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Greetings from Midwinter where the REAL Caldecott Medal winner will be announced tomorrow morning — along with all the other youth media awards. If you can’t be there in person, here is a link to the live webcast (Monday 1/11 at 8 a.m. EST).

It’s been a treat having the conference in our own back yard for a change. All of us at the Horn Book are required to attend and go to a few of the publishers’ parties. No problem! Walking up and down the aisles in the massive exhibit hall, I keep running into old friends and colleagues including librarians, people who work in publishing, teachers, former students, and even some folks I know from totally unrelated parts of my life. It reminds me of being at a high school reunion.

It’s also kind of overwhelming. I’m on day 3, my feet hurt, my face is tired from smiling so much, and I still haven’t seen everything I want to. But I did get to sit in on part of the Notables committee’s discussion 2015 picture books. This is one of the few book award deliberations that is open to the public. Unexpected bonus: Micky Freeny, one of my  2005 Caldecott Committee colleagues, was chairing the group.

Now I’m resting my feet and looking through photos from the past three days. Tomorrow morning I’ll be out the door bright and early, aimin to arrive at the convention center around 7:30 to get a good seat for the Big Announcements. You’ll hear more from all of us after that. Until then, here are a few picture.

View of the exhibit hall showing about one third of the room.

Sarah S. Brannen signing books at the Albert Whitman booth. Note the size of the backpack, presumably full of ARCs and other freebies.

The Notable Children’s Books discussion is open to the public.

Tomorrow morning’s Youth Media Awards press conference will be upstairs in the big ballroom overlooking Boston harbor.

The post Live from ALA appeared first on The Horn Book.

As promised, here is a link to the ballot. It will be open until 9 a.m. (EST) Tuesday. That’s tomorrow. Around noon Tuesday, Jan. 5 we will post the results of the first ballot AND a link to the second and final ballot.

For those who want to think some more before voting, here (below) is the list again. Please go ahead and lobby for your favorites in the comments. You are also allowed to mourn for the books that didn’t make it onto the ballot. But even if you are mourning, please do go ahead and vote! (And also please remember our plea from last Wednesday not to use social media to drum up meaningless votes.)

Calling Caldecott 2016 first ballot titles:

Here are the 25 titles we have chosen to appear on our 2016 Mock Caldecott ballot:

1. The Bear Ate Your Sandwich (Julia Sarcone-Roach)
2. Bird & Diz (Ed Young)
3. Boats for Papa (Jessixa Bagley)
4. Drowned City (Don Brown)
5. Drum Dream Girl (Rafael López)
6. Finding Winnie (Sophie Blackall)
7. Float (Daniel Miyares)
8. If You Plant a Seed (Kadir Nelson)
9. In a Village by the Sea (April Chu)
10. It’s Only Stanley (Jon Agee)
11. Last Stop on Market Street (Christian Robinson)
12. Lenny & Lucy (Erin E. Stead)
13. My Bike (Byron Barton)
14. My Pen (Christopher Myers)
15. The Night World (Mordicai Gerstein)
16. Out of the Woods (Rebecca Bond)
17. Tricky Vic (Greg Pizzoli)
18. Two Mice (Sergio Ruzzier)
19. Voice of Freedom (Ekua Holmes)
20. Wait (Antoinette Portis)
21. Waiting (Kevin Henkes)
22. Water Is Water (Jason Chin)
23. When Sophie’s Feelings Are Really, Really Hurt (Molly Bang)
24. The Whisper (Pamela Zagarenski)
25. Wolfie the Bunny (Zachariah OHora)

The post Calling Caldecott 2016 ballot #1 now open appeared first on The Horn Book.

This year, Calling Caldecott has zoomed by! It’s not just our imagination. Last year there were 22 weeks between Labor Day and ALA; this year, only 18. But it feels rushed every year because there are so many good books out there. Even posting three times a week — and sometimes two books to a post — will leave us with books left out.

After looking back over the comments and at which books made it onto your Top Five lists, Martha and I have come up with a ballot of 25 books. Don’t think for a moment that it was easy. We worry that whatever eventually wins the real Caldecott might not be on our ballot, and we both had moments of sadness when we realized that a favorite wasn’t likely to be a contender. This stage is just as difficult for the Real Committee. I remember those pre-vote moments when it felt as if I was saying goodbye to a best friend who was moving away. The fact that it is inevitable doesn’t make it hurt any less.

Here are the 25 titles we have chosen to appear on our 2016 Mock Caldecott ballot:

1. The Bear Ate Your Sandwich (Julia Sarcone-Roach)
2. Bird & Diz (Ed Young)
3. Boats for Papa (Jessixa Bagley)
4. Drowned City (Don Brown)
5. Drum Dream Girl (Rafael López)
6. Finding Winnie (Sophie Blackall)
7. Float (Daniel Miyares)
8. If You Plant a Seed (Kadir Nelson)
9. In a Village by the Sea (April Chu)
10. It’s Only Stanley (Jon Agee)
11. Last Stop on Market Street (Christian Robinson)
12. Lenny & Lucy (Erin E. Stead)
13. My Bike (Byron Barton)
14. My Pen (Christopher Myers)
15. The Night World (Mordicai Gerstein)
16. Out of the Woods (Rebecca Bond)
17. Tricky Vic (Greg Pizzoli)
18. Two Mice (Sergio Ruzzier)
19. Voice of Freedom (Ekua Holmes)
20. Wait (Antoinette Portis)
21. Waiting (Kevin Henkes)
22. Water Is Water (Jason Chin)
23. When Sophie’s Feelings Are Really, Really Hurt (Molly Bang)
24. The Whisper (Pamela Zagarenski)
25. Wolfie the Bunny (Zachariah OHora)

We’re assuming that you all have New Years events to attend, so this is our last post for the week. When our vote goes live at 9 a.m. Monday morning, this blog truly becomes a Mock Caldecott.

Since Robin is temporarily sidelined, I get to be the heavy who pleads with you all to vote, but please do not make this a popularity contest by sending the ballot link to all and sundry with instructions to vote for your favorites. We want all of our voters to be serious about books. If you haven’t read every single title, that’s okay. But do try to read as many as you can before voting. Please DO send this list to others who know this year’s picture books but haven’t necessarily been following the blog.

As you revisit your favorites, remember that you will vote exactly as the real Caldecott Committee does: you will vote for three books: your first, second, and third choices. When the ballot closes, we will weight them differently. The number of first place vote will be multiplied by 4, second place by 3, and third place by 2. So it’s important to decide not just your top three, but what order you want them to be on the ballot.

Here’s the schedule. All times listed are Eastern Standard Time.

At this point the Real Committee is busy rereading all their nominated books, making notes on what they appreciate and what concerns them. (Experience tells me that a lot of time will given to the concerns. Each member has to be ready to defend against others’ concerns and to lay out their own concerns in a way that the others can hear. Minds will have to be changed!) The Real Committee starts face-to-face deliberations on Friday, January 8, so they are down to the wire, just as we are here.

And now we would love to hear pleas for your favorite books in the comment section below. Have a happy New Year and we’ll see you Monday when you vote.

The post Pre-voting instructions + ballot 1 choices appeared first on The Horn Book.

It’s time to weigh in with your top five picks for the 2016 Caldecott Medal!

Last week, 2015 Caldecott committee member Susan Kusel reminded us what it’s like to be on the Real Committee this time of year, as members submit their seven allowed nominations. And Robin wrote last year both about that nomination process and why, here, we ask for just five titles.

