Tag Archives: Art

Review | The Scrapbook of Frankie Pratt: a novel in pictures, Caroline Preston

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I love the concept behind Caroline Preston’s The Scrapbook of Frankie Pratt! The “first-ever scrapbook novel,” the novel takes the form of a scrapbook Frankie keeps from her high school graduation in 1920, through her days at Vassar, her struggle to be a writer in Greenwich Village and in Paris, and finally her return home in 1927. Somewhat similar in form to Griffin and Sabine, Scrapbook contains vintage memorabilia, designed as if they had been glued to the page. Pages include amusement park tickets, graduation invitations, photos cut from fashion magazine, even a magazine ad for Palmolive soap. Unlike in Griffin and Sabine, the memorabilia in Scrapbook are only images on the page, and therefore cannot be removed, but the entire look of the page is almost three dimensional.

Have you ever kept a scrapbook? Back in 2005, right before I moved to Canada, my sister gave me a scrapbook so that I would always have a piece of the Philippines with me. I turned that book into a record of my entire life — as many pictures and memorabilia as I could cram in. My scrapbook ended up looking nowhere near as artistic as Frankie Pratt’s, but it’s definitely one of my most treasured possessions. I flip through it every once in a while, and the book transports me instantly to my past, to people and memories that mean something to me.

Scrapbook transports us to the 1920s, a fascinating era in history. Frankie, voted the “smartest girl” of her graduating class, dreams of becoming a writer and finding the love of her life. Because of her ambition to be a writer, she gets to meet some of the literary luminaries of her time, such as Edna St. Vincent Millay and James Joyce. Including such significant historical figures, especially when they aren’t the subject of your story, is usually a delicate task, and it sometimes comes off as name-dropping. Preston, however pulls it off and it feels plausible. The scrapbook format also works really well, because giving each writer encounter a page or two of beautifully laid out snapshots, letters and typed lines acknowledges each encounter’s significance without either overwhelming us or trying too hard to be casual about it. Frankie’s scrapbook gives the impression that meeting James Joyce for work is as important to her as a letter she receives from a beau. I also love that Frankie is a reader. I love vintage book covers, and seeing 1920s cover art for This Side of Paradise and To the Lighthouse was just amazing. I especially love the feeling that while, for me, viewing these book covers was a trip to the past, for Frankie, these were contemporary titles, and she would have no way of knowing how significant they’d be over time.

Reading Scrapbook made me want to travel back in time to the 1920s. Well-written novels can certainly transport my imagination to the past, but the beauty of Scrapbook’s unique format is that it puts me as a reader into an interesting dual position. On one hand, I feel like a 21st century woman who happened upon an old scrapbook in an attic or a garage sale, and am viewing the significant moments in the life of someone from the past. On the other hand, I am also Frankie Pratt, viewing these things for the first time and being so excited by Beau Brummel with Mary Astor and John Barrymore that I simply must include the theatre program in my scrapbook. When I think of James Joyce’s Ulysses, I picture a heavy tome of classic literature that, because of its narrative style, is going to be a difficult read. In contrast, Frankie knows Ulysses as “the notorious banned novel!” Ulysses is the controversial novel that everyone talks about, but that is practically impossible to find. She reads it not because she wants to tackle a classic, but because it has for her the thrill of the illicit. The vintage memorabilia in the pages creates an atmosphere of magic, of passion and possibility, and I at least wished I could have been there with Frankie, experiencing all these adventures with her.

Scrapbook is also such a romantic novel! The question of whom Frankie will end up with isn’t too difficult to guess, but the relationships she forms are all so fascinating. Again, the scrapbook format enhances the romance. Images of dapper men in suits, of love letters, movie tickets and telegrams all work together to create a lush, evocative world, where a gentleman can come knocking at your door or a rogue can invite you for a spin in his brand new automobile. The scrapbook format also softens the edges of emotion. When a man breaks Frankie’s heart, we know this because of a couple of photographs and a few typed lines, over a two-page spread. Frankie has a great sense of humour, and so another painful experience is countered by a lighthearted image from a magazine ad. It is almost too easy to miss the pain behind these images, and the book forces us to stop at moments and discern all the layers of emotions revealed by Frankie’s choice of memorabilia.

