This year marks the 75th anniversary of the publication of Virginia Lee Burton’s classic picture book The Little House, the 1943 Caldecott Medal winner. To say that illustrator John Rocco is excited about his new picture book about Burton (1909-1968), her life and her work is an understatement.

Big Machines: The Story of Virginia Lee Burton, written by Sherri Duskey Rinker (author of Goodnight, Goodnight, Construction Site) and illustrated by Rocco, is a passion project, one he enthusiastically tells me about via phone.

The new book is focused on the “big machines” of Burton’s work that her two young sons loved the most: the locomotive in Choo Choo; Mary Anne from Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel; Katy, the tractor from Katy and the Big Snow; and the titular vehicle from Maybelle the Cable Car. This, Rocco explains, was Rinker’s smart way of encapsulating some of Burton’s best-known books. However, the Little House of Burton’s award-winning 1942 book—the story of a cottage that becomes surrounded by an encroaching, bustling city—is a part of Big Machines as well. Rocco sees Burton, known by friends and family as Jinnee, as a stand-in for the little house itself.

“How she felt about her life was the story of The Little House,” Rocco says. “When they first bought their home in Folly Cove, it was too close to the road. So, they picked it up and moved it back away from the road. They wanted to be more secluded. I think that was the genesis of the idea of The Little House.” If you look at the cover of The Little House, Rocco explains, the house is surrounded by daisies. In Big Machines, Rocco gives Jinnee a skirt with the same flowers. “She is the Little House!”

The Folly Cove that Rocco speaks of was Jinnee and her family’s rural home in Cape Ann on Massachusetts Bay. Here, in the early 20th century, Jinnee created her books, raised her sons, gardened, tended animals, hosted friends and taught art, design and block printing in a group called the Folly Cove Designers. Rinker lays it all out in Big Machines, describing Jinnee as “quite magical” as she works and plays at her seaside home.

Like many people, Rocco is taken by the creative powerhouse that Jinnee was. “Can you imagine her day-to-day life?” he asks. “She’s making books; she’s raising her kids; they’ve got sheep [and other] animals they’ve got to take care of; they’re doing all the daily in-and-out of life; and then she hosted all these parties. She was a dancer, and she was always making costumes and putting on performances. It was full tilt.”

Both Rocco and Rinker spent time with Jinnee’s children and their families, including her son, Aris, a sculptor who lives in Santa Barbara, California. “He had boxes and boxes of Jinnee’s work,” Rocco recalls. “Her sketchbooks, her drawings, the linoleum woodblocks with all the Folly Cove designs. Tons of stuff. I remember I was rifling through the boxes, as carefully as I could with all my excitement, and came across the book dummy for The Little House in something like a cardboard box. Sherri and I were both kind of freaking out, having a blast.”

Showing Aris the book dummy for Big Machines, with Rocco’s illustrations, was a similar thrill. “Aris was beside himself. . . . When I brought him some of the art, he said, ‘Man, it’s like Jinnee is right here in the room.’”

Rocco says he was given “total freedom” to explore what the illustrations would be. “It took me a while to find the sort of visual through-line,” he says. He was also given the option to reproduce Jinnee’s artwork in the book but was not interested. “This book is not a biography, so much as it is a celebration of her art, and so I was thinking we should celebrate it in a new way.”

Readers see Jinnee in constant motion in the book—much as she was in her life—and as a woman who made the world magical for her children. “I didn’t want to draw her sitting at a desk, making pictures with her two kids looking over her shoulder,” Rocco says. “I wanted her to move in space and show her gracefulness.”

Conscious of doing his best to represent her artwork while also trying to avoid merely copying it, Rocco kept his deep appreciation for her work at the center of his mind. “Where appropriate, I would emulate her style for the different books,” he says. “I laid out the text in the way that Jinnee always did, which was to really have it flow. That was always important to her. You can see from her early book dummies that every line of text was cut out in a separate little strip of paper, and she’d move them around, trying to get the right design.” Capturing her style while still making the artwork his own was “tricky, obviously, because she has a different style than me, but I was pretty pleased with the way it came out.”

Just as the little house—surrounded by all those big machines—comes to life, so does Jinnee, quite magically.

Julie Danielson features authors and illustrators at Seven Impossible Things Before Breakfast, a children’s literature blog.

This article was originally published in the September 2017 issue of BookPage. Download the entire issue for the Kindle or Nook.

Bestselling author Lisa Bevere has inspired millions of adult readers with books such as Without Rival and Lioness Arising. Her first picture book, Lizzy the Lioness, with illustrations by Kirsteen-Harris Jones, is the story of a playful lion cub who’s tired of being little. When Lizzy wanders away from the pride, she finds herself facing danger that she’s just not big enough to overcome. As Bevere makes very clear with this sweet story, being little is never a weakness, and sometimes asking for help is the bravest thing to do.

Why was this an important story to share with young readers?
We live in days fraught with confusion and peril. Our children have never been so inundated with conflicting messages and the demise of social boundaries. Our day demands bravery. I wanted children to know that they are never too young to have a voice and that there are times when the bravest things they can do is to ask for help.

Lizzy the Lioness was inspired by your own “Lizzy,” your granddaughter. You’ve said that strength and bravery are “particularly important” concepts to share with your granddaughter. Why?
I love Lizzy’s fierce innocence. She is strong and wants to do everything that her big brother and sister can do. I didn’t want to see this desire to put her at risk. I decided to fictionalize a story I’d read where a pride of lions rescued a little girl from her abductors in Ethiopia. I thought it would be fun to make Lizzy the littlest lion cub and create a fun story where being little wasn’t a detriment to being a hero.

This isn’t your first time using the metaphor of a lion to address the behavior of humans. Why do you return to these regal creatures?
Lions can’t help but inspire. . . . They are fierce and nurturing, free and yet intimately connected to their pride family group. In the wild plain of life, they know who they are, not to mention, they roar. I wanted this visual and relational connection made for the readers. Brave happens in the context of community where the voice of everyone is heard. I wanted to empower and validate this connection for children.

While Lizzy the Lioness has a great message for kids, there’s an author’s note at the end for parents, teachers and guardians, with conversation starters for talking to kids about asking for help. What do you think is the most difficult thing about talking with kids about this subject? And what is the best way to approach it?
I found that my boys wanted to unburden their soul as I was putting them to bed. I had hoped to make this release happen when I was wide awake and ready to be wise at 4 p.m. Bedtime was not my time of choice, so I felt that adding in tools that could make intentional conversations happen would be helpful when parents were tired and children were tender.

Also children follow what we model even more than what we say. Somewhere down the line adults have thought asking for help is a sign of weakness rather than a sign of strength. I wanted to sneak in the message to parents and mentors that it is courageous to ask for the help they need as well.

So often in children’s literature, the youngster at the heart of the book must navigate tough situations all alone. Why was it important to encourage kids to turn to the adults in their lives?
Whether we feel qualified or not, related adults (parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles and guardians) are their best guides, not peers. Our vulnerability and experience can go along way to teaching others from both our mistakes and successes. To that end, I want to create intentional conversations that located specific needs so the adults could equip the children with whatever they needed.

What do you love most about writing?
Writing gives me the ability to mark trails that others may follow.

What’s next for you?
For now I’m going to keep climbing the trail set before me.

This BookPage Icebreaker is sponsored by Macmillan Children’s.

Kathryn Otoshi is an award-winning author-illustrator, best known for her self-published books One, Zero and Two, and her co-authored book Beautiful Hands. Her new wordless picture book, Draw the Line, is a tale about two boys with a powerful message that sneaks up on readers.

First, the two boys draw separate lines, then discover their lines can combine into one. The line becomes a thread between them, something they can play with. But when one boy’s feelings get hurt, the line becomes a focus of their tension, and the two boys pull and pull until the line splits right down in the middle, in the book’s gutter, creating a literal rift. In happy moments, yellow swirls around the heads of the boys, who are depicted in black and white; in heated moments, purple boils, darker and darker. But there is a way to repair the pain between them, and it’s quite simple: One friend must reach out.

Cat: There’s so much I loved about this book. The color! The gutter! But before we get into all that, I want to talk about you a little bit. This is your first book with a major publishing house. Congratulations!

Kathryn: Thank you!

I’ve read that you change your artistic style to match each new story you write. I’d love to hear how you chose the style to fit Draw the Line’s concept, and how the book’s wordlessness ties into that.

Well, it was hard, to be honest with you. I wasn’t quite sure how to draw this book. I kept doing different sketches, and it was too loose and I had a little bit of the Goldilocks syndrome when I couldn’t get the line exactly right—which is funny because it’s called Draw the Line. I did illustrations over and over to make it look organic and fresh and spontaneous. It’s a hard thing to do.