For your convenience, here are the eligible books Calling Caldecott has covered so far this fall:

• Last Stop on Market Street
• A Fine Dessert
• Supertruck
• The Bear Ate Your Sandwich
• Float
• Boats for Papa
• Grasshopper and the Ants
• Tricky Vic
• My Bike
• It’s Only Stanley
• Gordon Parks
• Wolfie and the Bunny
• My Pen
• The Skunk
• Meet the Dullards
• The Night World
• Water Is Water
• I Yam a Donkey
• Leo
• Drum Dream Girl
• Finding Winnie
• Two Mice
• Voice of Freedom
• Drowned City
• Lenny & Lucy
• Big Bear little chair
• The Moon Is Going to Addy’s House
• Funny Bones
• Flop to the Top!
• Waiting
• Wait
• This Is My Home, This Is My School
• The Whisper
• Out of the Woods

…and here are the ones we still hope to discuss before the Midwinter conference:

• The Nonsense Show
• I Used to Be Afraid
• When Sophie’s Feelings Are Hurt…
• In a Village by the Sea
• If You Plant a Seed

Of course, you are welcome to nominate a title not listed above; if you do, it would be great if you could provide some reasoned support for it. Otherwise, titles alone will suffice.

OK, I’ll go first. Except … aaargh!! I can’t, CAN’T, choose just 5. In alphabetical order, my (totally-cheating-with-6) nominations are:

DROWNED CITY (Don Brown)

FINDING WINNIE (Sophie Blackall)

MY BIKE (Byron Barton)

TWO MICE (Sergio Ruggier)

VOICE OF FREEDOM (Ekua Holmes)

WAITING (Kevin Henkes)

Over to you. Hopefully you have more willpower than I do, and will be able to narrow it down … good luck!

The post Top five picture books? appeared first on The Horn Book.

This is the time of year where everyone feels stressed by looming deadlines. Families coming for the holidays, last-minute gift decisions, year-end reports, and of course, final preparations for the Caldecott committee meetings.

As a member of last year’s committee, I can tell you that December is a high-pressure month. The final round of nominations are due, which means one last soul-searching opportunity to determine which books deserve to be on the discussion table. Committee members may sift through piles and piles of books reviewing the top contenders. Or they may pore over notes, annotations, rating numbers, and spreadsheets seeking the most deserving candidates. Eventually everyone will make their final choices.

Then, the nominations actually have to be written. This is a long, intensive process of crafting careful essays that will only ever be seen by fourteen other pairs of eyes. The selected books are re-read so many times that committee members may think they know them better than their creators. Nominators attempt to brilliantly point out every important detail in the book and why it should be a contender.

Caldecott committee members also must read and re-read all of the nominations in preparation for the ALA Midwinter conference. Each of the committee’s 15 members writes 7 nominations, which means 105 essays to consider, analyze, and compare. Usually, there are fewer than 105 books actually under consideration, because some books receive multiple nominations.

It is also the time to take a really close look at the nominated books. All the nominated books will have been read and reread by this point, but December is a good time for multiple readings and deeper consideration. Research is also done into questionable elements that may be discussed during Midwinter. While all this happening, additional books with late publication dates continue to arrive that need to be reviewed for the first time.

Listservs, Facebook feeds, and blogs (like this one) start to fill with mock Caldecott results. Every review publication releases their Best of the Year lists around this time. Suddenly, it feels as though everyone is talking about the Caldecott. The pressure builds. The days keep getting shorter, and the amount of work keeps growing.

For any members of the current Caldecott committee reading this, don’t worry. There’s all the time in the world. You can do it. December will be over before you know it.

Then you can spend January worrying about the weather forecast and how it will affect your Midwinter travel plans. The most important thing in the world will suddenly become arriving on time to the committee meetings.

It will all work out, I promise.

Just hope it doesn’t snow.

The post Crunch time for the Committee is NOW appeared first on The Horn Book.

After Jillian Tamaki received Caldecott recognition for the graphic novel This One Summer last February, you can bet your honor seals that people are looking closely at all types of picture books in 2015. One title that I hope this year’s Caldecott committee will bring to the table is Eleanor Davis and Drew Weing’s Flop to the Top!. Now I know what some of you might be questioning, and here are my responses: Yes, it’s a comic book. Yes, it’s an early reader. And yes, it’s also a picture book (to me at least).

This story benefits from its format, as panels set pace and mood through their sizes, layouts, borders, and background colors. For example, when Wanda’s jealousy grows at her pet-gone-viral (20 million likes!), the frame in which she appears becomes bordered in a thick red line; when she realizes in horror that she’s been out-celebritied by “Floppy Dog” Wilbur, the fill of her panel is all black. Later, when Wanda trails Wilbur and “Sassy Cat” on her bicycle as they drive away in a snazzy limo, a brisk pace is set through an inlay of panels on a double-page spread. When Wanda finds Wilbur and makes her final apologetic plea, she appears content in a narrow, horizontal panel in the middle of the page. The symmetry of this image (Wanda sandwiched between two security guards) provides focus. White space around a close-up of Wilbur in the following panel marks the beginning of the story’s resolution.

The physical sizes, colors, and borders of speech balloons emphasize plot and characterization, as seen when Wanda declares “You are a BAD DOG” and her oversized statement is bordered in a thick black line, displaying her vehemence. From the “many faces of Floppy Dog” on the endpapers (spoiler alert: they’re all pretty much the same) to siblings James and Jade’s defiance of gender norms through their toy choices and pink and blue-colored speech balloons, illustrations provide further depth to character not reflected in the text.

There is an air of sophistication about Weing and Davis’s soft palette and layered images, which are drawn and colored digitally and resemble transparent tissue paper, or even stained glass. Surreal shapes, diagonal lines, and analogous coloring heighten emotion and highlight the crowd’s outrageous, herd-like behavior, all the while drawing readers’ eyes to the main characters’ actions amidst the chaos. Smooth, curvy shapes emphasize the human nature of the story and reinforce the happy, hopeful ending, while hip Instagram-esque photo boxes and the recurring star motif (as seen on the stage, in the sky, in Wanda’s clothing, and elsewhere) express the theme of celebrity and raise questions about its importance.

What do you all think? Does this book — like Wilbur — have star status?

The post Flop to the Top! appeared first on The Horn Book.

In a recent post we asked for your local school and library Mock Caldecott lists, and several titles came up that we wanted to add to the Calling Caldecott conversation. Two of these are the subjects for today: Big Bear little chair by Lizi Boyd and The Moon Is Going to Addy’s House by Ida Pearle.

Boyd’s Big Bear little chair was named a NYT Best Illustrated book this year, along with others we’re discussing this fall (A Fine Dessert; The Skunk; Tricky Vic; Leo; Funny Bones). Here’s what the NYT said about Big Bear little chair: “This ingenious take on the ‘opposites’ book shows the youngest children that big, little and tiny are all in how you look at things. Using just black, white and a velvety gray, with a bit of red, Boyd’s delightful cut paper compositions juxtapose the large and the small in unexpected ways: a ‘big meadow’ is big because it’s full of small flowers; a ‘big seal’ towers over a ‘tiny castle’ that’s made of sand.”

It is an opposites book, but it also encompasses the concept of relative size (big, little, and tiny). So it’s clever-clever. And as you can see from the cover, it has a striking shape and an equally striking palette (red, black, white, and gray) with the promise of strong, eye-catching compositions. Each individual page is striking. The art is stylish; so is the book design. The juxtapositions (of large and small) are indeed unexpected. The gouache illustrations are sometimes delicate; sometimes bold; always beautifully composed. It’s easy to see why the judges chose this book for the best illustrated list.

But who is the intended audience? The interspersed bears’ story (in which two bears eventually get matched up with her appropriate chair —and with each other) is clearly for very young readers, but the “opposites” in the intervening pages are sometimes quite sophisticated in concept. See Big Elephant/little trick. “Trick”? That’s an idea, not an object — different from and more advanced than most of the other pairs (Big Moon/little star; etc.). Visually, the use of red is inconsistent. Red almost always spotlights the “little” item on each page, but not always. Crucially, it isn’t used for the first example, where we see a “Big Plant” and a “little cocoon.” On this page the red highlights berries on the plant, not the cocoon. For the rest of the first section, though, and into the next section, red will be used for the “little” item on each page. This wouldn’t be a problem in a book for sophisticated readers, but — see the young-ish interspersed bear-chair story…

The Moon Is Going to Addy’s House is not your typical, sleepy looking-at-the-moon story. This is, rather, an ecstatic, intoxicating experience: a bacchanal for the picture-book set. In tour-de-force cut-paper collages, Pearle uses a controlled riot of vivid colors and patterns to evoke intensity and emotion. The text is much less emotional; all the feeling here is in the illustrations.

