publishing world knew exactly who he was writing for. But that’s cult followings for you. He wrote Sandman. Everyone read it. Jonathan Ross and Lenny Henry raved about it. It won awards. Word got around – “That Neil Gaiman’s a good writer. He writes odd stuff, but loads of people buy it.”

As an over-simplification, Sandman came about during an era in the late 80s and early 90s when American comics giants began poaching UK talent. Stale superheroes were revived by the likes of Alan Moore, Grant Morrison and Neil Gaiman who were able to give a new perspective on the genre. DC comics launched the ‘Vertigo’ line for mature readers, and ‘Sandman’ was born. Preludes and Nocturnes was an opening gambit for a longer series – the equivalent of a TV pilot. Neil wrote the 7 comics in the collection as a self-contained saga that deliberately tidied up after itself with no cliff hanger (should the series prove unpopular and be shelved) whilst leaving enough loose ends and openings should it be allowed to continue. Indeed, Neil knew exactly where the ‘epic’ Sandman would go (observant readers will notice that he gives away the punchline early on in ’24 hours’), and fortunately the opening comics proved popular enough to allow this to happen.

Sandman begins as a unconventional conventional horror comic. Past volume one it becomes a very unconventional horror comic, before evolving into a character-driven blend of fantasy, horror and Neil Gaiman, but to begin with it plays to some established rules whilst sneakily breaking them when it thinks no one’s looking too closely. Each chapter takes a sub-genre – classic English ghost story, contemporary English horror, classic American horror, etc, showing a versatility that would become Gaiman’s trademark, while also hinting at possible problems that would occur when translating to mediums like television – Gaiman notes in an interview how potential directors for ‘Neverwhere’ commented that the script jumped seemingly at random between genres and conventions, and perhaps television still isn’t the best place for Gaiman’s work, considering the choppy adaptations of ‘American Gods’ and ‘Good Omens’.

Volume 1 is very much the writer and artists finding their voices – penciller Sam Keith abandons the series before the end, but we also see Dave McKean’s partnership with Gaiman continue, with incredible cover designs that demonstrated at the time that this comic was something quite special. It’s not a series that plays it safe at all – from Dave breaking with convention by (gosh!) not featuring the title character on every front cover (yes, this was a big deal), to Neil’s horrific treatment of his characters in the chapter ’24 Horus’ – it still feels weighted down by the presence of characters from elsewhere in the DC comics universe, and although some imported characters feel at home in the Sandman Universe, Neil at least felt comfortable in jettisoning the superheroes by volume 2, to eventually be replaced by characters from different sources.

Novels like ‘Nancy Boys’ and ‘American Gods’ follow the trend that Neil adopted years back with Sandman of appropriating mythological and literary characters into his comics. He wasn’t the only writer to do this – the aforementioned Grant Morrison and Alan Moore are notorious for this practice, with Morrison incorporating pop-culture references into works such as ‘The Invisibles’ left right and centre, probably for the purposes of Chaos Magick, whilst Moore has famously subjected a large portion of the English literature back catalogue – from Prospero to Harry Potter –  to a quite remarkable catalogue of ‘experiences’ and abuses. Mike Mignola’s ‘Hellboy’ comics are a masterclass for anyone wanting to learn about obscure European myths and folklore.

Cultural appropriation is itself a thorny issue these days, and not one that I want to fully explore here. Gaiman, though, I would say is regarded as having a knack for treating characters with respect, and even though his version of Thor does little in his few short appearances but make rude jokes about VD and rubbing his hammer to make it bigger (mythologically correct fact, apparently), readers from Nordic countries apparently commented at the time how they preferred Gaiman’s comic book spin to Marvel’s. Gaiman eventually wrote his book of Norse myths, and it’s worth remembering that the groundwork was set out in these 90s horror comics. Sandman Volume 1, meanwhile, raids the Judeo-Christian back catalogue, and so we meet  Cain and Abel (Abel describing himself as “From the first story. The victim”), and Eve, all of whom remain in the series as secondary characters. Oh, and there’s series favourite Satan, of course.