Another thing about the illustrations, if you look closely at the boys—it was a fine line (I guess that’s a pun, but I didn’t mean to make it right then) to make the boys, especially the one with the black hair, to look like he could be white or Asian or Hispanic, and it’s hard to do that with a line. And then the other boy, he’s definitely mixed. He has light hair, and he could have a dark tan or he could just be a different skin color, certainly mixed. But it was much harder than I thought.

And then also, the black and white aspects of [the book] became very important. In the beginning, I had planned the whole book to be black and white, and then we’d negotiate the gray zones. But it was [my editor, Connie Hsu]—thank god for Connie—who said, “Could we add a splash of color?” . . . Suddenly I realized the color in the illustrations could represent emotions, because I didn’t have words.

Oh, absolutely, and the use of color as representing emotion is one of the first things the reader really gets.

Thank you!

I think this book requires multiple readings, at different levels—the first reading is like the color reading, where there are these moments of yellow joy, and the royal purple as anger, and how it all comes together in the end. That’s step one. The color experience.

I so appreciate you saying that!

And when it does start to get really purple and really angry, it almost crossed over to sound. It was like, so dark and so intense that you could almost hear the color. As silly as that is to say! But with the color, you can hear the boys screaming.

That is the biggest compliment I’ve gotten on this book. I’m so happy it crossed over to that for you. I do work in layers. [The book can be read by] different kids from all ages, from the very young, 3 or 4 years old, to older kids. . . . When Connie and I started talking, we treated [the colors] as cast members, going in states and going out and really becoming their own personalities. If you notice, too, the colors are complementary colors, in that they are opposites. Yellow and then sort of a blue-violet color, because we’re talking about the black and white of things.

There was one moment in particular when someone, maybe a lesser author-illustrator, could’ve been tempted to insert words. It’s early in the story, when the boys’ line goes from being a drawing to being something else—when they pick it up and start playing with it. In that moment, it goes from Harold and the Purple Crayon creativity to being something else. Someone might have felt like there was something to explain, that the line is like the boys’ very existence. But you let the color do that for you.

That moment when they pick up the line is exactly how you feel when you have a true connection with somebody. Suddenly you realize, “Hey, we have a connection.” And it’s like magic. And you pick it up, and that’s how it grows. And sometimes it’s very much about chemistry and relationship and how you interact with somebody . . . it’s kind of how I feel about you right now! It’s exciting.

But what if I start asking questions that are totally off, or I start pushing my own agenda in this interview? That’s like when the boys start to yank on this thread that they’ve created together, and it starts to split right in the middle, in the book’s gutter. At first there’s this push and pull across the gutter, and then it splits and becomes that chasm.

I do see the gutter as a way to either separate or [act as an obstacle to] negotiate—how do we find a way to cross over it? In my book One, when Red crosses over the gutter, it’s a very aggressive movement across the stage. I meant it to be that way. So it was really cool how the gutter is something that the chasm grows from.

At the point when the boys start to create that rift, everything in the scene starts to feel less possible. Before, they were playing on this dreamy, limitless salt-flat plain, and then as soon as it’s broken, their world starts to get small and limited. At that point, the reader starts to be more aware of the setting. Is that something that you were playing with?

The tricky part was to make [the line] a horizon line. I did want it to feel like a little bit amorphous, and at the same time, the hopelessness that you were referring to feels like, “How is this going resolve and come together?” This sounds funny because it looks so simple, but it was really hard to do. That line was a character to me and had to become so many different things. It was a 1-D line and then a 2-D line and then a 3-D line. That line as a character becomes a chasm and later it becomes a road. How much can I stretch your belief in this line and what it could do? And that’s what I wanted the reader to experience as well as, what can we negotiate and work out with this line? And can it become something bigger?

When it becomes the horizon line, it becomes our thread of hope. And when the first boy walks away, it feels like it’s all over, when in fact he’s reaching out, even though he is the one who was hurt first. He starts to build the road. Which is a moment of great humility, and then the boys get on their knees, get dirty and start doing the difficult work of rebuilding.

We all want validation, but what I wanted to project subtly was that it’s not about the right or the wrong but how we come together and how we unite. We don’t reach out from the farthest points of the chasm. Here’s what you need to do: Go to the point. Take that journey inside yourself to what happened, where the rift started. Take a look at it . . . and if it is something you want to resolve, then you start looking at where our common ground is. Where our edges connect—literally. Where it’s closest and where the reset could happen.

When the boy reaches out close to where the rift started, he is able to bridge the gap. I had to do that with my parents, who I had a disagreement with. I didn’t want to go home for Thanksgiving at the time because I was upset . . . for different reasons. But I was working on Draw the Line at the time, and I’m like, I have to go home because I’m writing this book.

So I went home, and [at the time] with the elections, there were so many things going on with [so many] families. My parents were interned in the camps during World War II. I was projecting my own feelings on that, but ultimately I made the decision to go home, and instead of talking about what I didn’t understand, I talked to them about being interned in the camps during World War II, and what did that feel like? And talking about the strength they had, feeling the bigotry, signs [saying] “Japs go home.” And I was able to have a very meaningful conversation with them. And then eventually [I was able to] bring it over to current events. Very lightly. I [found] common ground in a different way.

Oh wow, you made me cry.

It’s not that we’re always right—but who is the person that has not the bigger vision, but the solution or can see beyond the confines of the box? And it’s the person—could be you—who has the greater vision on how to unite that has to reach out.

One thing that I wanted to mention that influenced me was a TV program I saw about how people think. For example, the name of a person or some subject matter . . . is like a button that goes straight to a hot plate in your head. The word goes into your head, and there’s a roaring flame to your nerve endings from point A to B. It’s just that that word always makes you angry. And in your head, you start losing your ability to think otherwise. It’s almost like nerve endings die off, and pretty soon the term narrow-minded really applies. We’ll say, “Oh, they’re so closed” or “close-minded,” but truly that’s the only pathway that’s been forged. That’s why I love reading and books and people who love to read, because it develops critical thinking, and you’re able to think beyond just that one path.

Do you plan on visiting schools for Draw the Line?

Yes! Absolutely. I’m doing a lot of different school visits. I can just see school visits being so playful for this book. I usually divide up the audience so that there’s an aisle, so that I can make it more interactive and talk with them as I’m speaking. It’s boring to watch someone behind a podium. . . . [I want to] find a way to experience the divide and have the kids come together. . . . Basically the point is crossing over that line and realizing you always have something in common with somebody else. And maybe have [kids] physically embody that, that feeling of commonality.

Illustrations © Kathryn Otoshi

Caldecott Medal winner Allen Say’s Silent Days, Silent Dreams is “an imagined biography” of deaf, autistic and dyslexic artist James Castle, but more importantly, it’s a tremendous and haunting tribute to a great artist by a great artist. Say shares a look behind the creative process and his hopes for the book.

There’s a lot to love about James Castle’s art. What do you admire the most about it?
I admire the directness of James Castle’s art, which reminds me of Zenga—the style of painting in Zen. He drew what he saw without thinking in the abstract medium of language that turns paintings into ideas called “isms.” Castle bypassed the ism-stage because he had no language: He couldn’t hear or speak or read, and he was also autistic and dyslexic. Ironically, his misfortunes nurtured him into one of the most original American artists of any period. His pictures come straight from the heart, and they are very moving.

It’s clear that you felt compelled to make this book and tell Castle's story. What started as a portrait of Castle as a favor you owed a friend became this book. Did you respond to previous projects with that kind of driving passion, or did this top them all for you?
Starting a new book is always exciting and scary. In this one, there was more scare than excitement: The little grove I wandered into turned out to be an endless forest. It was a kind of calling for me: I had to find out how a child without hearing or speech—and possibly autistic and dyslexic—had managed to teach himself to draw and succeeded in producing a vast body of artwork from reclaimed wastepaper trash bins. But I had no idea how to start the project. It’s not the kind of a book for which I could write an outline and lay it out in thumbnail drawings. Freelancing was the only way: I didn't have the nerve to ask for a contract for a book that was a confused mass of ideas and images. I went for broke, and did go broke, and finally asked my editor, Arthur A. Levine, for a contract. He was most understanding.

Why, in particular, did you decide to tell the story from the point of view of the nephew?
As the loosely connected story emerged through the drawings that were spread out on the floor, there were always gaps that needed filling. In those gaps I often put in drawings in my style as asides, to let the readers know that they were reading a story told by a third party—a kind of digressive pauses, or varied spatial experience, as though going from a small room into a hallway, then into a large room. It seemed to me that the text needed a particular person or personality to reflect this third party. The brilliant idea of choosing Castle’s nephew, who had known James all his life and was instrumental in bringing his work the attention of the public, came from Arthur. Let me go public here: Thank you, Arturo-kun!