The Kirkus review said that the book is “exquisite, electrifying, soothing, and soporific, brilliant in color”; that the landscapes “throb with vitality.” The use of bright pink and deep purple is unusual and intense. Some of the double-page spreads take one’s breath away with their sheer beauty: such as the one where a striated purple sky and pink moon above and their reflection below (in a body of water) are separated by a thin stretch of dark-brown road. Other illustrations capture that universal human sense of connection with the moon: such as the one in which the girl sees the moon reflected in the car’s rear-view mirror and feels as if she could catch it in her hand (echoes of Thurber’s Many Moons?).

But in some illustrations, it’s difficult to know where to look; and although the way the moon sometimes seems to jump around in the sky may be realistic, it can be disconcerting. The book’s horizontal shape sometimes works in its favor (as in the gorgeous spread mentioned above) and sometimes to its disadvantage: see the “Look way up high / and way down low” spread, where the “high” and “low” aren’t that different.

So. Will the Real Committee have these two (very beautiful) books on its radar? Do you?

The post Mock Caldecott Catch-up, part 1 appeared first on The Horn Book.

It’s hard to believe that there was once a time when full-color picture books were uncommon. It was usually an indication that the artist had somehow proved himself worthy (::cough:: Maurice Sendak) and was awarded with a full palette to use on his masterpieces (::cough:: ::cough:: Where the Wild Things Are). When you look back on the Caldecott Medal books prior to the mid-1970s, one thing that stands out is the near absence of full-color books. And it’s amazing to see what artists like Evaline Ness, Marcia Brown, and Lynd Ward were able to create with black and white or one, two, or three colors. These books don’t look at all flashy to our modern eyes, accustomed to full color. But the books are a testament to the artistic discipline and commitment to craft that we often see in the picture-book artists of yore.

Erin Stead would likely be right at home among these artists. Her latest picture book, Lenny & Lucy, gracefully written by Philip Stead, is a quiet, understated story about fear, specifically fear of change, as represented by the dark woods on the other side of the bridge. Peter can see them from the bedroom window of his new house, and he knows scary things are hiding behind the trees. Accompanied by his golden retriever, Harold, he creates a gigantic figure out of blankets and pillows, names it Lenny, and places it as a sentry next to the bridge. Lenny does the job but he looks lonely, so Peter creates another pillow person, Lucy. Lenny and Lucy give Peter a bit of added security, but he doesn’t start to feel truly safe and comfortable until his new next-door neighbor Millie stops by to play.

It’s interesting to note what Stead has done with color here — or perhaps to note what she hasn’t done. She hasn’t splashed it all over the page, covering every bit of white space with pigment. She has used it sparingly — a touch of blue on Peter’s hat, gold on his jacket and shoes and all over Harold (of course), green on Lenny’s blanketed torso and pink on Lucy’s. And when Millie shows up, she’s dressed in red. These small bits of color are amplified against the monochromatic gray background used to illustrate the woods and the loud floral wallpaper on the wall in Peter’s new house. Both the woods and wallpaper loom large, and are almost claustrophobic, representing Peter’s fear of the unknown. Once he meets Millie, the woods recede, and the gray pages open up to wide white spaces.

Stead’s use of gray and white with just a bit of color demonstrates that a picture book does not need to be flashy to be distinguished. Too often, it seems, we fall victim to what I call the “magpie syndrome” — always reaching for the brightest, the shiniest, the most dazzling when we look for the best in picture books. I’m glad we have artists like Erin Stead to remind us that less is often more. Her pictures leave room for interpretation and the reader’s imagination, just as Philip Stead’s text has left room for the artist to add her own touches to the story.

It’s rare for any picture book to hit all of the criteria the Caldecott committee uses to identify a “distinguished American picture book for children.”

1. Excellence of execution in the artistic technique employed;
2. Excellence of pictorial interpretation of story, theme, or concept;
3. Appropriateness of style of illustration to the story, theme or concept;
4. Delineation of plot, theme, characters, setting, mood or information through the pictures;
5. Excellence of presentation in recognition of a child audience.

This one has it all.

The post Lenny & Lucy appeared first on The Horn Book.

I was fortunate enough to be in the crowd when the Tamaki sisters’ This One Summer was announced as a Caldecott Honor book (at the Youth Media Awards, where the Coretta Scott King, Caldecott, Newbery, etc. are announced) this past January. I remember hearing more than a few audible gasps in the theater, and with good reason: not since The Invention of Hugo Cabret had a book for the older end (what I’d consider ages 10-14) of the Caldecott age range been recognized. (Incidentally, This One Summer was arguably the most controversial pick of last year’s award winners, as evidenced by the lively discussion found here.) Admittedly, this year’s committee members don’t have anything to do with last year’s books, but at the same time the fifteen folks on the 2016 Caldecott committee do not live in a vacuum. They are no doubt aware of books for older kids, probably more so than any other committee BT (Before Tamaki).

But what about the actual books? Have there really been any graphic novels for older readers that have a chance this year? Absolutely, and to my mind, Drowned City heads the list. Don Brown’s second full-length graphic novel is brilliant in its conciseness, both textually and visually, and is certainly one of my top three Caldecott-eligible books this year.

The reader’s first glimpse of New Orleans is iconic and terrifying: an eagle’s eye–view of the city in the distance with a foreboding gray-black mass of … SOMETHING … in the foreground. The menacing cloud obscures the borders of the large panel. An inset above the faraway skyline shows a FEMA staffer claiming, “When I have a nightmare, it’s a hurricane in New Orleans.” It’s a brilliant bit of storytelling and design, with text and graphics combining to create a palpable feeling of dread.

When Katrina “crashes ashore” in the nearby town of Buras, Brown uses four panels stacked top-to-bottom to show the storm’s destruction in sequence. This is not the only time panels are laid out to maximum effect: at one point later in the book, two wordless panels follow a textbox which reads, “Swollen dead bodies lie in streets and float in the water.” The illustrations show just that: stark depictions of death over which additional words truly would have been intrusive. This gruesome, yet brutally effective, montage effect would fit perfectly in a war documentary.

But as chilling as Brown’s artwork is, it can also be quite beautiful. In one illustration, Brown depicts the storm as a sort of buzzsaw with a hole in it (the eye of the hurricane). The water being churned up by the monster storm is a gorgeous blue-green, the kind of water you’d expect to see at a resort in Cancun or off the coast of some Greek island. His people aren’t exactly pretty (they never are in any of his work; Kadir Nelson, he ain’t), but the messy lines, the imperfect humans with poorly defined features … they fit this subject perfectly.

Many from the children’s book world will question why the Caldecott committee would seriously consider graphic novels: thankfully, Elisa and Pat Gall have covered this. But for an award given to a book that “essentially provides the child with a visual experience,” why wouldn’t graphic novels get a look? Of course the committee will consider this book, and hopefully several other graphic novels (Jessie Hartland’s Steve Jobs: Insanely Great is another one that’s high on my list), but the real question is: will graphic novel–loving committee members be able to build consensus around one or more of them? Fingers crossed: I do so love those gasps of disbelief when certain award winners are announced.

The post Drowned City: Hurricane Katrina & New Orleans appeared first on The Horn Book.

The fall is whooshing by, and here at Calling Caldecott we’ve just about covered the spring 2015 titles (those published from January thru June) —whew! — and are ready to move on to discussing the fall season’s books. But time feels short.