I can keep going on about all the things that fascinated me in this novel, but Scrapbook is definitely better seen in person than read about. The book trailer is a bit too long, in my opinion, but it does give you an idea of how the pages in the novel look:

Scrapbook of Frankie Pratt is a beautiful, beautiful book. Frankie is a charming, intelligent, utterly delightful woman, and her personality shines through on every page. I just fell in love with this book, and I hope you will too.

Review | A Monster Calls, Patrick Ness

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I read A Monster Calls by Patrick Ness because of this blog review. I enjoyed Ness’s Knife of Never Letting Go, but as I wrote in my comment to that post, I thought of Monster as just a children’s horror story. The jacket cover just said the monster “wanted the truth,” which I thought could mean practically anything. So, while I admired the art, I had no interest in reading it.

Then I find out it’s about a boy  whose mom is dying of cancer and whose dad has another family in a different country. Far from being a simple haunted house (monster-infested house?) story, Monster is about a monster who forces the boy to face the truth of his situation. What is that truth? You’ll have to read the book to find out. But it’s a truth that definitely, painfully, hit home for me.

I was an emotional mess reading Monster, and I mean that in a good way. It was cathartic, and in a way, I almost wished I’d had a monster like Conor’s, who told me such stories. A bit of personal background: my mother died of cancer last year. Conor’s pain, his anger, his denial — his experiences just felt very immediate. To be honest, I don’t know how this book will affect you. I won’t say anything as pat as that we’ve all experience loss in some form or other, because if there’s one thing I’ve learned this year, the experience of loss is never generic. The book jacket calls the story “darkly mischievous and painfully funny.” I didn’t see the humour, but perhaps, in a few years, I will. My point isn’t that the book isn’t funny, but that it’s so intensely personal that I think it will touch each of us differently. That’s not something I can say for many books.

I was immediately struck by Conor’s first encounter with the monster:

Then the monster paused again.

You really aren’t afraid, are you?

“No,” Conor said. “Not of you, anyway.”

Of course not. Conor has something much more horrible to fear, something much more difficult to fight. There’s a focus that comes with tragedy, a loss of anxiety that isn’t so much courage as it is the realization that, when all is said and done, some monsters are really very minor.

The monster says that he will tell Conor three stories, after which Conor must tell him a fourth: the truth about the nightmare that has haunted Conor for months and that scares him much more than this monster could. I loved the monster’s stories. They had a fairy tale quality, but they also touched on specific aspects of Conor’s life. Like Conor, I wanted to control the way the stories went, and like Conor, I was shocked or thrilled or dismayed at the twists. I’m over twice Conor’s age, yet I had very similar reactions to the monster’s tales. Some situations are just too big, too frightening to handle, and the reality that, even in fantasy, we don’t always get what we want, is painful regardless of age.

Monster goes far beyond the monster’s tales. The scenes of Conor’s real life are even more powerful. As he faces bullies, as he shuts himself away from a former friend, as he repeatedly insists his mom will be cured by her treatments — everything is just raw and immediate and all too relatable. Even Conor’s fear of talking about his nightmare struck home. How often do we cling to denial because admitting something might make it true? The scene where the monster, gently yet insistently, forces him to acknowledge the truth… Amazing.

Monster is gut-wrenching, emotional, even painful. It’s also beautiful, tender, and moving. I don’t mean to make it sound like a heavy, depressing book. Nor do I want to sound cheesy, but it is uplifting. Ness never gets maudlin. The writing is masterfully subtle, and therefore connects even more deeply. Whatever your experience with loss, this book will connect with that part of you.

After one of the monster’s stories, Conor demands to know what he was supposed to learn from it.