You mention in the book’s author’s note about using some of the materials Castle did (sticks, soot, spit, etc.) to recreate his art, as well as drawing with your nondominant hand. What was that like? Did you go through tons of drafts for those pieces?
Castle managed to teach himself to draw with most primitive drawing materials such as soot, spit, burnt matchsticks, liquid laundry bluing, on bits of trash paper he collected around the family farm. I thought about him for a month, and remembered my own childhood when I had drawn in secrecy, hiding from my father. Drawing with my left hand reverted me to a 5-year-old boy who drew with total concentration; it was a kind of meditation in these dreadful times. I drew helter-skelter in many sketchbooks, and since I draw best when I’m not thinking (bypassing the word-processing stage), I cut out the sketches that turned out well and used them directly in the book. Though I did hundreds of drawings that didn’t make the cut, James Castle had a liberating influence on my work.

You also mention in the author’s note what incredible range Castle had and that, for this book, you decided to concentrate on his drawings. Is there maybe another book in you that focuses on some of his other mediums? Or are you done telling his story?
This book begins with Castle’s birth and ends with his death, which puts it in the biography genre. But my intent was to try to see the world through Castle’s eyes and try to portray an artist who knew no language, who did all his thinking in pictures. It’s an imagined biography of a person who was entirely entrapped inside a silent body, to which art gave a peephole out into the world. With this book I want to invite my readers to imagine what James Castle endured and created works with humblest of materials that speak to us today. And I hope I’ve accomplished that!

What’s next for you?
I’ve been working on a simple experimental work that’s getting more complicated every day. It’s hard to be simple—as Zen practitioners know but will not say. James Castle just did it.

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read our review of Silent Days, Silent Dreams.

Julie Danielson features authors and illustrators at Seven Impossible Things Before Breakfast, a children’s literature blog.

There’s a monster in Pulitzer Prize-winning novelist Junot Díaz’s first children’s book. It seems that no one wants to talk about it, especially not with Lola, the little girl at the heart of Islandborn. After all, how do you talk to children about the most horrifying part of your country’s history?

With his story collections (Drown, This Is How You Lose Her) and award-winning novel (The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao), Díaz captured the biting, funny and city-wise voices of young Dominicans and Dominican-Americans, often returning to the same characters again and again. But 20 years ago, Díaz’s goddaughters demanded a story that represented someone like themselves—Dominican girls living in New York. It was an intimidating request, but Díaz fulfills that promise with Islandborn, which is about a tenacious little girl who learns about her heritage through the collective memory of friends and family.

“Children’s books present [a difficult task to] writers,” Díaz says, “which is to remember how fiercely you loved the books that you loved when you were young. To produce something that could create the possibility of that fierce attachment was a tremendous challenge.”

Illustration © 2018 Leo Espinosa. Reproduced by permission of the publisher, Penguin Young Readers.

Díaz is speaking from his home in Cambridge, Massachusetts, shortly after a major snowstorm had dragged the East Coast. In the middle of winter, reading Islandborn is like stepping into the sun after weeks of 4:30 p.m. sunsets—it is warming and wakening in a whole new way.

Lola lives in Washington Heights, New York, but she comes from the Dominican Republic, or “the Island.” When her teacher asks her diverse class to draw a picture of “your first country,” Lola is at a loss. She remembers nothing of her birthplace—but the people in her neighborhood do. Her cousin Leticia talks about bats “as big as blankets,” while others gush about the music, the mangoes, the rainbow-colored people.

Island imagery soon saturates Lola’s city world. Leo Espinosa’s digital mixed-media illustrations, in 1950s and ’60s retro style, are rendered in the brightest possible hues, palm fronds teeming from nearly everywhere. “I knew I wanted someone who had a Caribbean background,” Díaz says of Espinosa, who is from Bogotá, Colombia, “who would be able to understand the kind of joyful frenzy out of which I come.”

After hearing so many magical things about the Island, only one man, old Mr. Mir, tells Lola something different: “[E]ven the most beautiful places can attract a monster,” he says. A double-page spread reveals a huge, batlike beast rising from the ocean, bending palm trees beneath its wrath and scattering islanders in fear. The Monster is a terrifying embodiment of Rafael Trujillo, the Dominican dictator who orchestrated the 1937 Haitian massacre. The Monster reigned for 30 years, Mr. Mir says, until “Heroes rose up” to defeat it.

Understandably, the Monster was subject to intense scrutiny during the book’s production. But ultimately, “No matter what parents do . . . being a child is frankly a terrifying proposition,” Díaz says, echoing Maurice Sendak. “There’s nothing about monstrosities—and certainly Trujillo, he is a monstrosity—that is alien to a child.”

By the story’s end, Lola has learned about the Island’s good and bad, darkness and joy, and she is able to complete her assignment, which turns out to be the book we’re reading. In the same way that Lola is entrusted with the realities of her history, Islandborn trusts its young readership with the complicated emotions that come with reflection and memory. This trust—along with the text’s longer length—makes Islandborn perfect for reading aloud. What better way to experience a book about collective memory than by making it a collective reading experience?

“Reading, when we’re adults, is a solitary enterprise,” Díaz says. “This is not true of how we evolve as readers. We begin [by] reading collectively . . . with a parent or with a teacher. In my mind I couldn’t resist the fact that Lola’s journey not only models what it takes to face any large problem . . . but also what it takes to face the tremendous challenge that is reading, which is a collective [process]. So the fact that the book both models and invites the practice of collectivity was certainly no accident.”

Although her family and neighbors help, Lola finds a place within her community all by herself. She tells her class, “Even if I’d never set foot on the Island it doesn’t matter: The Island is me.” (Fortunately, Lola will go to the Island in the sequel.)

“It was one of the great liberations of my life when I discovered that it’s not other people who grant you [permission] to belong to a community. This is something that you grant yourself,” Díaz says. “Lola’s clearly immersed in her community in ways that are vital and generative, and yet, she never felt a full part of it. And I think the realization that there’s no metric that you have to achieve, there’s no set of criteria that you have to meet, but that in you, there’s a recognition of your place in the community—that, more or less, is what matters.”

This article was originally published in the March 2018 issue of BookPage. Download the entire issue for the Kindle or Nook.

Author photo by Nina Subin.

Eric and Terry Fan, who co-illustrate as the Fan Brothers, both live in Toronto, but it wasn’t until they were awarded the illustrious Sendak Fellowship last year that they first shared a studio space.

Over four weeks at Scotch Hill Farm in upstate New York, once owned by beloved children’s author and illustrator Maurice Sendak, the Fans dug into illustrating their newest book, Ocean Meets Sky, their fourth collaboration.

“We had started the book and completed the dummy,” Eric says via phone, “but I think we turned a corner at the Sendak Fellowship.” Terry agrees, adding that it was there that the book started taking shape and going in the direction they’d always envisioned. “The fellowship was pretty inspiring,” says Eric. “I don’t actually have a studio. I work from my home computer, so it was nice having that space—and the inspiring atmosphere.”

Ocean Meets Sky begins with young Finn, who is staring out the bedroom window of his seaside home. A framed photograph of his grandfather and a toy boat adorn the windowsill. Finn recalls memories of his deceased grandfather—his voice and his stories about a “place far away where ocean meets sky.” As a way of honoring him, Finn builds a boat, one just right for the journey he had planned to take with his grandfather.

Because building a boat is tiresome work, Finn falls asleep and wakes to discover his journey has already begun. Adrift in the ocean, he takes in the fantastical creatures formed in the clouds; he meets a “great golden fish” who promises to lead Finn to where the ocean meets sky; he visits the Library Islands with “bookish birds . . . roosting”; and he explores an island of giant shells. His odyssey has a few surreal moments, including a Cyclops-like creature that guards the Library Islands. “I remember, as a kid, reading books that were a little bit scary,” says Eric, “and that other level made [the stories] more thrilling.”

When Finn reaches the place he suspects may be the location of his grandfather’s tales, his boat lifts from the water. A surprise waits for Finn as he flies toward the moon, and he is reminded that his grandfather, though physically gone from this world, is never far away.

In many ways, Ocean Meets Sky is a tribute to the tradition of oral storytelling, in particular to the stories told by the Fans’ Taiwanese grandfather, who lived on the other side of the world and didn’t frequently visit (both Eric and Terry were born in the U.S. but moved to Canada as children). “Both of our grandparents used to tell so many stories to our dad,” Terry says, “and I think that [tradition] passed on to him. He used to tell us a lot of stories.” Eric agrees: “The storytelling aspect is a sort of merging of our dad and our grandfather. It is a way of honoring Chinese culture, [in which] relatives and family are so important.”