With ALA Midwinter being so early this year, perhaps you’ve already begun to organize your local school or library Mock Caldecott discussions. We’d love to hear about them — from your shortlists to your process to the outcomes.

Here’s a link, if you’re interested, to a post Robin wrote a few years ago about her own classroom process.

Please share your experiences below. Thank you!

The post A Call for Mocks! appeared first on The Horn Book.

I love a story that I have never heard before. Enter Drum Dream Girl: How One Girl’s Courage Changed Music, which tells, in the simplest language, the story of Millo Castro Zaldarriaga. It does not surprise me that I had not heard of one little girl in Cuba; what surprised me was that girls were not allowed to play drums in Cuba in the 1920s. It was actually considered taboo. I simply had no idea. Which brought me to my next thought, “Were women in the good old USA allowed to play drums?” This book did that thing that books sometimes do: open the crack in the door to the realization that I sometimes accept things without examination. I really had never even thought about drummers, let alone girl drummers. So, when I could only bring Karen Carpenter and Meg White to my mind as female drummers, this book sent me running to the Internet to do some quick research about the many other female percussionists. I hope Millo’s story will inspire young readers to do the same.

Margarita Engle and Rafael López team up to tell Millo’s story — Engle in poetry and López in deep, saturated acrylics on wood board. The Caldecott Committee will undoubtedly spend some time talking about López’s color choices. He uses deep blues, purples, and greens, with each painting filled with images of flowers, birds, and butterflies, allowing the reader to feel a part of Cuba. Millo and her sisters are always clad in white, which allows the reader both to see them on the bright pages and to feel how separate Millo must have felt when she could not follow her dream. On the pages where their father is chastising the girls, the artist uses hot orange and browns to show his ire and the sisters’ disappointment.

The illustrator requires the reader to turn the book 90 degrees for two tall spreads — a carnival scene and an affecting image of Millo’s drum shut up in a birdcage. The committee will surely discuss why he chose to have the reader turn the book. I am not sure myself, especially when there is another image (when she is flying to the moon) that seems to be made for a vertical illustration. It always makes for interesting table discussion when artists make these sorts of choices.

We learn in the historical note that Millo was of Chinese-African-Cuban descent. There are a few nods to those cultures in the art, most notably a Chinese dragon and costumed drummers. I did not pick up on any image that refered to Millo’s African heritage, though I bet some of you will!

The post Drum Dream Girl appeared first on The Horn Book.

Who remembers a little book from last year called El Deafo? Graphic novel memoir? About growing up deaf? Won a Newbery Honor and an Eisner Award — that one.

Cece Bell’s follow-up to El Deafo — that smart, witty, sensitive, unique, personal story — is a picture book about … a dumb-ass (literally!) donkey and the pompous yam who tries to school it.

This book is a joke about language in the who’s-on-first? tradition, and it’s a hilarious one from start to finish. Who knew grammar could be so funny? But this is Calling Caldecott, so let’s leave Heavy Medal to talk about the text (hint, hint) while we talk about the pictures.

Can you talk about these pictures without the words? Do the illustrations take a backseat to Bell’s laugh-out-loud text? Plus, come on, those characters are kind of gross: that lumpy tuber, the weird-looking green beans, the horizontal carrot. Worst of all, those yellow donkey-teeth. *Shudder*

From the perspective of how well these pictures tell this silly story, Bell’s book is a rollicking success. The art was done in china marker and acrylics on vellum (per the copyright page), and it looks like something a child might draw, with that asymmetrical yam and that simple-looking donkey made up of recognizable shapes. The thick outlines, too, are childlike, but look at the shades and textures in them, also in the word-bubble outlines. And look at how the yam has slight dimension to its skin, and how the donkey’s muzzle draws your attention straight to those teeth. There’s more going on here visually than first meets the eye, both in the art itself and — again, in a book about grammar — in the way a sentence looks. If you didn’t know before what quotation marks were for, or bold font, or ALL CAPS, you probably do now.

The scenery doesn’t change much throughout the book; the characters are basically standing in one place, arguing (again: about grammar). How do you make that interesting to look at? One way is by changing the characters’ facial expressions and postures. You can tell that Donkey is having a grand old time from beginning to end — look at its eyes (alternating between wide-open curiosity and closed in satisfaction or laughter) and at the ever-changing angle of its ears. And as the yam’s fury grows, its eyebrows change shape, its glasses come off — classic temper tantrum.

The use of panels and frames also shape the story with pacing and humor. There are a lot of spreads in a row, then when the argument really gets going, we get to those panels, which accelerate things even more.

The background colors, too, shift, but they’re subdued so as not to compete with the mayhem. Light green, light blue … then orange? Uh-oh. Those pages really call attention to the action — that funny “sniff,” that grammar lesson, complete with diagram, the light bulb starting to go off in Donkey’s brain, the final CHOMP!

And *finally* we get that great payoff for having suffered through those yucky-looking teeth. “OH! You is LUNCH!”

Humor doesn’t usually win the Caldecott. Hard-to-quantify things (such as page-turns) don’t usually win. Come on, Donkey. Prove ’em wrong. Show ’em how smart you are.

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In this exploration of the water cycle, Jason Chin uses watercolor and gouache to paint lovely scenes of a family’s pond-side, rural homestead. Each season is shown in vibrant colors and thoughtful details, and water is shown in a different form on each page. I particularly liked the choice to present the house and its surrounding field and pond from varying angles.

Miranda Paul’s text pulls the reader on to the next page with an unless…, and then reveals the newest transformations. Rhyming words like swirl / curl, misty / twisty, and pack / smack lend a poetic air to the story. Picture books about scientific concepts can sometimes veer into the didactic, but Water Is Water feels like an engaging story about children who love being out in nature.

The two main children in the story are busy in their pursuit of turtles, snakes, and frogs, while their black cat watches their antics from the sidelines. The movement and the motion of the children on each page is a good analogy for the changing water cycle. I also liked the depiction of the children in various forms of play. At home and at school, they are running, chasing, skating, throwing snowballs, and pressing cider.

Of interest to the Sibert committee, if not the Caldecott committee, will be the back matter that includes a deeper exploration of the water cycle, suggestions for further reading, and a select bibliography. It seems as if nonfiction sometimes gets short shrift with award committees. It is difficult to compare the literary qualities of fiction with nonfiction. Is Water Is Water strong enough to overcome a possible bias toward fiction?

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There’s a lot to like about The Night World, from Caldecott medalist Mordicai Gerstein. Unlike your esteemed leaders here at Calling Caldecott, I’ve never been on the Caldecott committee, but if I were, this book would be in my serious-consideration stack.

Let’s start with the dust jacket. It welcomes readers with a window, as a boy and his cat stare out at the night sky. We are behind them. It’s very inviting: Come see what we’re seeing. The shadows and the darkness also immediately establish a tone of mystery, but I don’t think it’s scary. There’s abundant wonder and even a sense of peacefulness.

Be sure to look at the dust-jacket spine, with its tiny illustration of the profile of a cat with shining green eyes. This cat, we learn later, is the very creature who wakes the boy and invites him outside, guiding the night-world adventure. The back of the jacket has a second window, also open, also inviting the reader in. There’s a slogan of sorts printed on the back: “What secrets does the night world hold?” I don’t know if slogan is the right word. I see these more and more on picture books, front and back. I’m not fond of them. I’d rather leave it to the artist to do the work to draw the reader in to the story — not advertising one-liners and the like, as if the book were laundry detergent sitting on a shelf. Is this a trend that will go away? I don’t know. Am I being unreasonable? Perhaps.

Take off the jacket, and you’ll see a different cover illustration of the boy, the cat, and the Milky Way: silhouettes for our characters; white eyes for the boy; shining green eyes for the cat; and white stars. All else is blackness. They stare in wonder. We also see this Milky Way sweeping across the endpapers, both front and back.