You think I tell you stories to teach you lessons? the monster said. You think I have come walking out of time and earth itself to teach you a lesson in niceness?

It laughed louder and louder again, until the ground was shaking and it felt like the sky itself might tumble down…

“I don’t understand. Who’s the good guy here?”

There is not always a good guy. Nor is there always a bad one. Most people are somewhere in between.

Conor shook his head. “That’s a terrible story. And a cheat.”

It is a true story, the monster said. Many things that are true feel like a cheat.

Indeed.

Review | Mangaman, Barry Lyga (writer) and Colleen Doran (illustrator)

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What a fantastic concept! A boy from the world of manga (Japanese comics) lands int he real world and falls in love with the prettiest girl at his high school. Only thing is, in true manga fashion, his eyes literally turn into hearts when he sees her. His classmates find this rather… odd. There’s that added sly wink at the reader because, to us, Marissa and her classmates are as much characters in a comic book as Ryoko is to them, and writer Barry Lyga and illustration Colleen Doran certainly make the most of this metafictive aspect. I love Mangaman for its hilarious and surprisingly touching love story, and I especially love its fantastic mash-up of two completely different comic book styles — American realism working with Japanese fantasy. Ranma in Riverdale. Love it. Check out the book’s site for a preview: http://mangamanlives.com/.

I expected to be delighted by Mangaman; I did not expect to be moved by it. Ryoko’s manga-style special effects are involuntary and therefore hilarious, but there’s also an element of tragedy to them, because all he really wants is to fit in, and he never can. I love Ryoko and Marissa’s first encounter: It’s a party and Ryoko is introducing himself to his classmates and asking them not to be afraid of him when he catches sight of Marissa. Immediately, flowers and excitement lines burst from him, and his entire body transforms into a drooling, flappy-armed beanie doll with bulging heart eyes and fiery hair. “I’m sorry,” he says, squishing his cheeks back to ordinary proportions, and poking a heart back into an eye socket. “I’m not going to hurt anyone.” Marissa stares in shock, flowers still fluttering down around her. Hilarious image, yes, yet Ryoko’s humiliation is palpable, and the image of him so desperately, so physically, trying to mould his features back to normal touched me. I just wanted to hug him and tell him there’s nothing wrong with literally exploding out of your skin when you see the one you love.

Cultural misunderstandings arise as well. When Marissa’s ex-boyfriend tells Ryoko to stay away from her, Ryoko exclaims “I know this part!” He strikes a fight pose and says “Big-time high school challenge! Awesome karate fight!” Special effect-filled battles may be fairly common in manga, where characters never really stay hurt, but they have real consequences in Marissa’s world, and Ryoko’s certainty that he’s finally found a familiar custom dissolves into the realization that he’s just set himself apart as more alien than ever.

I was cheering on the love story all the way. While Marissa’s classmates are turned off by Ryoko’s strangeness, she is drawn to him. He offers her something different from a life she finds bland and restrictive. Her choice of a Japanese outfit for the party at the beginning of the book is a bit kitschy, but her desire to reinvent herself without a clear idea of what she wants to become is something many will relate to. In their own ways, neither Ryoko nor Marissa fits in, and their romance works because their relationship allows them to view their standing out as something to celebrate.

Mangaman can be as much of a lark or as deep and textured of a tome as you choose. Ryoko is the ultimate visual metaphor of children and teens who feel they don’t fit in, and can never help but stand out, for whatever reason. The story encourages new perspectives — you need to look beyond the frame (literally for comic book characters) to discover the more exciting world beyond your own experiences. I also enjoyed the metafictive aspects — a comic book character in the “real world” of another comic book within our real world and what are the boundaries of reality, etc. I like the cross-cultural angle — West meets East, comic book style. At its heart, however, Mangaman to me is ultimately a funny, sweet story, told in beautiful, genre blending illustrations, and I hope it will touch and delight you as it did me.