Sizable, scalloped cloud formations, whose flat panes of white widen double-page horizons, offset both the scrupulous linework and abundant regions of brown and blue. Delicate lines run like fine veins, describing animals, trees, plants and fences with intricate and intentional specificity. Silly bears might tread on the plantings, unaware of signs that read “please do not stomp here- / there are seeds / and they are trying.” Germinating seeds issue “a greenish hum / that you can only hear / if you put your ear to the ground / and close your eyes.” This elaborate inner world and darling voice reverberate in muted woodblock prints and empathetic pencil illustrations as well, its timbre and tone unchanged. Stead wisely withholds his features, letting Fogliano’s babbling stream of small worries and staggeringly sharp imaginings flesh him out. The boy’s oversized glasses, his tilted, blank face (we never see his eyes) and tiny chin melt hearts instantly. Rambling narration, elasticized with many ands, thats, commas and a boy’s earnest concerns for his seeds, runs on, leaving readers waiting and waiting and waiting-just like the child gardener. A boy plants seeds in late winter’s brown, barren earth and vigilantly watches for green sprouts alongside his companions (a dog, turtle, rabbit and bird).
0 kommentar(er)
