Old Mother Hubbard is not the only senior citizen maligned as inept in nursery rhyme. As an imperfect pet-sitter myself, I can only sympathise with her repeated failures at appeasing the mutt.
Amy Amelia Earl (AAE) stitched the scene with the old mother in her kitchen. The cupboard is barely there itself, let alone having any provisions in it. I suspect she’s been spending the housekeeping money on fine lace and red shoes, not to mention the splendid silk portrait of King George. Not even a bone could be bought after that wanton extravagance.
And are those mittens, or furry paws that OMH is gesturing with?
There are many more verses to this rhyme and Raymond Briggs has laid them all out in the wonderful Mother Goose Treasury which deservedly won the Greenaway medal in 1966.
The steady progression of disappointed doggy into Restoration dandy is captured as a pen-and-ink comic strip, pre-figuring his later triumphant Father Christmas (who also had a dog, surely a cousin of this one.)
Harold Jones has a more sinister view of the old woman.
Don’t let the curtains and wallpaper fool you. This witch is hoping to conjure something up for the wolf at the door, who looks as if he won’t be the one playing dead if the cupboard really is bare.
Apologies for the blurriness of this image from the Red Nursery Rhyme quilt, which doesn’t disguise the poor doggy’s ribby hunger. Once again though the old lady has been impecunious : trimming her shawl before stocking the cupboard.
I was not wearing lace when this picture was taken, but Jasper is perfectly channelling his feeling that if I go to the cupboard, for him it will be bare. No amount of pipe-smoking or licking dishes will transform me into his servant, and he knows it.
I’m looking at several of the nursery rhymes which appear on my two favourite quilts of the NGV’s 2016 exhibition Making the Australian Quilt (see previous post). I can’t resist the opportunity to share some of my favourite children’s book illustrators’ interpretations as well.
The names given to the quilts by their collector and curators were, respectively, Child’s Quilt with Nursery Rhymes (by unknown maker/s)and Child’s Nursery Rhyme quilt (by Amy Amelia Earl). Those are definitely accurate but potentially confusing for the reader from hereon in. So, with no disrespect to either, I’ll be using the shorthand names I used when taking notes onsite at the exhibition.
Here’s part of the Red Nursery Rhyme Quilt.
And here is AAE’s quilt.
One of the challenges of depicting stories and rhymes on quilts, as in books, is which character and/or scene to pick. The first rhyme I’ll be talking about has much to challenge the textile artist.
Iona and Peter Opie, writing in The Oxford Dictionary of Nursery Rhymes, call it ‘probably the best known nonsense rhyme in the [English] language.’
Hey diddle diddle
The cat and the fiddle
The cow jumped over the moon
The little dog laughed to see such sport
and the dish ran away with the spoon.
Most of AAE’s quilt is composed of separately worked patches, appliqued onto a large piece of furnishing fabric. That she loved animals is evident in how many there are on this small quilt. The enigmatic penguin in the upper left of this picture is one of several unknown stories that AAE told to the lucky children she knew: sad viewers of the 21st century can only guess at it.
But Hey Diddle Diddle is still recognisable to us. The cat fiddler’s coat resembles faded chenille, and his couched silk shirt, along with golden violin and bow, hint at former grandeur. The other creatures of the rhyme being merely cross-stitched reinforces him as lead player. (Another, larger, black cat made of the same fake fur gazes plaintively with shirt button eyes in another part of the quilt.) Faces on a small scale weren’t really AAE’s forte but her Moon’s cheesy eyes and mouth are the right mixture of crater and grin. They draw us in on the joke while simultaneously avoiding the kicking cow. The knickerbockered dish shoulders the spoon as it runs, and the little dog puts his whole haunches into the laugh.
Harold Jones’s illustrations for Lavender’s Blue, the beautiful collection of nursery rhymes compiled by Kathleen Lines in the late 1950s, also puts the cat at the centre of the story, if not the scene. All of the characters appear in the shadow of his luminous moon.