Eric and Terry also had fairy tales in mind when penning Ocean Meets Sky, and the rhythm of the writing evokes that spirit. (The book’s opening proclaims, “Finn lived by the sea, and the sea lived by him,” and the great golden fish describes the place where ocean meets sky as “high and low, and as deep as the sea.”) But Ocean Meets Sky also pulls from folktales in the way that readers experience the story itself.

From Ocean Meets Sky by Terry and Eric Fan. Reproduced by permission of Simon & Schuster.

Eric explains: “The reader is looking at it from Finn’s perspective. But as a writer, you’re almost looking at it from the grandfather’s perspective. It’s about what you’re going to leave behind. The place where ocean meets sky is the narrative world that writers create. Finn is the reader. You’re thinking about how, after you’re gone, these are the worlds you’re leaving behind for people.”

Like all of Terry and Eric’s previously published books, Ocean Meets Sky was a truly collaborative effort. “We both do the writing and the illustrating,” Eric says. “Sometimes we work on the same illustration. . . . We’ll each do different parts, and then we bring it together in Photoshop. Usually, we’re separated, but since this book coincided with the fellowship, I think that helped with communication because every day we were in the same space.”

They have traditionally created their illustrations with a mix of graphite and Photoshop drawings, but for Ocean Meets Sky, they experimented with some entirely digital images. “We did this out of necessity,” Terry says. “There wasn’t the greatest internet connection [at the fellowship], so it was hard to scan original artwork.” Though the beautiful, final illustrations are a blend of mediums, both Eric and Terry prefer traditional pencil drawings. “There’s something about it that you just can’t quite re-create,” Terry says.

There’s no doubt that the brothers enjoy collaborating. In fact, they’ll soon be adding their youngest brother, Devon, to the mix for a project they will publish with Tundra Books sometime in the next couple of years. “That will be a first,” says Eric, “to get three people together. That will be an interesting process.”

But for now, you can find the Fan Brothers surrounded by gently rocking boats and golden fish, in a place where stories matter and the ocean meets the sky.

This article was originally published in the May 2018 issue of BookPage. Download the entire issue for the Kindle or Nook.

Author photo © Eric and Terry Fan.

 This BookPage Icebreaker is sponsored by Macmillan Children’s.

A bustling city is inhabited by primary-colored residents whose hearts are changed when they discover the beauty of a more complex world in author-illustrator Arree Chung’s timely picture book, Mixed: A Colorful Story. When the Reds decide that they think they are the best color, they start shouting in the street. The color harmony is shattered, and the city is segregated into red, blue and yellow. But when a Yellow and a Blue fall in love and create a never-before-seen color, hearts and minds are opened.  

Although Chung began work on this picture book years ago, it seems that Mixed—with its message of love that’s sure to inspire readers of all ages—is being published at the perfect time in America.

Hilli: The first thing I noticed—aside from the gorgeous endpapers—was that Mixed is a pretty different story compared to your silly Ninja! series. What inspired you to begin working on this book, which is more of a message-driven story?

Arree: Well you know, I have ideas that come to me all the time. I remember when this idea came to me I thought, wow that is a really neat idea that has probably been done already. But I feel like ideas are like having kids. They just come to you. But the concept was pretty clear to me early on. I feel like as a creative person, it’s never the problem of having ideas, it’s the problem of choosing which one and narrowing it down and working on it for a long time. I was just really passionate about this idea because I thought it was important. I started working on this five or six years ago before everything that’s happening right now. I had no idea it would be coming out at this time which is, I feel like, the perfect time. There are so many other stories I want to tell. Some are silly and some are not, but I feel like I’m growing as a storyteller. It took me two and a half years to find the essence of Mixed.

Using color theory to personify the beauty of diversity is such a lovely concept. Was this inspired by your time in art school a little later in life?

Yes, definitely! I love drawing, storytelling and symbolism, and the more I worked on this idea I just found so many analogies that worked so well in terms of color theory: the way that colors look different with each other and feel different with each other and had so many different personalities. I think the most poignant point was thinking about the message—as the world mixes in culture, we create new colors. They’re their own color. It opens a lot of interesting conversations with kids.

Did any particular artists or illustrators influence your work? I think the art here has a really cool classic feel—I love the contrast of the black and white city with the colorful inhabitants.

I always think that stories drive every single visual decision. Everything you do in making a book that’s visual should serve the story. Mr. Men [a series by Roger Hargreaves] was obviously an influence, but it was also a challenge because I didn’t want it to look like Mr. Men at all, but I love how it’s so simple and kind of quirky. It’s something that kids can draw really easily. And then there’s an artist named Brian Biggs and he does Tinyville Town. I really like his lines and how thick and broken they are. My linework is a little different, but I really love the way he draws buildings and the graphicness of it. I think the last person I really looked at a lot was Christian Robinson because he just does great naive art. It feels so honest to a kids experience. So I kind of meshed them all together and made my own thing.

I think you did such a nice job breaking down a heavy story about discrimination for such a young reader. You wrap up this huge concept in such a small number of pages. It feels almost effortless!

If I make it look easy than I did my job! The story is always the hard part. Stories can go a million different ways and you’re thinking so deeply about what it means and trying to get the tone right, so it was not easy. I teach classes about storytelling, and one thing I teach is that you want to try to simplify your story to that simple truth or simple feeling, the experience that every kid has or a simple truth in life.

The simple truth that I simplified it down to is: Kids bring people together. There are two different sides of family who oftentimes may have discrimination or feelings, oftentimes kids will bring them together. Kids don’t see race, they don’t have those extra implications at a young age. It was hard. I was lost for a lot of time but just simplifying it down to that moment where green is born and she’s new and no one’s ever seen her before. That unlocked the story and that’s what brings everyone together.

I was lost at so many other themes about preserving culture. There are lots of other things I’m pretty confused about that are for another book, I’m trying to come up with a sequel.

I would love a sequel!

It’s called Mixed Up, and it picks up right after we left off in the last book where the city wasn’t perfect, but it was home, which is where we are as a society. I think it’s along the lines of figuring out our feelings about culture. There are folks that are older and are afraid of losing Chinese culture or African culture or America, whatever that means. So they’re a little mixed up. They want to be forward thinking but they also want to find that line.

How did you approach this story as a first-generation Chinese American?

I think I actually wrote it more for my nieces. They’re mixed and I thought about them a lot. I’m pretty close to their family. I thought more about my nieces and my friends who have mixed kids than my own personal experiences. Definitely what’s going on in the world influenced the illustrations a lot more in terms of segregation and the protests that we see so much now with each side thinking that they’re right. I have [that experience] going into a middle grade novel I’m sort of working on. It’s called Ming Lee and it’s about growing up as a Chinese American and not feeling completely Chinese and not feeling completely American. There are lots of funny embarrassing stories about not fitting in quite right. You just pull from your life—it’s not that hard!

Sounds like you have so many projects coming up! I can’t wait.

I have too much stuff, it’s a blessing and a curse! 

What do you hope young readers take away from this story?

There are two main things. I’d say the first one is that every color is special, unique and different and the world is more colorful with the diversity of colors. I’d say that’s the main one. The world being full of diverse colors is a richer place, and I think the story shows that visually. And then I guess the second one is that being accepting of all sorts of people and there is no such thing as being better or best. I had the honor of showing this at a school visit recently and they get it. They ask some really powerful questions.

I hope that these are the discussions that will happen in schools across America and in some way bring this country a little bit closer together. That’s my hope for it.

Illustrations © Arree Chung

Website: www.arree.com
Shop for autographed books: https://shop.arree.com
Arree Chung’s Storyteller Academy: http://www.storytelleracademy.com

Betsy Bird is one of the most beloved children’s librarians, dare we say, of all time. This holiday season, she joins with Caldecott Medalist Dan Santat for a picture book about a clever Santa scheme. In The Great Santa Stakeout, Freddy Melcher is a St. Nick uberfan, and he’s determined to get a photo with the jolly old elf.

Our holiday wish (though it’s a bit early) was that Bird would visit Nashville sometime soon. We must’ve been good this year, because she’s coming for the Southern Festival of Books. Here she chats about the joys—and confrontations—of a children’s book event.

What is the mark of a really great book event?
Sheer unmitigated enthusiasm from all sides. The best book events I’ve ever seen are the ones where the staff putting on the event are engaged and excited, the authors and illustrators being featured are active and interested, and the attendees who have come are just generally in a hazy state of joy. It’s that combination of elements that yields magic. We’ve all seen bored authors, droopy readers and disinterested staff. It makes us appreciate all the more the people who absolutely love this business and everything it entails.