Preludes and Nocturnes closes with the chapter ‘The Sound of her Wings’, a fan favourite, and the first chapter where Gaiman seems to feel comfortable enough to let his own creations flourish on their own. It introduces his version of Death – the polar opposite of Terry Pratchet’s grim reaper, but just as popular with readers, here portrayed as a chirpy goth girl who quotes Mary Poppins. This chapter encapsulates a lot of how I feel about the whole volume – it’s moody, messy and unpolished, but it’s a singular work by a storyteller who knows exactly where they’re taking their story and their characters. We’re shown a world and people who are familiar, but skewed in the most unusual way, forcing us to take in a new perspective. To an adult reader, this first Sandman book (and the final chapter especially) can seem a little like the moody outpourings of a teenager prone to overthinking things, but then I think that’s partly the point- Preludes and Nocturnes is one of those rite of passage comic books that’s essential reading for moody teenagers (young and old) everywhere.

Anyway, rambling over. This has been as much a blog about Neil Gaiman’s work as anything else – does his early writing still hold up today? And do these graphic novels still deserve a place in your YA collection?

 

 

 

Bali Rai: Now or Never; a Dunkirk story

This is a tough and moving story based on real events in the second world war.  It blends historical narrative with issues of racism, colonialism, and disillusionment about what people thought they were really fighting for, concerns that echo with us today.  Private Fazal Khan enlists so he can do his duty for the British Empire, and finds that his Indian regiment’s role is to act as muleteers and not as active soldiers.  When the war takes a desperate turn for the British army and they are forced to retreat towards the French coast, comradely values are abandoned and Fazal’s battalion is in danger of being deliberately left behind, just as the mules had been en route.  Battle scenes are vividly described as are the details of soldiers’ lives on the march.

 

It does make for a hard read I feel, with lengthy and shocking descriptions of bombings and strafing of civilians, all very realistic and chilling.  The sense of abandonment and cruelty is all too convincing.  I think this is less so for some of the conversations held in the heat of battle when Fazal and the nurse he befriends and other sympathetic characters apparently have time to philosophize about the situation and how they have been let down by their leaders, their ideals in shreds.  The plight of the poor mules is sensitively handled.

 

What do you think of the way the cruelty of war is depicted?  How do you discuss this with pupils and what do they make of it?

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For the first blog entry, since we are now in the short listing stage of the Tower Hamlets Book Award, I thought it worthwhile to consider one of the books, Running on Empty by S.E.Durrant.

This is an understated, every day story of a family told by the eleven year old son whose parents happen to have learning difficulties.  Things start to fall apart when the grandfather who keeps a close eye on them all sadly dies and leaves them bereft in more ways than one.  AJ has his hands full trying to keep his parents happy and on an even keel.  He’s also trying to fulfil his ambition of being the best runner ever despite problems with his (perceived) rival and bullying P.E. teacher.  Family relationships are at the forefront, especially the love and care shared with his parents, and his disarmingly sweet younger sister, contrasted with the troubles he has with a rather unsupportive uncle and an aunt, about to have a baby, who hasn’t yet spotted the slippery slope AJ and parents are on. The crisis at home builds, with the very real danger that the family may be forcibly split up if they’re not coping, but problems that seemed insoluble have a calm and pleasing resolution.  It’s told in the voice of AJ, chatty, informal, yet displays some real insight into why his behaviour is sometimes less than perfect without being over-explained.  It’s a good choice for a class book that looks at a variety of issues, and is still readable and accessible.

Please add your comments below. I’d love to hear what others think of it, and also to hear recommendations of anything similar.  I’d suggest The Boy in the Tower by Polly Ho-Yen, Joe All Alone by Joanna Nadin, Smart by Kim Slater.

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