Gerstein gets right to work telling the story. Even before the copyright and title page, there’s an illustration establishing that the boy is going to sleep, as he bids Sylvie (the cat’s name, we learn) good night, and through that open window we see colors fading as the sun sets. On the title page, it’s completely dark, and we see the boy sleeping. On the next several expertly paced spreads, Sylvie wakes the boy, inviting him outside into the “night world” (“It’s too late to go out, Sylvie … or is it too early?”). They tiptoe through the dark house. Gerstein builds the tension well.

With each double-page spread, as they make their cautious way toward the back yard, the space containing the illustrations shrinks. As soon as they step outside, into the night world, the illustrations expand to fill whole double-page spreads. The illustrations grow as the night world grows. “There are shadows everywhere.” That Gerstein keeps the night-time world interesting is no small feat — especially once they’ve reach the back yard. “Where are their colors?” the boy asks of the flowers. It’s all shadows and outlines, and Gerstein uses negative space, the empty areas around his objects, to help define them. As the sun rises — which is precisely what Sylvie wanted the boy to see — the glow builds, colors blossom, and the “sun bursts.” This Dorothy-in-the-land-of-Oz moment is damn near glorious, and readers then see the relaxed, energetic lines of Gerstein’s artwork. But it’s those acrylics and colored pencils that really shine. Quite literally.

In a nice touch on the final spread, we see the nocturnal creatures sleeping in the shadows of bushes along the bottom edges of the pages. But Sylvie (who has successfully evangelized the new day) and the boy will have none of that: “It’s going to be a beautiful day!” the boy yells as they both run inside.

A closing author’s note on the final endpapers (no wasted space here) is short and sweet. Gerstein recalls a memory, at age four, of seeing his back yard at night and how foreign it appeared. “I’ve also been a great watcher of sunrises,” he closes; “to me, they are like watching the creation of the world.”

Will the committee choose a story that spends most of its time in shadows, employing a dark, gray-black palette? It’s not like there isn’t a record of books with night-time palettes garnering Caldecott love. A few examples: John Rocco’s Blackout (2012 Honor), The House in the Night, illustrated by Beth Krommes (2009 Medal), and Kevin Henkes’s Kitten’s First Full Moon (2005 Medal). Is it easy to overlook how hard it is to keep a book with limited color interesting?

Have you seen this one? I hope you have. What do you think?

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I admit to being a leeetle unsure of what to make of this one.

In an SLJ interview, author Mac Barnett was less than definitive: “What is The Skunk about? Is it a comedy? A romance? A ghost story? A tale of paranoia? An allegory of trauma?” And the Kirkus review called it “peculiar, perplexing, and persistent — training wheels for Samuel Beckett.” I guess I’d add Ionesco as well (that scene at the opera? “Excuse me, madam, but there seems to be a skunk on your head.” Pure The Bald Soprano).

But we are here to talk about The Skunk as a Caldecott contender, and that’s maybe a little easier. We don’t have to know what it’s about; we just have to look at how the text and pictures interact to tell the story.

I think artist Patrick McDonnell made a wise choice to keep the palette super-simple and not try to add too many visual bells and whistles to this enigmatic story. The one absolutely necessary role of the pictures here is to link man and skunk — fuse them into one — and McDonnell accomplishes that for sure, through color scheme and attire: both figures are starkly black and white with a spot of red (for the skunk, his nose; for the man; his tuxedo’s bowtie); both sport tails, often echoing each other in curl and flip.

On the title page appears a sketch of a realistic-looking skunk, standing on all fours in an implied natural/country setting. For me the contrast between this realistic skunk and the skunk character in the book — who walks on two legs and is a bon vivant urbanite — underscores the surrealism of the story that follows and again helps reinforce the connection between man and skunk.

Plus. The Skunk wins the Wittiest Endpapers of the Year contest, hands down. The opening endpapers are vertical black and white blocks of color. The closing endpapers are exactly the same — with the addition of some red triangles, which immediately transform the black and white blocks of color into … a tuxedo. The whole theme is captured perfectly, and wordlessly.

What do people think of the abrupt change in palette — to bright, cheery primary colors without a hint of the noir that has thus far permeated the book — after the man moves to a new part of the city? I think it would have made more sense thematically to change the palette as soon as he emerges from underground, since once he gets to the new neighborhood he is no longer stalked by the skunk. But I guess that would have stolen the drama from the “when I opened my bedroom door, guess who was waiting there for me?” page-turn…

Thoughts on this droll, perplexing book? (And … are we looking at it? Or is it looking at us? Aaaaaaaaahh!)

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KT: I was excited to see this book come in because I have long been a fan of Gordon Parks’s photography, and I was eager to learn more about him. Carole Boston Weatherford’s book is less a biography than it is the story of how he found his calling. When he was twenty-five, he was so taken by a magazine photo-essay about migrant farmers that he bought a used camera and began to document what he observed.

Artist Jamey Christoph faced several challenges with illustrating this book: to start with, there’s the historical bit and the different settings, both of which would have required research. Christoph does both really well, giving a remarkable sense of time and place through his muted stylized paintings.

And then there’s the whole challenge of making the pictures interesting when most of the action in the book involves Parks taking photographs again and again. And again. Here’s where I think Christoph’s art really shines. He focuses on Parks (always easily identifiable by the camera strap and camera hanging from his shoulder) as the observer and shows us what Parks is seeing. In each of these illustrations, Parks is off to one side, often framed by light, looking at something that strikes him. His obvious fascination with what he is seeing causes us to look more closely, too. We see the old man and little boy sitting in an alley. We see the mother and daughter walking past the restaurant with the “Whites Only!” sign posted in the window. We see the old charwoman scrubbing the floor in the government building. We really see them, just as Parks’s photos of these subjects makes us see them.

Most amazing: none of Christoph’s art actually looks like photos, even the ones that are supposed to be some of Parks’s most famous photos. The only way we know they’re illustrations of photos is by the white frames around them, and that they’re painted in brown tone rather than color.

Robin: It’s also clear that Christoph loves the subject matter. Whenever I read a book by an illustrator or author I do not know, I usually do a little research. This time, I went to the interwebs to find out about Jamey Christoph. His website was bare bones, but I was able to find his older blog and find out a little more about him. He appears to be quite young, is a freelance artist, and has drawn a lot of Playbill covers. He has also illustrated about ten books. I don’t think I am speaking out of turn when I say this current book is the most serious book he has taken on. On his blog, he says that he didn’t know a lot about Parks and details why he wanted to be a part of this book. To work with Carole Boston Weatherford must have been an amazing learning experience. If you poke around on his blog, you will see the two of them visiting a Washington, DC, third-grade class and passing out free copies of the book.

But I digress. When I was doing research, I found original photographs of Ella Watson [the subject of “American Gothic,” one of Parks’s most famous photos] and her family. I assume the committee will be finding these as well. I remember doing this sort of research when I was on the committee. I probably would call on a photographer to help me look at the originals in light of the artist’s interpretation if the book seems to have traction with my committee. (By this time of year, each member of the committee would know how many suggestions each book has, and, in a few short weeks, the members will know how many nominations each book has after the first round of nominations.)

KT, you said you were impressed that the illustrations don’t look like photos. I thought that was amazing, too. How do you think the illustrations, particularly the ones on the spread with five small images and Mrs. Watson’s somber face, hold up to the original photos?

KT: If you haven’t seen the originals, they are fine. But if you know the originals, you will see that the photos, as Christoph shows them, are cut off. The Ella Watson photographs often show the surroundings of everyday life, with people in the background, often seen through doorways or reflected in mirrors. You might see framed photographs on bureaus that show earlier generations of her family. There’s such a depth to his photographs, such an exploration of life and character. He showed ordinary people as complex and multi-layered. That’s part of what makes Gordon Parks’s photographs art.