What is most challenging to discuss with readers about a book or the writing process?
You’ll hear authors kvetch when they get the “where do you get your ideas?” question, but I don’t believe it’s because the question is overdone. It’s more that authors often have no idea what the true answer is. Writing is, by definition, strange. I’m going to sit down, create words that represent pictures that appear in my brain and put them onto a page in an order that not only makes sense but, ideally, will reach into YOUR brain and elicit some kind of a response. Humans are keen on tangibles, and nothing is more intangible than writing. Trying to say as much to an earnest 8-year-old, however, requires a great deal of verbal wrangling.

When visiting a city for a book event, do you have any rituals, either for yourself or to get to know the city?
I don’t, but I think I should. What a good idea. You know what I’d like to do? I’d like to visit a children’s librarian in every city. Nobody knows the ins, outs, oddities, peculiarities and specificities of a city like a librarian that works with kids. Someday, when I am rich and bored with oodles of time on my hands, I want to become a roving reporter that visits cities in the news and interviews the children’s librarians there. Until then, maybe I should start with these book events.

“Nobody knows the ins, outs, oddities, peculiarities and specificities of a city like a librarian that works with kids.”

If you could sit in the audience for an event with any author, living or dead, who would you like to see read from and discuss their book?
Oh! That’s easy. I’m going to cheat and say four authors. I would like to sit in the audience and watch a three-way conversation between Shel Silverstein, James Marshall and Trina Schart Hyman. I would like this conversation to be moderated by Maurice Sendak, who would periodically yell at the panel to stay on topic or derail everything with his own anecdotes and stories.

Has a reader ever asked a question or made a comment at an event that made you see your work in a new light?
That’s the wonderful thing about kids. You think you know your book? You don’t know ANYTHING, bub! Not until you’ve faced down a 4-year-old that has told you, in no uncertain terms, that your picture book is little more than a bald-faced lie. A cupcake has clearly been portrayed on the cover, indicating that there are more cupcakes inside the book. But are there more cupcakes inside the book. There are NOT! I ask you, madam author, how do you sleep at night?

Children’s librarianship has a lot of skills and characteristics in common with the work that Santa and his elves do—getting to know kids, connecting with them on things they want and need, etc. If Santa asked you to assist him as an elf in his workshop or on his delivery route, how would you stack up?
I would be a living nightmare. You are correct that there are some correlations between Santa’s elves and children’s librarians. However, when we produce miracles, they are often unforeseen. If a child walks into my library and asks for a book, and that book is not there, I am trained to find the child, as fast as I am able, magnificent, wonderful, compelling alternatives to the missing item. Now imagine me as an elf. A child has politely asked me for a children’s book that I think is less than stellar. Come Christmas morning, they gleefully rip open their presents to find . . . a huge pile of (in my opinion) preferable readalikes. AUGH! That poor kid. I’d be so busy trying to find the right book for the right reader that I’d probably spend 20 minutes on one child while the list of others just grew and grew. I don’t think I’m cut out to be an elf quite yet.

Sun and Moon Have a Tea Party, a charming picture book about what we gain when we look at the world through someone else’s eyes, is author-illustrator Yumi Heo’s final book and was illustrated after her death by Naoko Stoop. BookPage spoke with Stoop about how she became involved with the project, finding inspiration during times of hardship and what she would serve at a tea party with Sun and Moon.

You have illustrated picture books that you’ve also written, and you’ve illustrated picture books written by other people. Is your illustration process different for each of those situations? What parts of the process are the same? What do you enjoy about each? 
I appreciate both situations. Illustrating what’s in my mind gives me more freedom in many ways because I don’t have to guess what the author wants to express or emphasize in each scene. But I learn and discover more and stretch my drawing abilities further by illustrating stories written by others. I have been very lucky to be paired with wonderful authors including Patrick McDonnell, Kate Banks and Yumi Heo. Those experiences definitely gave my illustration skills more depth.   

What was the experience of illustrating Yumi Heo’s final book like for you? How did you get involved, and what did the project mean to you?
In the summer of 2017, I received a manuscript with a notation that the author, Yumi Heo, had passed away. Although I immediately knew I wanted to illustrate this beautiful story, I also knew that this was going to be challenging, because it was Yumi’s final book.

I never met Yumi, unfortunately, but I did some online research about her work and watched videos of her interviews. I realized we had quite a bit in common. We both grew up in East Asia and started our art careers in New York City. In one interview, she talked about what it was like to be a foreigner in her early days in the city. I could relate to what she said. Maybe our shared experience of crossing cultural bridges brought us both to this place.

We have created a book that speaks to what it is like to not understand people who are different from us, but to learn about them and to reap the rewards of that understanding. 

What was your favorite part of creating the illustrations for Yumi’s story? Do you have a favorite image or spread from the book?
There is a spread showing a busy square in a city. I enjoyed drawing all kinds of people, giving it a sense of diversity—just like in my circle of friends here in New York City. 

You often paint on plywood or brown paper bags. What do you like about painting with objects from everyday life?
I didn’t have formal art education. As an adult, I was playing around with my art at the beginning, just for my own pleasure, so I didn’t really need to worry about presentation. I painted on anything I could find. I especially loved drawing on brown paper bags from the grocery store and on leftover scrap plywood from a nearby factory. I think I just wanted to express myself, and those perfect materials were right there.

Authors and illustrators aren’t able to visit schools right now—at least not in person—but when you are able to share this book with young readers, what are you looking forward to talking about with them?
It has been a strange time. It’s hard to see children without school life. Although we are lucky enough to be able to keep communicating online, it’s never the same. I hope they can go back to school and study with teachers and friends in the same room again soon.

This has been a good time to learn about different perspectives. We only know what we know, and we have a lot to learn. Sun and Moon get into an argument in this book. We learn that we should not judge others before we know their story. 

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read our review of Sun and Moon Have a Tea Party.

How do you find inspiration during times of challenge and hardship?
I have been really grateful that I have a roof over my head and food to eat, and that I am healthy and working. During times of challenge and hardship like this, fear and anxiety can easily take over, but I find that if I stay focused on what I have and how that makes me happy each day, I find inspiration everywhere in small things.

During the stay-at-home period, I started a no-soil veggie garden on my windowsill, I started walking with my cat daily, and I met some neighbors I never knew before through walking her. I started bird-watching in my urban backyard; I spotted a pair of cardinals, along with other birds I can’t name. I now know how to cook more dishes, how to sew colorful masks and how to use new technology to connect remotely with people. . . . All of this inspires me.   

What’s next for you? Are you working on any new illustration projects that you’d like to share?
Currently, I am working on a storybook written by Donna Jo Napoli. It’s about a Japanese girl who has recently come to America and begins a friendship with the girl next door. Children are open with each other, even without a common language or cultural heritage. We have a lot to learn from them.

If you could have a tea party with Sun and Moon, what kind of tea would you like to have? What kind of cookies would you bring?
Just like in the book, it would be an Asian-style tea party with green tea and seaweed rice crackers. There would be iced tea for Sun to cool down and strong coffee for Moon to stay wide-awake all night! And I would bake cupcakes decorated with the sun and moon on sugary whipped-cream clouds. Yummy!  

Author photo by Rocco’s Photo Tavern. Illustration used with permission of Naoko Stoop.

Author Derrick Barnes’ and illustrator Gordon C. James’ first collaboration, the picture book Crown: An Ode to the Fresh Cut, won a Caldecott Honor, a Newbery Honor, Coretta Scott King Author and Illustrator Honors, the Kirkus Prize for Young Readers and more. Needless to say, the expectations for their next project together were high. I Am Every Good Thing, which pairs James’ lush illustrations with Barnes’ lyrical ode to Black boyhood, is sure to satisfy even the most exacting of readers. BookPage spoke to Barnes and James about the new book, what it was like to work together again and the good things in their lives right now.

This is your first time working on a project together since the success of Crown: An Ode to the Fresh Cut. What was different about that process this time? What was the same?

Barnes: The major difference was, when I wrote Crown, I didn’t even have a book deal, let alone an illustrator for the project. We went through at least three or four illustrators, who all turned it down. Gordon was meant to bring this story to life. There are no accidents in the universe. Our chemistry was still the same. We both agree on the message, the target audience and how much these affirming illustrations and words mean to Black and Brown boys.

James: After Crown, people were waiting to see what we’d do together next. How would it stack up? I was excited about the challenge to meet or even exceed those expectations. We still have the same personalities. We both want everything we create, together and separately, to be our best work. We want to leave a positive mark on our world.