The cow’s satyr-like silhouette frames the scene and the dog’s open-mouthed laugh directs the viewer to take in the incongruity. The pie dish and the spoon scuttle across the field bathed in cold light like fleeing mice – we can’t see their faces. The only figure with any real colour – the cat – deliberately turns its back on the scene which its concentrated music-making accompanies.
Raymond Briggs’s Mother Goose Treasuryis a stupendous achievement of illustration. Like Amy Amelia Earl, he makes his figures are sturdy rather than sentimental. In his Hey Diddle, diddle, the animals don’t effect clothing.
Briggs’s waning crescent moon smiles up at the cow, stretched out towards the inky night like the side of beef it will become. A skeletal dog has flipped itself into mimicking the moon, while the cat is fiddling as if hypnotised. The dish and the spoon run towards the edge of the page,their shadows before them, hands almost touching. The Puffin Mother Goose Bedtime Rhymes, a taste of the original in board book form, sets the rhyme in a background of shiny bright yellow moonlight, which only serves to emphasise the bizarre blue scene.
And so to the Red Nursery Rhyme quilt’s version. Whoever decided to make this block literally cut to the chase.
It’s difficult to escape the feeling that the dish is eyeing the spoon’s slender form lasciviously: a child will just see their glee as naughtiness we hope. If I’m right though, the master, Randolph Caldecott, pictured the end of the story best.
The Opies say that Hey Diddle Diddle‘s first appearance in print was in a book called MG’S Melody around 1765. That version has the line, ‘The little dog laughed to see such craft‘ : thanks to these quiltmakers, so do we.
I may have become obsessive during the recent Making the Australian Quilt exhibition at NGV Australia. (Getting nods from the visitor services staff is a clue that you’re there too often.) It was completely worth it to get to know my favourite quilts intimately.
Co-curators Katie Somerville and Annette Gero did a wonderful job, and I was fortunate to be invited to the opening.
In Perth, about 2004, I went to a presentation by Dr Gero with my friend Sue, exquisite quilter and sister children’s librarian. The evening was hosted by WAQA and meeting the Child’s Quilt with Nursery Rhymes (pictured above) was the highlight of it. This splendid array of applique and embroidery looks like 42 covers in a picture book display. There are 32 nursery rhymes represented in 34 of the squares – Jack and Jill and The Queen of Hearts are depicted twice – and the eight remaining are popular stories and books.
The books were an important factor in dating the unsigned quilt – publication dates being more exact than the older nursery rhymes and stories. During that evening, I helped identify a block labelled ‘Amelia Ann’ as a book by Constance Heward, first published in 1920. (The title is actually Ameliaranne and the Green Umbrella.) Here she is.
The other books were Bambi, Brer Rabbit and a mysterious gem called The Forgetful Elephant which is peeping out from behind a dressing gown in this picture.
My increasing impatience with people exclaiming ‘Look! There’s Babar!’ (have I mentioned I saw this exhibition many times?) led me on a mission to identify this story. After a false (but charming) lead, I found it at State Library Victoria.
Unfortunately the book, like the quilt, is undated, but the noble cataloguers at SLV have estimated it as 1944. It was called ‘garish and vulgar’ by a leading Australian children’s literature critic but that’s a bit harsh. Here’s the title page, which the unknown quiltmaker has used as the block design.
There was another ‘story’ quilt close to this one in the exhibition : Child’s Nursery Rhyme Quilt by Amy Amelia Earl, signed and dated 1923.
These weren’t the only quilts made for, or used by, children – Mary Jane Hannaford’s delightful Good Night quilt, made for her grandson, was another. No doubt many a bored Victorian girl amused away a Sunday looking at tiny embroidered names and figures – some designed by book illustrator Kate Greenaway – in a crazy quilt.
I began looking really closely at the nursery rhymes depicted on both of these quilts, which were companions in the exhibition, and wondering how and why particular ones were pictured. I was intrigued to see those from my childhood that my children never heard or don’t know (Dick Whittington), and to not see the most wellknown Anglo-Celtic one of their generation (Twinkle Twinkle Little Star).