Christoph shows only a small portion of these photos, but he makes it look like he’s showing the whole thing. Essentially, he’s reducing them to snapshots. So while I don’t want Christoph’s version to be an exact replica of the Parks photographs, I do want them to come closer to communicating the feeling those photographs give us. He does accomplish this, at least, with the “American Gothic” photo of Ella Watson, standing in front of the American flag with her mop and broom. Perhaps that is because it was a more formal pose. But am I expecting too much?

Robin: I don’t know. There is the whole “let’s look at the book that was written (or illustrated), not the book we wished had been written” issue that comes up a lot on committees or while we review. I often have to remind myself that the book in front of us was the one that was written and that there are a lot of children who would know nothing about Gordon Parks if the book had not been created. So, there’s that. But, these photos do exist. They are famous photos, and lots of people know them and will know that they were not snapshots.

I love the feel of that page, even though I prefer the original photographs. That muted sepia and the regal faces of the women and children in the photos draw me in and make me want to know more. I like how the author’s words are stacked up on the right side and the photos fill the rest of the spread. The picture on the far left corner, where the woman does not wear her glasses, seems especially poignant with the baby, the shirtless boy, and the girl with her doll. Gordon Parks is off the page, doing his work: taking pictures.

So, it does matter. But, the whole book matters more to me. I love how the artist uses shadows and light to highlight what he wants the reader to see.

Which was your favorite spread, KT?

KT: I have two favorite spreads, and I think they both show the strength of this book overall. The first one appears early on, and it shows Parks at age fourteen, just after he moved to Minneapolis after his mother died. It shows him standing on a threshold holding a suitcase, looking like he’s ready to step into an uncertain future. On the facing page, it shows an array of three snapshots of Parks at different stages in his young adulthood: working as a busboy, a piano player, and a waiter. They are not only effective at showing the passage of time, they also foreshadow his future career as a photographer.

My second-favorite spread is of Parks walking home from work in Washington, DC, stopping to observe an old man sitting on the steps in a back alley, next to a little boy. This is a really good example of what you mentioned earlier, Robin, about Christoph’s use of light and shadow. The light in this picture falls on Parks on the edge of the left side of the page and on the Capitol building in the background. The man and boy are in shadow on the far right side of the spread, but there is a bit of light glowing on their shirts that draws your eye right to them. The same light casts a glow on the puddle in front of them. The viewer gets to feel the same thing Parks is experiencing in this scene: you almost missed these two people in the shadows, but once you look, you can see them, and you won’t forget them. It’s a very dramatic, yet quiet, scene.

Robin: That’s a good place to stop, KT, because the DC spread happens to be my favorite! It has a completely different feel from the other spreads and allows the reader to see how Parks is feeling in this new city. He is searching for his subject and, when he finds her, we are all better for it. Maybe the committee will fret over the drawings of photographs, and maybe they won’t. I never know how that will all go down. What do you all think the committee will appreciate in this new book from the pen of poet Carole Boston Weatherford and artist Jamey Christoph?

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Ah, one of my favorite subjects: picture books for the very young. This year some of my most-loved books fall into that category, including several we’re talking about on Calling Caldecott this fall. We all know that these books face an uphill battle when it comes to Caldecott recognition. But that doesn’t mean they don’t deserve it! So brace yourself for an impassioned plea for Byron Barton’s My Bike, the latest entry in his transportation series (which includes My Car and My Bus).

This book has everything a book for preschoolers needs: a kid-friendly topic; a clear trajectory from beginning to end; propulsive page turns; repetition in pattern and/or language; a close congruency between pictures and text; art that captures attention and that limits its details to those of interest to kids.

My Bike could not begin more directly or succinctly, or lead more efficiently into the action. First Barton introduces Tom with the simplest of three-word texts — “I am Tom” —  on the left hand page and a forefronted portrait of Tom himself on the right side: blue eyes, striped green and yellow shirt, purple pants. On the next spread, the four-word text says, “This is my bicycle,” and the picture shows Tom pointing at the bike (brilliant!). The next page turn shows the whole bike with all its parts labeled (a genius preamble, for vehicle-loving kids). And then we’re off — “I ride my bicycle to work” — into this clever, beautifully foreshadowed, predictable-then-not-so, kid-pleasing story.

Here are just a few of the things I appreciate about this book:

• The bright neon rainbow palette is entirely appropriate for the subject, and varying the colors of the pages and the typeface (from yellow to purple to blue to red, etc) adds an enormous amount of energy and vibrancy.
• Young readers are constantly propelled forward through the book, with Tom riding from left to right on every spread. Also, his presence on every spread — riding his bike, often waving to the people and animals he passes — anchors the events.
• The rounded typeface echoes and reinforces the wheels on Tom’s bike and other vehicles, the round heads of the human characters, the balloons, the balls, and on and on.
• The population of this book is diverse to the max. There is a spectacular mix of skin hues and genders and even species (in Barton’s transportation books, even cats and dogs ride the bus and go to the circus). And just FYI, Barton has been including brown faces and women in nontraditional gender roles in his books for 30 years. He’s no newcomer to a commitment to diversity.
• Barton displays respect for his child audience through the foreshadowing — the unicycle handle just visible sticking out of his backpack; the slow unfolding of his eventual destination, with first the sight of the circus truck, then a glimpse of circus tents in the far distance, etc.
• The humor (in the twist at the end) is matched perfectly to the audience. And I think kids will find the last view of Tom riding his bicycle while still WEARING HIS CLOWN’S NOSE hilarious.

Will others love My Bike as much as I do? Will the members of the Caldecott committee (and other committees as well — I’m looking at you, Geisel people) jump on the bandwagon…er, bandbike?

The post My Bike appeared first on The Horn Book.

Robert Miller was known to everyone except his own family as Count Victor Lustig (or by any of forty-five other aliases). He was a con man, with a career full of ways to separate people from their money, including, believe it or not, selling the Eiffel Tower. He was “one of the most crooked con men ever to have lived.” Not your usual subject for a children’s picture book, but Geisel Award winner Greg Pizzoli pulls it off. Like any good picture book, Tricky Vic: The Impossibly True Story of the Man Who Sold the Eiffel Tower is written with a light touch, and the mixed media illustrations are gorgeously simple-seeming with plenty of visual play that will appeal to children and adults alike, and which complement and extend the text. Vic’s face, for example, is not a face at all, but a fingerprint, and one of his “marks” (victims) was Frenchman Andre Poisson (French for fish), his head replaced with that of a fish, with a speech bubble saying, “He took the bait.”

The beautiful design, the informative sidebars, and these amusing visual elements ought to play well with the Caldecott committee. These little touches are subtle but add up to a winning package. The muted color choices are a bit of a nod to the Elliot Ness era and allow the reader to feel as if he or she is in the middle of an old movie. A gray-green sensibility runs through the book, while the fingerprints and fish heads serve to keep the tone light. However, the committee may also consider one historical issue: Pizzoli says in his author’s note that he altered the actual timeline of Robert Miller’s story, placing Vic’s conning of Al Capone before the sale of the Eiffel Tower, when most accounts suggest he did that afterwards. Pizzoli felt he was giving precedence to character development over exact historical accuracy. Can he do that and have the book still be nonfiction? Will that matter to the Caldecott committee? As a former member of the Sibert committee, I can just picture the discussion through that Sibert lens. I think the Caldecott committee will see this as nonfiction: everything in the text is true — even if the sequence of events has been skewed — and it helps that Pizzoli points out what he did and why. It’s a bit of literary license in the service of good storytelling, which is what any book committee is looking to honor.

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The Grasshopper & the Ants adds another title to Jerry Pinkney’s growing set of books based on fables by Aesop and Andersen. Unlike his Caldecott-winning The Lion & the Mouse (2009), this title has text, except for an extended wordless sequence in the middle.

But the Caldecott committee will not be comparing this to Pinkney’s other fable books, because they’re only allowed to discuss titles published in 2015.