Derrick, the text of this new book is a set of affirmations that strike a balance between the tangible (“I am skateboard tricks”) and the intangible (“I am hilarious”). How did you balance these as you wrote?

Barnes: I made a running list of everything that embodies the emotions, actions, goals, desires, strengths and weaknesses of my own sons. Every tangible and intangible quality covers a broad spectrum of what it means to be a little boy—maybe riding his bike without training wheels for the first time, or a teenager who somebody prays for at night. I wanted for young readers reader to see themselves in all of these emotions and scenes, and for parents to see these boys the way they see their own children.

Gordon, when Derrick’s text wasn’t immediately suggestive of an image, what was your creative process like to figure out what image to create and pair with his words?

James: Those are the fun ones. I just start doing tiny drawings called thumbnails in a sketchbook, or sometimes right on a printout of the manuscript. I go wild and just come up with as many solutions as I can, so I have a lot to choose from.

Derrick, which affirmation was the most challenging to write?

Barnes: It wasn’t a challenge exactly, but the line that says, "I am a brother, a son, a nephew, a favorite cousin . . . ” is simple in its structure but it took me there emotionally. I thought about all of the people who care about those young men that I dedicated the book to, and all of the Black and Brown boys who just want to grow up and be somebody, who just want to live in a world where they are not criminalized or seen as an adult as soon as they gain some size and height, around ages 11 and 12.

Gordon, which illustration in the book was the most challenging to conceptualize? 

James: I agonized over the image of the young man in the red shirt. It wasn’t the concept but how graphic to make the image. This calm, confident young man is surrounded by the negative voices of society, telling him who they think he is. It was a challenge to decide just how strong to make those voices appear.

Derrick, do you have a favorite affirmation from the book? Did you write any affirmations you loved that ultimately didn’t end up in the book?

Barnes: My favorite affirmation is probably, "I am Saturday mornings in the summertime. I am two bounces and a front flip off the diving board. I am hilarious. I am the life of the party!”

Among my list of descriptors and every 'good thing' that's universal, I remember originally having a line similar to "I'm the center of a cinnamon roll,” which is in the final version. It said, "I'm the fry at the bottom of the bag.” Everyone loves to scoop up those French fries that fall to the bottom of the bag. They just taste better. 

Gordon, do you have a favorite illustration in the book?  

James: I absolutely love the swimming pool scene. I love the light, energy and joy. It’s a strong counternarrative to all of the negative attitudes, stereotypes and all-out racism surrounding us and swimming.

How collaborative was your work together on this book? Did you ever influence each other’s work during the process? 


Barnes: We collaborated, conversed and disagreed about a few minor things this time around. But we're old friends so you know, we don’t worry about hurting each other’s feelings or biting our tongues. His style of illustrating and painting may have influenced what I wrote because I could envision how he would create the scenes.

James: We are friends so I talk to Derrick more during the process than I normally do with other authors, but I really do enjoy my space when I’m working. I live in this visual mode and I like to bring something additional to the book that may not have been thought of during the writing process.  

Gordon, I read that you originally wanted to be a fine artist and create paintings that would hang in galleries. What’s different about creating paintings that serve as illustrations in a picture book? What’s not different? 


James: I do my best to keep the process the same. Kids don’t need to be talked down to artistically. Also, I keep in mind that some of the kids that read this book may have never been to an art museum so I give them academic oil painting, a fine art experience, 12 to 24 paintings at a time in children’s book form. The only difference is that the subject matter didn’t originate with me and that there’s a team giving feedback and input. The fine art is all me.

I love your use of color in this book. What’s your favorite color to paint with? What color is the most challenging to paint with? 


James: My favorite color to paint with is a warm pink. You can see it in the lights on the "boom bap" page. That’s my fave. The most challenging are the dark values. For books, they need to be a little softer and more colorful so that they reproduce well. 

Who or what are your good things right now?

Barnes: My youngest son, Nnamdi. He's such a sweet boy with a great sense of humor. He's 9, so he still has a smidge of innocence and wonder about him left. I'm going to miss that in a couple of years.

James: One good thing right now is that my wife and my kids are healthy and safe. I’m especially proud that my son Gabe is on the cover of I Am Every Good Thing. He’s autistic and seeing him shine on the cover and through the book is a very, very good thing.

Derrick Barnes photo courtesy of Derrick Barnes. Gordon C. James photo courtesy of CHDWCK. Illustrations from I Am Every Good Thing used with permission from Nancy Paulsen Books.

LeUyen Pham's picture book Outside, Inside addresses the COVID-19 pandemic with sensitivity and compassion for young readers. BookPage spoke with Pham, a 2020 Caldecott Honor recipient, about the origins of her project, which began as a series of sketches during the early days of quarantining at home, as well as the real-life inspirations behind the feline guide who appears on every page of her book.

Your author’s note describes how you began “sketching moments from each day” during the early days of quarantine. When did you realize that your sketches could become a book?
I had to find a way to make sense of the sudden shift of the world, and I began collecting these thoughts in my head. They sort of spilled out on paper that way. I didn’t know exactly what it was that was happening, but after creating so many picture books, my mind automatically molds thoughts into that format. Still, I don’t think I was seeing the forest from the trees yet.

Out of sheer desperation, I called my editor and told her that I had something going on in my head. I didn’t know what it was—it didn’t have a form, it was just a series of disconnected dots. I remember her explaining very carefully to me that there was a difference between communicating strong feelings and telling a strong story. She wanted me to go for it some more. I called my agent, Holly McGhee, as well, and she encouraged me to just keep putting things down, that eventually the dots would connect, that something inside had to come out and I should just let it.

I think the moment for me when I suddenly saw it as a book was when I started binding the pictures together with words. Then it became more clear to me.

“We were always writing it from the perspective of the future, struggling to make sense of this time. The wild part is that we were making sense of it while we were going through it.”

Outside, Inside balances the feelings of sorrow, fear and loss many people have felt during the pandemic with unexpected silver linings, such as moments of connection and community. Was this a difficult balance for you to achieve?
It was as difficult to achieve on paper as it is to achieve in real life. Early on, we understood that this pandemic was going to affect different people in different ways, that while for some people it would require an adjustment of working from home and balancing your family’s life with your own work, for others the change was dramatic and suddenly put their livelihoods at stake. Even to say the words “silver lining” was insulting to a large portion of the population and indicative of the privilege of the person saying it. How do you allow for moments of goodness in such dark times?

In the end, I think we were able to get away with it because the book is a documentary of sorts. It’s a collection of moments happening in real time. I recorded what I saw at the time, without fully understanding how amazing those chalk drawings and window signs and neighborhood shopping trips were. I was overwhelmed by how much community I witnessed during a time in which we were essentially ordered to stay away from communities.

When I look at the book now, there’s a rhythmic pattern in its fluctuation between sorrow and connection. I'm chalking that up to my brain going into automatic children’s book mode, my editor’s gentle guidance, my agent’s encouragement and some universal wave we were all riding. We were all looking for that balance. Drawing it into pictures just clarified it all.

One spread in the book depicts scenes in hospitals and medical facilities. Was this a difficult spread for you to illustrate? How did you decide on all of the different scenes it includes?
This was one of the most difficult spreads I’ve ever illustrated. I simply could not process what these amazing health care workers were facing in those early days, when little was understood of the virus, supplies were short and emergency workers were finding workarounds with duct tape and plastic wrap.

These groups of frontline workers absolutely blow me away. What they were and are subjected to on a daily basis, at huge risk to their own lives, all in assistance of others, is simply unfathomable to the average human. I watched news stories of nurses, doctors, EMTs and even janitors and cleaners witnessing firsthand what this virus could do, but finding humanity in these desperate situations and giving hope, kindness and connection to those suffering from a virus that isolates you at the end of life. So many interviewees likened the situation to a war zone, and I could understand why. When people complain about losing their freedoms by being forced to wear masks, I wish they would look at the cost of rejecting that minor act, at the undeniable impact on these workers and their patients who are at the tail end of that decision.

I cried all the way through drawing this spread. It is truly the one scene in the book that I hope people will spend time on. All the images are based on real people and real situations. There is a scene depicting a woman in a hospital room with nurses coming in with a birthday cupcake for her, which is based on the real story of a woman who turned 82, I think, on her third day in the ICU. She died the next day, and the nurses were her stand-in for family. There is an image of doctors and nurses who are exhausted and suiting up like they’re entering a war, an image of a nurse staring with dismay at a ventilator that she hopes will work and an image of a man holding up a sign outside the hospital, projecting his love and gratitude to the nurses and doctors who saved his wife’s life. I don’t remember how I chose the images. I just remember that there were too many to share.