I’ll be examining some of the rhymes, and how these quiltmakers represented them, in upcoming blogs. I won’t be talking about what the rhymes ‘mean’ – that’s covered by the excellent scholarship of the Opies – but I will be looking closely at how their transformation into needlework has elevated them beyond the ditty.
Picture books, with their simple aim to please the most visually receptive audience there is – the very young – survive in an era of stridently overwhelming imagery. Shirley Hughes
I’ve spent the last few months working on a tribute to Dorothy Butler for the IBBY Congress. In the excellent Babies Need Books, Butler says: ‘Shirley Hughes draws children’s outsides in a way which leaves no doubt about her knowledge of their insides.’ (p138.) Here’s an illustration from Babies Need Books itself which demonstrates her point.
Long before I saw this book, though, I had Hughes’ illustrations in my bones from my childhood reading.
Hughes wrote in her 2002 memoirA Life Drawing : recollections of an illustrator:
I never wanted to be a painter, always an illustrator. I am often mildly surprised when asked why I didn’t aspire to ‘real’ art. Illustrating is a very different endeavour from painting, though just as exacting. Painters concentrate on communicating through just single one image which says everything about a particular moment in time, or an existential experience. But an illustrator is committed to producing a whole series of connected images which relate strongly from one to another. They must pack in a lot of clear visual information and descriptive characterisation if they are to hold the narrative, but carry it with a lightness of touch, a distinctive style.
Her versatility is apparent in just one cover:
There was a wonderful breakthrough when Noel Streatfield, then the doyenne of children’s authors, saw one of my illustrations in an anthology and asked Collins to commission me to illustrate her next book, The Bell Family. This was based on a radio serial performed on BBC Children’s Hour, about a vicar’s family living in a poor London parish. There was a lot of cheerful make-do-and-mend and a triumph of family affection. The characterisation and dialogue were excellent.
Here’s an illustration from Streatfield’s The Painted Garden, which I first read when I was about 12. Streatfield specialised in family dynamics and, in particular, the intricate and sometimes baffling interplay of personality between sisters. Maybe that was the appeal for me, dealing with two infuriatingly mysterious ones myself.
In this novel, Rachel is the talented beautiful elder sister, a dancer waiting to fulfil her unlimited potential. Jane is the younger – difficult, quarrelsome and not particularly good at anything except loving dogs and vociferously kicking against her helplessness at every opportunity. Tim is their musically-precocious younger brother. All three of them have their lives altered by a year’s displacement, from London to Los Angeles.
Hughes added the extra dimension to my reading of this story and put her pen firmly on what it was to be at home, and a stranger, all at once.
It’s in picture books that Hughes’ understanding and abilities came into full flower.
Children minutely examine and absorb the images in their books and return to them over and over again. As an illustrator this is a huge responsibility. You are aiming not only to enhance the book as a beautiful object, worth hanging onto. You are adding another emotional dimension, combining with the text to amplify the imaginative response the author seeks to elicit from the reader. The height of your ambition is to give your author, reader and publisher not only what they want exactly but what they never dreamed they could have.
In Moving Molly, the telling gesture is expressed in Molly’s taking leave of the empty house she’s always known. The attentive reader sees this small girl’s feelings, in the small gesture of examining a tear in the wallpaper, and leaving her mark.
Alfie is much too busy to examine wallpaper.
We are, amongst other things, trying to entice children (and adults) to make their own leisurely exploration of a picture. Even to perceive the difference between a photograph and a painting. It is no good simply cramming the frame with detailed information, all of which is given equal emphasis. A picture book is a drama. We aim to lead the eye to the bit of the stage where the main action is taking place, to highlight a telling gesture, a touching facial expression or an important detail tucked away somewhere which is a vital clue to the plot. And, more importantly, to invite the reader to inhabit that interface between word and image, the space you are always trying to leave for their imagination.