Here, Pinkney’s adaptation softens the harsher elements of Aesop’s version, allowing the ants to show compassion and portraying the grasshopper as a guy who is devoted to his art rather than just a lazy freeloader. The action starts in the spring and moves quickly through the seasons as the grasshopper implores the ants to stop working and join him fishing, dancing, singing, etc. The ants don’t stop their rushing around to gather food before the snow covers it all up. Pinkney depicts his characters realistically (every leg segment, abdomen, and antenna in place), but dresses the ants in acorn caps and the grasshopper in a natty straw hat and vest.

When winter comes, the grasshopper finds himself surrounded by lots and lots of snow. What follows is a five-spread wordless sequence that juxtaposes the busy ants and the lonely grasshopper. In one especially effective spread, we see the ants in their cozy underground tunnels full of stored food, while a flap folds up to show the grasshopper, hungry and shivering in the snow above them.

Pinkney’s art is as intricate as ever, and it’s clear how much research and thought he put into this book. The endpapers, the illustrative lettering on the title page, and the dual jacket and cover are all exquisite. But to my eye, the pages illustrating the actual story are a little too detailed. They are so full of shapes that it can be hard to figure out what’s happening. This style works better for the ants, with their many dark legs making an interesting repeated design. This style is less successful with the grasshopper. It takes me a second to figure out what position he is sitting in and what he’s doing with all those legs. I also think the wings are too prominent. When I was a kid I spent many hours in the summer hunting and catching grasshoppers and crickets. Their wings stay folded against the abdomen until they jump, so that seems like one aspect Pinkney could have changed to make the character look simpler. I don’t think I’m alone in perceiving this art as overly busy. The first time through, readers will probably struggle to parse the images, but the payoff will come on subsequent readings when they will see more and more as they look again and again.

I don’t want to sound like a downer here. I am a fan of Pinkney’s work and love the texts he chooses to illustrate. Whenever a new book of his comes into the office, I want to drop everything and look at it. But I do think that his style is working against him in this instance.

But that’s just my opinion. I am ready to be convinced otherwise — and I have no doubt the Real Committee will be taking a good, hard look at this book.

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This is one gorgeous picture book. It’s perhaps even more remarkable, given that it’s by a debut artist. Since its publication last June, it has gotten lots of love. And even more love.

Most reviews refer to the way the story tugs at the heartstrings: “A weeper.” “Heart-breaking.” I have to say that the message I took away from the book was less Look How Much They Love Each Other and more Watch This Young Boy Become an Artist. By trying to make the best boat possible for his absent father, Buckley hones his craft: “And each time he made a new boat, it was even better than the last.” Little by little, through hard work and incentive and love and practice and more practice, we see his initial crude efforts — essentially just hunks of driftwood with sticks for masts — become sophisticated, complex, intricate, beautifully crafted works of art.

The ink and watercolor illustrations are simply stunning. The watercolor medium is of course an apt one for this edge-of-the-ocean tale, but that doesn’t begin to express how completely Bagley captures the look and feel of a driftwood- and seaweed-strewn shore. From the colors of water, sand, and sky at various times of day to the way she conveys that sometimes-undefinable edge between ocean and beach and between ocean and sky: it’s all spectacular. She also transitions organically from the shorescapes to the scenes set inside Buckley’s humble home. The use of line (and ink) in the indoor scenes make them tighter and more controlled, and yet the edges of the pictures always retain that watery feel, linking them to the outdoor scenes.

The endpapers are both thematically meaningful and glorious. I love how the driftwood scattered over the beach on the opening endpapers then morph into Buckley’s finished boats hanging on his display wall on the closing endpapers. The endpapers visually reflect the book’s theme of turning raw materials into art.

There are a few things that throw me off a bit:

• Why are the characters beavers? It seems an odd choice for a book set not by a lake or pond but by the sea.
• For a debut picture book creator, Bagley seems comfortable and in control. She allows the story to unfold at a very deliberate and leisurely pace. She has confidence in her ability to hold readers’ attention for what is really (outwardly, at least) a not-very-eventful story. Nevertheless, the pacing at the start is off, for me. The book opens with a series of double-page spreads of the shorescape, and they set the scene beautifully. But, if you count the opening endpapers, we get four of these scene-setting double-page spreads, and then the first time we get to the true meat of the book — Buckley making things with his hands — that happens in a teeny little vignette.
• I can’t shake the feeling that the story has an adult sensibility. Everyone seems to agree that the book will generate strong emotions in readers, but I see more adults getting all choked up than children. However, this may not be of primary importance to the Caldecott committee, which is looking at the art first and the text/story only secondarily.

Over to you all! What are your thoughts about this very impressive picture book debut and its chances on the Caldecott table?

The post Boats for Papa appeared first on The Horn Book.

And we’re off, with the first book discussion of the season. We are trying to present the books more generally in order of publication this year, in hopes that readers will have a better chance of knowing the books as they’re discussed. We’re starting with a book that was published early in the year, in fact in January, to much excitement and praise.

Last Stop on Market Street is a lovely, warm picture book, with strong and commendable themes of intergenerational friendship, building community, and finding beauty in unlikely places. And other messages as well: the value of helping the less fortunate, how to grow up to be a good person (as guided by your Nana). Matt de la Pena’s text is both sensory and colloquial, with believable-sounding dialogue, and an equally believable relationship between grandmother and grandson.

But we’re here to talk about Christian Robinson’s art. The Horn Book Magazine review basically said that the book was channeling Ezra Jack Keats, “in spirit and visual style,” and I think that pretty much captures the book’s feel and appeal. The acrylic paintings and collage are artfully simple, and like Peter in The Snowy Day, CJ is an everychild — and a brown everychild. The colors sing, with eye-catching blocks of color throughout, all in perfect accord with one another. One of my favorite double-page spreads shows Nana and CJ walking to the bus shelter in the rain, Nana holding her orange umbrella aloft and CJ, in his highly individual yellow shirt (with blue and orange stripes on the sleeves), closer to the puddled street, which reflects those oranges and yellows beautifully. (In that same spread, note the way the tree behind them is composed of a collaged white trunk and painted green leaves, giving the tree remarkable texture and beauty.) On another spread, rectangles rule: the dark blue bus stop contrasts with the white sidewalk and bus, which contrasts with the green car, etc. It’s such a simple composition, but with its shapes and colors so artfully arranged.

I think few would argue that the most sublime spread is the one in which the guitar music CJ hears on the bus lifts him out of mundane reality, out of the busy city, and into a world of nature, where butterflies ‘dance free’ and waves crash against a sunset sky. Robinson does a remarkable job of not translating the text literally but completely capturing the “feeling of magic” CJ experiences: all with minimal colors, simple shapes, the trademark yellow sweater, and CJ’s profile front and center, eyes closed in concentration and delight.

I do have a few quibbles. Some might be silly, but may also be details a child (or the Caldecott committee) might notice. Where does Nana’s knitting come from? She is shown throughout carrying the tiniest of purses. Why is she sitting in the handicapped seat on the bus? That does not seem like something thoughtful Nana would ever do. Why does the blind man on the bus carry a cane and have a guide dog? I have some knowledge of the blind community and I have never witnessed someone using both. It would be a very cumbersome arrangement! (Also, the dog on this bus wanders freely around the bus – again, not something an actual guide dog would ever do. It’s clearly meant to be a guide dog, not just a pal, because the dog is shown with a harness attached.) And just in terms of continuity – I think it might disappoint some child readers that once Nana and CJ get off the bus there’s so little relationship between the people they see on the street and the people in the soup kitchen. We recognize Bobo, the Sunglass Man, and Trixie (although it’s sure a long time from the page Nana mentions them to the page we finally see them, without any kind of refresher or reminder in the text), but why aren’t the people queuing up outside shown inside the soup kitchen on the last spread? It’s not like there is a long line inside that’s preventing them from going in. It would have been satisfying and given the book some additional closure to see them inside seated at a table or being served food.