“I didn’t have to paint evidence of love, I simply had to record it. That’s the best way I can explain it.”

I noticed that you’ve chosen to write the book in the past tense. Can you talk about that choice?
You know, no one has asked me that question before, and I had to think about it. Which means, of course, that the idea to write in past tense was a foregone conclusion at the time the book was made. I don’t think anyone on my publishing team even questioned that the book could be written any other way. What does that say about all of our mindsets at the time?

I truly believed that by the time of the book’s publication, this would all be past us. Remember, the book was made over a six-week period of time in June and July. I remember my editor stressing its value beyond this time frame—that we had to find lessons that were timeless, stories that went beyond the current situation, to make it worthy of being a book. I was always writing it from the perspective of the future, struggling to make sense of this time. The wild part is that we were making sense of it while we were going through it. Trying to wrap my head around that is like listening to Mrs. Who explain to Meg what a tesseract is in A Wrinkle in Time.

We’re still in the middle of this, but eventually our world will catch up to the past tense of the book.

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read our review of Outside, Inside.

Can you talk about some of the ways you used color in these illustrations?
I used color to communicate ideas that simply couldn’t be put into words. I think the first two spreads are the best representation of this. The opening spread reveals a busy and colorful crowded street scene, with bright saturated colors and lots of reds and yellows. The next spread shows the world shut down, and the imposing grays and lack of colors illustrate that. From that point on, the book is painted in muted colors and grays. I wanted that to be felt immediately, that shift in color as we shifted to this new reality. The book gradually moves back toward color, as the world grows and signs of spring emerge.

A spread toward the end of the book talks about why we went inside and shows groups of people standing together. Some are in full color, and some are painted in a muted light blue. This is a spread of real people I found articles about at the time. The people who are painted in full color survived the virus. The figures painted in blue did not. The heartbreaking ones are the people in full color who stand in the arms of the people in blue.

And of course, the last spread of the book, the gatefold, opens to full color at last, as spring has finally returned. That’s an image that hasn’t yet come to pass as this book comes out into the world. It’s still a hope, as it was when I painted it this past year.

I love the character of the black cat who is featured in every illustration, including the cover, the endpapers and the title page. Do you have a cat? Was this cat part of the book from its inception? Can you talk about the role that the cat plays in the book?
I do have a cat. Her name is Sardine, and she’s a lovely striped tabby, not the sleek elegant cat of this book. I considered using Sardine as a model, but her colors are rather muted and would have made her hard to find in the grey images. I needed a little slip of a shadow, a figure who could weave in and out of the images without calling too much attention to itself but could be clearly seen.

The cat was always meant to be part of this book. She wasn’t in any of my original sketches, but I think her presence was felt even early on, before I’d turned it into a book. I knew I needed to have a narrator of sorts, a figure that children could enter the book with, a figure that couldn’t be human and could be relatable. At first I thought the animal should be a dog or a bird. But then I realized that of all the pets we have, the cat is the one animal that is allowed to have free rein both inside and outside. She was the perfect animal to follow.

I wanted her in the story because I needed there to be a stable presence on each page, someone that kids could follow through the scenarios with, could look for in some of the heavier images, a reliable force on the page. There’s something, even for adults, that is very reassuring about seeing this little creature on each page. It is, after all, a children’s book. It’s meant to comfort, to guide, to make you smile. That’s the job of this little cat.

“During these dark moments, I also saw evidence of more humanity than I ever suggested in my books.”

I want to ask about one more statement from your author’s note. You write, “My career has been devoted to drawing the world as I would like it to be, my version of a happy world. This is the first time that I have catalogued the world as it is.” How would you describe what it looks like and how it feels when you draw “the world as [you] would like it to be” versus “the world as it is”?
I’ve always drawn the world as though it exists without prejudice. Every book I’ve ever made, from my earliest picture books to my latest graphic novels, feature diversity and acceptance.

When I was growing up, I didn’t see myself in books very often. Being a person of color, and of mixed race at that, it was hard to identify with most picture and chapter books. I made it a goal for myself early on to reflect as much of the world’s population as I could within the 32 pages of a standard picture book. I chose stories that reflected people and characters caring for one another, which I wanted to see reflected more often in our society. I like to think I create a utopian world where everyone is accepted. When I illustrated God’s Dream by Archbishop Desmond Tutu, he often commented that he had selected me as his illustrator because he loved to see the love in my characters for one another. I guess you’d call it my own little artistic bubble—paint the world as you want it to be, and it will become that way.

It’s fair to say that the real world isn’t always this way. Outside, Inside was the first time I really allowed myself to paint exactly what I saw. The world is filled with injustice and disinformation and much more anger than I’d ever allowed myself to believe. But during these dark moments, I also saw evidence of more humanity than I ever suggested in my books. The human spirit, when put to the test, can be quite amazing. I didn’t have to suggest a utopian society this time, because there were elements of selflessness and graciousness and simple kindness that I witnessed every day. It’s a reminder that perhaps the fantasy we tell ourselves and the reality we choose to live can be one and the same. I didn’t have to paint evidence of love, I simply had to record it. That’s the best way I can explain it.

The book’s back cover is an illustration of a kitchen scene, with a loaf of what looks to be sourdough bread on the table. Did you get into baking your own bread during quarantine? Did you pick up any other new hobbies or ways of spending time?
Who didn’t get into baking during this time? It’s the one thing the rational side of my brain could latch onto and feel like it was accomplishing something. Yes, I make bread now. I haven’t gone so far yet as to make a starter. From what I hear, they’re almost like pets, because you need to devote so much time to feeding them every day. But it’s been nice discovering how pliable my kitchen is.

We also take lots more walks together as a family, just around our neighborhood. I’ve gotten more creative with cooking. We’ve introduced the kids to “The Twilight Zone”; we don’t have our television hooked up to regular broadcasting, so they’ve never really watched TV shows before. I’ve learned to cut hair. But for the most part, I’m sticking to making books.

Photo of LeUyen Pham by Anouk Kluyskens. Illustration from Outside, Inside used with permission of Macmillan Children's Publishing Group.

Peter Sís is an acclaimed author and illustrator who is well known for his picture book biographies, including Starry Messenger, The Tree of Life and The Pilot and the Little Prince. In Nicky & Vera: A Quiet Hero of the Holocaust and the Children He Rescued, he movingly intertwines the lives of Nicholas Winton, a young Englishman who helped arrange train passage for hundreds of Jewish children out of Nazi-occupied Czechoslovakia in the late 1930s, and Vera Diamantova, one of the children Winton saved.

You’ve created a number of picture book biographies. What draws you to this category of nonfiction? How do you approach the creative process differently when you’re working on a nonfiction project versus something fictional?
I have liked biographies ever since I was a child. The explorers, the adventurers, the dreamers. Only later was I drawn to stories of people struggling to advance humanity—Vincent Van Gogh, Marie Curie.

Creating nonfiction requires a lot of research, and it’s sometimes difficult to distribute that throughout the book (for example, Charles Darwin went around the world and then stayed home for 50 years). In my new book, both Nicky and Vera experience a traumatic event and then, again, live their lives peacefully for 50 years. But perhaps that is the rhythm of life; each project, just like poetry, has its own tempo.

Did you consider intertwining Winton’s story with the story of a different child? What made you decide to feature Vera Diamantova in the book?
Vera’s book, Pearls of Childhood, was a surprising source of inspiration for how to tell the story of Nicholas Winton, which I had been thinking about for quite some time. Vera, with her love of life, her family, her country, was a representation of the 669 children Winton saved. She was saved, but her family perished. She was able to meet the man who saved her. I knew it was the way to go.

I think we all know what heroism is—we just have to think about it.

In the book, you describe how Winton did not speak about what he had done during the war because he believed no one would be interested in the story. As you worked on the book, did you gain an understanding of why Winton would have believed such a thing?
It’s difficult to say. In her book, Winton’s daughter Barbara writes that he was that kind of man. He said, “If you can swim and you walk by the river and someone is drowning—of course you save that person. It is your duty.” That is one way to think about what he did. It is also possible that he was devastated that the last train, which carried 250 children, did not make it. Once WWII broke out, there was nothing more to say.

You have said that there is always a “dark, impossible moment in every project,” and that it feels good to solve it. Was there such a moment in the process of creating Nicky & Vera?
Oh, there were plenty of crossroads with this project. At one point, I had Vera’s and Nicky’s lives after the war mirroring each other. There would be a half page of Vera’s house, half page Nicky’s. They both had families, so in this draft, they might walk in the same street next to each other, not knowing what connects them. That was intriguing, but it was for a different book. It was hard to let it go.

