This is no place for me to start floundering in words nor to
recite the history of illustration nor to tell you how printing methods and the economies
of the times have influenced illustration, nor to describe its limitations.
This is not
the time to tell you of the comic books of the past which also caught a directness of
action and a luridness of detail. And I wonder if I can tell you what my own work with
books has taught me?
How can I start to explain that I don't see black separated from the realm of color ?
Nor objects in terms of outlines? How can I describe my reactions to the shades of night?
I can't tell you in the language of the fish from the Little Island, how all the land
is one land under the sea. Perhaps I can try to explain how pictures for The Little Island
and Golden MacDonald's text grew right up out of the water. This is a real little island
off the coast of Maine belonging to a group of other little islands called
I saw this island grow tall and squat as the tides rose and fell. I've watched the mists
blow in and hide the little island, sometimes leaving only the pine tree tops exposed,
hanging in space. I rowed to and from the little island with the seals spawning below the
surface of the water. I've seen the sun rise and make a golden island for just five
seconds in an early morning sea.