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Good books, old friends

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By Kara Kvasnicka

Tuesday, November 29, -0001

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Here are a few of my favorite recent picture book releases.

Best known for his informative and quirky examinations of how things are built (Pyramid, Castle, Mill, etc.), David Macaulay focuses on friendship and attitude toward work in Angelo (Houghton Mifflin, 2002, $16).

Both text and illustrations for this touching tale are enriched by Macaulay's architectural expertise and irreverent, understated wit.

The title character is a gruff, elderly master plasterer who rescues an injured pigeon while restoring a Gothic Roman church.

Although pigeons are the bane of his profession, Angelo helps the bird fully recover. Eventually, he even concedes to bestowing on her the name Sylvia, and they become unlikely, but devoted life-long companions.

The development of Angelo's relationship with Sylvia is mirrored by his progress on the church, his "crowning achievement."

Not only is Angelo a loyal and worthy friend, but an increasing rarity in our times — a craftsman with a genuine pride and passion for what he produces. Far from counting the days until he can retire, Angelo works as long as he is physically able.

In spite of "two years of grueling work" and failing health, Angelo does not consider the church complete until he has added one last detail which will make it truly unique. He cannot rest until he has found a way to forever intertwine Sylvia with his masterpiece, to cement an unbreakable bond between the two things in life he values most.

Macaulay's spare but eloquent prose is as refreshing as his characters are original. It is hard to choose a favorite among his lively illustrations which seamlessly blend memorable characterizations of Angelo and Sylvia with a fascinating study of a plasterer's methods. I especially love the droll spectacle of Sylvia and one of her feathered cohorts parading on a popular piazza in upturned ice cream cone hats.

Depictions of ancient and medieval Roman buildings bathed in a soft, romantic light help set the reflective mood of this story. Small, ingeniously placed touches of humor keep the tone airy and unsentimental.

Another book to put us in an introspective frame of mind is David McPhail's The Teddy Bear (Henry Holt and Company, 2002, $15.95). This bittersweet reminder to count our blessings provides a stark contrast to the lovable Pig Pig fantasies for which McPhail is better known.

In McPhail's somber foray into realism, the teddy bear is a boy's constant companion until the fateful day the boy forgets him in a restaurant.

Consequently, the hapless bear is swept up and thrown out with the trash. There, he fears he will remain forever, until a homeless man (nameless and symbolic like the boy) comes to his rescue.

When he realizes it is missing, the boy makes a frantic but fruitless search for his favorite fuzzy companion. Grudgingly, over time, he accepts that he will never see it again and busies himself with new playthings.

Meanwhile, the bear gradually grows accustomed to his new caretaker. The homeless man provides fewer amenities but just as much affection.

Then, one day, the boy gets a miraculously unexpected opportunity. When he finds his cherished toy on a park bench, momentarily abandoned by the homeless man, he has the chance to reclaim it.

But should he? Can he simply walk away with what is by rights his when he hears the homeless man cry out for it?

Despite its serious themes, this book will easily hold the attention of the 5- to 8-year-olds for whom it is intended. McPhail's minimal text moves the story along briskly. His evocative watercolor and ink drawings are more than adequate as his only descriptive device.

Young readers will have no trouble discerning the material advantages the boy has over the homeless man.

Pictures of the boy, either chumming with his parents or surrounded by his many possessions, have a warm and cozy glow.

The teddy bear is the only bright spot in the far grittier scenes in which the homeless man forages for food in trash cans and sleeps in dumpsters.

McPhail, like Macaulay, works minor comedic details into his canvasses to relieve dramatic tension. The teddy bear is shown in a variety of heartstring-tugging poses and predicaments. As are a sweet assortment of other animals, both stuffed and real.

McPhail's mesmeric colors are the most notable facet of his richly textured artwork. Entrancing shades of green are woven through the parallel universes of both the boy and the homeless man. They highlight the loveliest offerings of an urban setting and ensconce in haunting shadows the disturbing elements we would prefer not to see.

Practical knowledge is all you will gain from The Princess and the Pizza (Holiday House, 2002, $16.95), written and illustrated by Mary Jane Auch. (Husband Herm Auch shares credit for the illustrations.)

Unemployed Princess Paulina competes for the dubious honor of becoming Prince Drupert's bride in this riotous fractured fairy tale.

Desperate to get back into the princessing business, lest her royal wave get rusty, Paulina will do just about anything to ensnare Drupert.

Caring not that his looks are less than charming, Paulina submits to a series of humiliating trials for the opportunity to share Drupert's castle. These include enduring a sleepless night on a stack of mattresses rendered hopelessly uncomfortable by the single pea hidden underneath — "the old princess-and-the-pea trick."

"Oh for Pete's sake," Paulina responds to every ridiculous new challenge by which Drupert's domineering mother Queen Zelda weeds out prospects who are not folklorically correct.

She is not so blasé when asked to prove her mettle in the kitchen with an odd combination of ingredients.

Threatened with beheading if she does not serve the most delectable dish Drupert has ever tasted, just guess what popular take-out treat Paulina concocts out of "flour, yeast, water, three overripe tomatoes, and a hunk of stale cheese"?

All Zelda's reservations about having mouthy Paulina as a daughter-in-law evaporate when she samples Paulina's accidental culinary genius — pizza. Paulina, however, is having second thoughts about Drupert.

After all, once you have a recipe fit for royalty do you really need to marry into it?

Depending upon their acquaintance with more traditional literature, children may not get all Auch's jokes. Nevertheless, they are bound to find Paulina, despite all her foibles, as appealing as Cinderella.

Kids will be equally taken with Auch's secondary characters. Granted, they might not recognize the corresponding stock fairy tale figures at which each member of the unorthodox cast deliberately pokes fun.

Not to worry. The Auchs' luscious lollipop-tinted paintings contain all the clues readers need to recognize Paulina's perils as spoof of all things Brothers Grimm.

These are not exactly your typically earnest happy-ever-after seekers with their exaggerated facial features and expressions. But neither are the engagingly atypical heroes and heroines of Macaulay and McPhail's books.

Each protagonist in his or her own way encourages us to defy expectations and transcend stereotype, to aspire for something less tangible but infinitely more satisfying than that tempting but fragile glass slipper.

It may take you no more than a few minutes to read these titles, but their intriguing characters, images and meanings will linger long afterwards in your memory.

Kvasnicka, a former East Village Magazine news editor, has been the magazine's contributing editor and research consultant since 1989. She is the librarian at the Genesee District Library's Goodrich Branch.

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