This small drama is exactly the same size as its intended reader. Only another three-year-old knows how quickly triumph (running faster than Mum and the stroller) can lead to a gesture of bravado (slamming the front door) – bringing you back down to your real size and status. Or does it. Hughes mutely and perfectly shows how Alfie solves the problem he himself created, despite the hectic and desperate actions of the adults around him. Nobody is blamed or shamed in this process, and the beauty of the book for the parent reader lies in its affirmation that life is made of these small moments.
It’s fascinating to read the history of these often maligned books.
Here’s one from my childhood, which plays into the broad perception of them as Disney retellings. I can’t remember seeing the film as a child but was given a Bambi toy made of bright red felt by my grandmother’s neighbour. The toy maintains just this pose. (I still have it but he has requested not to be photographed in his present moth-eaten condition.)
But here’s the one that was my real favourite, from one of the surgery volumes. As Marcus tells in his book, many fine children’s illustrators worked on these books. The pictures for this one were signed J. P. Miller. His experience working (for Disney, as many talented artists have) shows in the excellent design and layout of this tale. As the story opens, he kills the flies attracted to his meal and embroiders ‘Seven at One Blow’ on a belt. This leads to a tactical advantage over a giant, which he exploits with characteristic folktale hubris to free his town.
The artist who worked for Little Golden Books that I most admire is Feodor Rojankovsky. The colour in all of his books is beautifully saturated, especially the deep reds and yellows which are truly golden, recalling woven and embroidered textiles of his native Russia. His interpretation of Frog Went A’Courtin’ won him the Caldecott medal two years before I was born. I encountered it at the St Kilda Public Library during my first job as a children’s librarian. I instantly loved his crayonned evocation of inter-species courtship and feisty Miss Mouse standing her ground – “Without my uncle Rat’s consent, I would not marry the President!”
Here’s a page from his Goldilocks, for Little Golden Books.
In researching my recent Instagram homage to Dorothy Butler’s work (@babiesneedbooks) I came across his alphabet, also published by Golden Books but in a picture book format called Big Golden Books.
As a picture book critic, I’m forced to say that I think there’s evidence on some pages that Golden Books pushed Rojankovsky into this project. The quality of reproduction is not great, several illustrations are little more than roughs, and the usual miscellany that vocabularies result in makes for a jumpy read. All is forgiven for the rapturous endpapers.
Since I read Marcus’s book, I’ve collected the Golden Geography and a few other titles, which there’s no space here to share.
I ran out of time in the waiting room and had to leave the books behind for child patients. As the photo shows, they’re well used.
There’s been a certain nostalgia-driven upsurge in interest in these books – the regrettable Everything I Need to Know I’ve Learned from Little Golden Books – and they’ve become fashion. Recent illustrators such as Dan Yaccarino have worked for Little Golden Books too.
Read the history, cast your mind back and let me know your favourites.
It’s been 150 years since Beatrix Potter was born.
State Library Victoria’s Juliet O’Conor has published this tribute, with a tantalising glimpse inside some treasures in the Library’s collection. Last year, an exhibition called Inspiration by Design at SLV featured original illustrations by Potter from the V&A’s collection. (I’ve written about the Crane illustrations from that exhibition in a previous blog post.)
Here’s the extent of my Potter collection – the remaining titles from a boxed set I bought on my one and only trip to London in 1984. That’s them, squeezing the Golden Books.
Their number has been reduced (from the original 23 in the box) to the titles that were my and my children’s favourites. My pre-parenting favourites were The Tale of Two Bad Mice and The Tale of Mrs Tiggywinkle. Here’s that prickly laundress facing an ironing challenge.
The idea that a hedgehog did the other animals’ laundry and mending directly references the huge domestic workforce that fuelled Victorian society. The steamy claustrophobic kitchen where Mrs Tiggywinkle dips, rinses and presses, all the while gossiping about how her customers soiled their clothes, fascinates both Lucie and the reader. The attention to detail in Potter’s work has been commented on by critic Janet Adam Smith: ‘The sage that Jemima Puddleduck nibbles to make her own stuffing, the crab-apples and green fir-cones with which Nutkin plays nine-pins, suggest the strawberries and columbines of Tudor and Stuart embroideries.’