Another really dark moment was when I read many books about children and the Holocaust—the darkness and sadness of it all, and thinking about how to mention it in the book. I have to be grateful to Simon Boughton, my editor, for keeping us focused.

Can you talk about how you compose a spread? What drives your initial choices? How do you balance detail, composition and clarity?
I always get one or two images stuck in my head when I start to work on a project. Like Galileo in the court of cardinals in my book Starry Messenger, or the whirling train from Prague to London in Nicky & Vera. This is not necessarily helpful in case you need to shift or reshape the story, because it becomes the unmovable object of sorts. My artistic choices are driven by my ability, my intuition and stubbornness. I wish I could say clarity.

What is your favorite illustration in Nicky & Vera? Why?
I think that coiled train from Prague to London. It is my favorite cobalt blue hue, and the Prague-to-London train was a wishful dream when I was growing up behind the Iron Curtain.

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read our starred review of Nicky & Vera.

Nicky & Vera depicts moments of intense horror that are representations of actual historical events. How do you care for yourself when working on a book that depicts such darkness?
This is a very good point. I did not think about this cloud of darkness. I reread Anne Frank and other books on the Shoah. I watched films about Simone Veil and Theresienstadt. Once again, I wondered how and why this could have happened, and that made me appreciate Nicky even more.

This is a story about heroism, about who we call heroes and what heroism really is. What do you believe heroism is? Did working on Nicky & Vera change it?
Yes, it is about heroism in a very human way. I think we all know what heroism is—we just have to think about it. It is solidarity, empathy, kindness—quiet acts in our time of very loud proclamations. It makes me think about times I could have done something and just did not dare to think differently.

Photo of Peter Sís courtesy of Jan Slavík © DOX Centre for Contemporary Art.

Mornings With Monet is the fourth picture book collaboration between children’s author Barb Rosenstock and illustrator Mary GrandPré, all of which have explored real artists and their art. Their book about young Kandinsky, The Noisy Paint Box, received a Caldecott Honor in 2015, while their book about Chagall, Through the Window, received a Sydney Taylor Honor in 2019. Mornings With Monet depicts the impressionist painter Claude Monet at work on his riverboat studio on a bright summer morning.

Whom can we thank for the idea to include a reproduction of Monet’s signature in the title on the book’s cover?

Barb Rosenstock: It wasn’t me. I don’t think to ask those “who did what” questions because picture books are the ultimate team sport. We all work with and around each other’s ideas and opinions for four years, and then we wind up with a book—so I don’t know, but it is perfect.

Mary GrandPré: It was my idea. I like to design the title type while I am in the concept stage of the cover art, and the Monet signature seemed like a good way to bring that feeling of brushstrokes into the cover.

Barb, this is one of many children’s books you’ve written about real figures in history. How do you choose your subjects? What sparked your interest in Monet?

Rosenstock: Most of the time I tend to write biographies backward. There will be a topic I find interesting (in this case, the idea of the work of making art), and I find a person or event whose story can represent that idea. After spending 10 days in Paris, I thought I was writing about the impressionists’ first group exhibit in 1874, and the book wasn’t going to be a biography so much as a “Let’s put on an art show” picture book. But as I researched at the Art Institute of Chicago’s Ryerson Library, the work ethic of the group’s leader, Monet, became more fascinating than the group as a whole.

Typically, picture book authors and illustrators don’t work directly with one another. Have your books together become more collaborative over time?

Rosenstock: Yes, but not in the way people might assume. Except in rare circumstances, Mary and I don’t discuss the specifics of text or art in conversation beyond an initial email like, “Hey, I’m thinking of Monet, are you interested?”

But for me, it has become more collaborative because I believe I have a better understanding of what portions of the text Mary tends to be drawn to visually. I actively try to focus on those in the story as much as possible—color, shape, texture. At Mary’s level of artistic ability, there is no such thing as writing something she can’t draw, but I am always thinking about how to write just enough text, never too much, so that I’m leaving space for her freedom to expand the story.

GrandPré: Barb thoroughly researches the life of each artist she writes about. In sharing that, she provides me with a vast amount of information that is extremely helpful, including details about place and time period, appropriate fashion, details about the artist’s lifestyle, as well as parts of the artist’s family history, the influences of other artists and what may have been going on socially or politically at the time. All the information Barb brings to the table gives me a more solid base to draw from.

Barb, I love the structure you’ve given Mornings With Monet. We spend one morning with Monet as he heads out onto the river to paint and then comes home and inside for breakfast, and you incorporate biographical information into this primary narrative. Did you know right away that you wanted the book to have this structure? If not, how did you get there?

Rosenstock: I wish! It took almost a year to know what I was writing about, and my laptop holds eight or so separate manuscripts to prove it. Once I began focusing on Monet, I kept writing drafts that started in his childhood, which is a typical way to connect a young reader to historical biography. I soon realized that Monet’s childhood would bore children, because it was boring me!

When I asked myself what I thought a young reader would find interesting, the answer was the boat. Why would you paint on a boat? How do you paint on a boat? What happens when you paint on a boat? I went in search of Monet’s relationship to his studio boat, which brought me along on his lifelong love affair with the Seine. Eventually I found an 1898 essay in La Revue Illustrée by Maurice Guillemot. Guillemot stayed with Monet in Giverny, in northern France, and in the essay, he details part of a morning spent with Monet on la bateau atelier, his studio boat. That essay guided my structure. I’m proud of having written a nonfiction picture book that begins and ends in four hours. Yes, it’s work. Yes, it’s magic.

Mary, is it difficult to capture the style of another artist—in this instance, Monet’s soft color palette, impressionist brushstrokes and the precise way he captured light?

GrandPré: Capturing the style of an artist is both challenging and enjoyable. Monet’s work is all about color and light, so my challenge for this book was to bring that same focus to the illustrations. I studied his paintings of the Seine, the fluid strokes, the sparks of color in the shadows, the soft neutrals with bits of underpainting showing through, and all of it was a joy to discover.

Monet has become one of the most well-known and widely reproduced artists in the world. Barb, as you researched the book, what did you learn about Monet as a person or about his art that surprised you?

Rosenstock: Well, first, let’s not make him out to be any kind of saint. One of the reasons I settled on the book’s structure is because spending one morning on Monet’s boat seemed doable compared to addressing his many missteps and flaws in a single picture book. I can make a straightforward case that he was a misogynist, a user of people, an anti-Semite and a glutton, just for starters.

What surprised me was something that readers need to understand about creativity of any kind. Monet, long after he was world famous, was an immensely hard worker who was consistent in his practice, much like a world-class athlete. Talent is overemphasized in our society; most success is due to work.

How did working on this book change the way you see Monet and his art?

GrandPré: I came to appreciate Monet’s art more. I discovered more about his sensitive use of color and the amount of layering that each painting holds. I also came to appreciate Monet’s dedication to truly capturing the light and the water. This had to be a very challenging thing to do, particularly with weather being unpredictable—not to mention painting all those paintings on a small studio boat. That’s commitment and being true to your vision!

Rosenstock: Visiting the impressionist wing of the Art Institute of Chicago has always been a part of my life. I knew since I was a child that these masterworks by Monet, Renoir, Degas, Sisley, Pissarro, Morisot and others were gorgeous. Now I see their individuality—the thousands of brushstrokes, hundreds of color decisions, thoughtful highlights and brooding shadows. I see the time and the work dedicated to the creation. It doesn’t take away from the overall beauty, it adds to it.

What’s something you each love about each other’s work in this book?

GrandPré: I love that Barb is true to the artist’s vision and that she sees the beauty in the creative exploration of the painter. As she takes us through the morning, she sensitively describes colors and how they change with the time of day, from the soft gray violets before the dawn to the warm yellows that break through the fog. I love that she can take a single morning with Monet and give us an entire journey in which we discover the power of light and color, as well as Monet’s steadfast dedication to capturing the ever-changing character of the river.

While Barb’s writing is true to the history of Monet’s life, her understanding of the artist’s inner struggle and their passion to create is what makes her stories so enriching. As an artist, I especially appreciate that part of Barb’s writing.

Rosenstock: Mary’s art always, always brings other levels of thought to the text. She’s one of our great children’s illustrators because her art tells its own story, not just my text’s story. For Mornings With Monet, I confess I was worried. Monet’s style is so familiar that I wondered how Mary would illustrate the book without copying it. But her artistic process informs our understanding of Monet’s process while remaining wholly original. Mary’s extensive visual research, her hints at relationships and the moods of the river are what I love best. And that “magic” spread near the end of the book—it’s truly magic!