It may bear repeating, for newcomers and old hands alike, that looking at a picture book for your own pleasure, or a child’s, is very different from scrutinizing it the way the Caldecott committee does. I didn’t notice any of my quibbles until I looked at the book as carefully and critically as a committee member would. Remember how Jon Klassen (humorously) characterized the committee in his 2013 Caldecott Acceptance speech: “They are a group of beings assembled entirely to notice things.” Of course,  just because someone sees flaws in a book does NOT necessarily knock it off the Caldecott table. The committee may take note of flaws and still decide that a book’s strengths are enough to disregard any minor problems.

So, what are your thoughts? Last Stop on Market Street received three star reviews and a ton of early buzz. Is it holding up to its promise? Do weigh in below.

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Thanks to all for chiming in with suggestions! We’ve incorporated them into our own thinking and have come up with the following list of titles we plan to cover this fall. There will probably be additions as the season unfolds. For instance, we are still tracking down a copy of the suggested In a Village by the Sea; plus, we want to leave room in the schedule for latecomers and late bloomers.

Here, then (in alphabetical order by title), are the books we know we want to discuss on Calling Caldecott so far:

The Bear Ate Your Sandwich by Julia Sarcone-Roach

Boats for Papa by Jessixa Bagley

Drowned City by Don Brown

Drum Dream Girl Margarita Engle

Finding Winnie by Lindsay Mattick, illus. by Sophie Blackall

A Fine Dessert by Sophie Blackall

Float by Daniel Miyares

Flop to the Top! by Eleanor Davis and Drew Weing

Flutter and Hum by Julie Paschkis

Goodnight, Good Dog by Mary Lyn Ray, illus. by Rebecca Malone

Gordon Parks by Carole Boston Weatherford, illus. by Jamey Christoph

Grasshopper and the Ants by Jerry Pinkney

I Yam a Donkey by Cece Bell

It’s Only Stanley by Jon Agee

Last Stop on Market Street by Matt de la Peña, illus. by Christian Robinson

Lenny & Lucy by Philip and Erin Stead

Meet the Dullards by Sara Pennypacker, illus. by Daniel Salmieri

My Bike by Byron Barton

My Pen by Christopher Myers

The Night World by Mordicai Gerstein

Playful Pigs by Anita Lobel

The Skunk by Mac Barnett, illus. by Patrick McDonnell

Supertruck by Stephen Savage

This Is My Home, This Is My School by Jonathan Bean

Tricky Vic by Greg Pizzoli

Two Mice by Sergio Ruzzier

Voice of Freedom by Carole Boston Weatherford, illus. by Ekua Holmes

Wait by Antoinette Portis

Waiting by Kevin Henkes

Water Is Water by Miranda Paul, illus. by Jason Chin

When Sophie’s Feeling Are Hurt… by Molly Bang

The Whisper by Pamela Zagarenski

Winnie by Sally M. Walker, illus. by Jonathan D. Voss

Wolfie and Bunny by Ame Dyckman, illus. by Zachariah OHora

Next week, we will move to a MWF schedule, and get right to the books. First stop: Last Stop on Market Street (because, humor).

The post The Book List appeared first on The Horn Book.

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Next post about books that made a splash at the beginning of the year but fade by the end. Horn Book stars that don’t make it onto Fanfare (and some that weren’t starred but grow on us and DO find a place on the Fanfare list). In the next few weeks Robin and I will concentrate on the books that are still being discussed and that seem like very good contenders. Or that others are discussing but we don’t think should be on the list.

The post Early books, late books, and books that fade from memory appeared first on The Horn Book.

Darn you, Charlotte Zolotow committee! You beat me to the punch, awarding this fine book your award last week! The CCBC website explains, “The Charlotte Zolotow Award is given annually to the author of the best picture book text published in the United States in the preceding year….The award is administered by the Cooperative Children’s Book Center, a children’s literature library of the School of Education, University of Wisconsin-Madison. Each year a committee of children’s literature experts selects the winner from the books published in the preceding year. The winner is announced in January each year. A bronze medallion is formally presented to the winning author in the spring during an annual public event that honors the career of Charlotte Zolotow.”  If you have never attended the Zolotow celebration, you are really missing out. First, you get to go to Madison, Wisconsin, and second, you get to be with people who love children’s books, and third, the lectures are always terrific. 

So, this lovely book won an award for the text. Do the illustrations hold up as well as the words?

If you have not read Each Kindness, please do. I just gave a talk to 80 or so second graders at a local school and this (along with Island) was the book they appreciated the most. This school does a fantastic Caldecott exploration each year, and by the time I drag in with my little dog-and-pony show, they have some strong opinions about current picture books. I get to tell the story of how I got to be on the committee…blah blah…but then I get to sneak in a few questions about what they are liking and not liking. When I held up Woodson’s book, there was a collective intake of breath and a murmur of oohs and ahhs.

Second/third  grade might be the perfect age for this one. Somewhere around this time, kids start to notice things like clothing and wealth and what makes kids fit in or not. These are the same grades where teachers find themselves reaching for The One Hundred Dresses, a book which deals with a similar theme.

Let’s look at the art, shall we? Lewis’s watercolors never disappoint, do they? The first spread is a lovely school shot– rural school,  snow-covered. A lone child walks up the front steps. Turn the page and Lewis captures the perfect feel of a New Kid. Maya’s eyes are cast down, the teacher is holding her hand, and the perspective lets us know that she is not comfortable. Her clothes reflect the text–her clothes look a tad ragged, especially for the first day. Turn the page and we see the other main character, the narrator Chloe, looking out the window at the reader, a sour look on her face. Maya is faded in the background, but she has a little smile, a little hope on her face. The playground page is almost too painful to look at–three little girls, holding hands, while Maya walks with her hands behind her back. Lewis puts a bit of sunlight around the girls and has the rest of the group looking at Maya. No one is including her.

The art goes on, gently documenting the social strata of this classroom. Chloe rejects Maya and sets the tone for the rest of the class. The seasons change, Maya keeps trying to fit in, but Chloe and her friends do not allow it. We see her in her fancy (but used) dress and shoes or holding the wrong doll and her eyes always remind us of her pain. Even while she skips rope, she skips alone.

The story and illustrations change once the teacher (finally, I say) gets involved. Maya is absent when the teacher presents a lesson on kindness that finally gets through to Chloe.  We see the faces reflected in the ripples of the bowl of water–a nice change of perspective. The art now highlights Chloe. First, her somber face stares at that stone that stands in for the idea of kindness. Then, her eyes are cast down (like Maya’s) on her way home, slowly walking how from the school with the backpack seeming to drag her down. The next page is the only dark page in the book–Maya’s empty desk which will stay empty. The last two pages let us know the truth–that Chloe will never get a chance to make it better. Chloe looks sad and sorry, her body slightly slumped as she contemplates what has happened. She becomes smaller on that final page turn, less powerful, but with a hopeful shaft of light pointing to the future. 

This is a true teacher’s book–with plenty to talk about in a classroom. Will the committee find it too teacher-y or a new classic in the literature of bullying and kindness?

What say you?

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Here are a few pictures from my day. I did not take pictures at the publisher breakfast. It was a tad crowded and I was balancing a coffee cup on my knee. But I did get to hear about a bunch of new books. Always a good thing. Some librarians had volunteered to help out in the presentations. There was storytelling. At 7:00 AM. I am not really a storytelling sort of girl at any hour, so that was a little rough on me. However, I did love thinking about that new Brian Pinkney book.

I am having some issues with these silly pictures…so I will just caption them and hope for the best!

I visited the Horn Book booth for a bit.

I ran into two of my favorite guys. One is Roger Sutton. The other is my husband, Dean Schneider, fresh off his book committee work.

The Notables Committee members have a LOT of books to consider…and they cannot have a list of four hundred books…

Here they are, talking about Notable books.

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