My friend Anne’s family obviously loved her work too.
My children’s favourite books were Jeremy Fisher, Miss Moppet and the Fierce Bad Rabbit. I followed Dorothy Butler’s advice : ‘Don’t risk overlooking their capacity to captivate and the opportunity they offer to familarise the small child’s ear with precise, Victorian parlour language…As an antidote to the banalities of television utterance, Beatirx Potter’s easily available little books should not go unused.’ (p85, Babies Need Books) Sorry, DB – the kids were also the perfect age to enjoy the BBC’s charming adaptations of the stories in the mid 1990s.
I recently had the pleasure of seeing a friend’s copy of a beautiful rare edition.
Back to Peter Rabbit to finish with. After publisher Frederick Warne’s initial rejection, Potter privately printed and distributed the book – comfort and inspiration for this aspiring picture book writer.When Warne reconsidered, they politely but firmly rejected the “improved” text suggested by Potter’s family friend Canon Rawnsley, which read in part: They sat down to tea / Too good-mannered to cram / and ate bread and milk / and sweet blackberry jam.
We’ve had a protracted autumn. Even now, trees nearby are still giving up their leaves.
When I began this blog, I wanted to record and share my own treasured library. Here’s one of my oldest books, with a recently acquired bookmark.
Floriography, communication through the symbolism of flowers and plants, has been part of many cultures but became very popular in the 19th century.
I probably acquired this little gem 45 years ago at an op shop or church jumble sale, both rich sources of ornate but arcane books. (I still regret letting Practical Taxidermy go.) Published by Frederick Warne and compiled and edited by the modest L.V. , it is a vocabulary. The first part is the names of plants and flowers arranged alphabetically, with meanings; the second part is reversed with the meanings first. It’s tempting to think of the avid Victorian suitor hunting through the garden, book in hand, for the right mixture for their bouquet.
Gorse doesn’t get a mention in the vocabulary, but I already knew its meaning from this entry in Cecily May Barker‘s Alphabet of Flower Fairies. (Those who know me well will be surprised to see the F word spoken of approvingly here. These are the original, and the only, for me.)
As with other blog posts though, I’ve fallen in love with someone else’s book.
Books have been given as prizes in schools, probably as long as they have both existed. I recently spent a very pleasant afternoon with my friend Jean looking at her book, originally awarded to her great-grandmother over 140 years ago.
A sumptuous example of Victorian publishing, the cover’s gilt shows wear by its owner Jane Longmore. She attended the St Kilda Girls’ School of Art and received it as 1st Prize for Sketching from Nature in 1874.
Jane used her skills in later life to paint landscapes on the unconventional canvas of leaves. They were plentiful around her marital home in Lilydale.
This is not a good photograph – it doesn’t do justice to the detail in this landscape, rendered on a leaf approximately 20cm tall and 12 cm wide. I particularly like the way the stem leads my eye into following the wagon on the path through the trees.
As Jean and I paged through Pictorial Beauties of Nature, it became apparent that the book was more than instructive theory to Jane : she had used the book to prepare her canvases as well. The tannins in the leaves have left their impression more than a century later.
To press the leaves, to ensure that the leaves were dried absolutely flat, Jane would have put weights (perhaps other books) on top of Pictorial Beauties. This has taken its toll on the binding and pages, including coloured plates, have come loose. One plate though still has its original protective tissue.
As well as keeping the colours beautifully vibrant, this has unintentionally created another print.
According to The Language of Flowers, holly stands for ‘foresight’, and mistletoe for ‘I surmount difficulties’. Appropriate for the mother of several children, raising them in an isolated settlement while her husband was away for weeks and months. She used her training, and the prize for it, as a springboard to her artmaking in later life. Jean and I think that we found the impression left by the painted leaf here.
My leaf art won’t last to hang on my great-granddaughter’s wall but I’ll think of Jane when I look at it. And will keep the gumleaf away from impressionable books.