
by Sam Juliano
There is something about the Scandinavian sensibility that seems to infuse their artistic output with a pervading sense of melancholy and darker themes. It is easy to understand when one considers the shorter days, colder climate and generally more austere and cerebral mind set (cliches to a degree, but this has always been the perception) and the tendency for their arts to reflect a more pensive and philosophical mood. One may immediately think of the brooding death-obsessed master filmmaker Ingmar Bergman, the playwright extraordinaire August Strindberg, who explored naturalistic tragedy, the iconic painter Edvard Munch, whose masterpiece The Scream, is a prime example of evocative treatment of psychological themes. Carl Theodor Dreyer, whose Vampyr, The Passion of Joan of Arc and Day of Wrath rank among the greatest of all films was another who examined state of mind in harrowing terms, and a long string of contemporary filmmakers like Thomas Vinterberg have relentlessly examined family strife and depression. In music there has always been a melancholic undercurrent in the nature-infused work of Jean Sibelius and Edvard Grieg.

Stein Erik Lunde and Oyvind Torseter’s sublime and incandescent picture book My Father’s Arms Are A Boat was recently named as a Batchelder honor book by the American Library Association in the one category that awards foreign language achievement, providing that it has been translated. The translation for My Father’s Arms Are A Boat is by Kari Dickson, and it is extraordinarily effective and deeply-felt. Starkly set during the dead of winter in and around an unforgiving country house lived in by a father and young son (“My window is pitch black. I have socks on, and a wooly sweater under my pajamas. I can’t sleep. It’s quieter now than it’s ever been.”) the story is poetically and suggestively told with a great deal of shivery emotion:
I go back into the living room.
My dad looks at me, and I climb onto his lap.
He puts both his arms tight under my knees.
My body is curled up like a ball.
I rest my head against his shoulder.
An inquisitive exchange follows when the unnamed young boy inquires about the red birds that hang around and the fox that can be seen patrolling the grounds. But the boy reveals that there is more meaning behind the seemingly innocuous habits of these domestic creatures:
The red birds fly silently through the air.
They sit on the white stone and watch me with one eye.
Then they pick up pieces of bread in their beaks and
fly away to hide it somewhere high up in a tree.
Then they come back again.
They fly back and forth, until there is no bread left on the stone.
Granny says the red birds are dead people.
And then the saddest truth of all, the scar that brings the emotional depth of this story full circle:
“Is Mommy asleep?” I ask.
“Mommy’s asleep,” says Daddy.
“She’ll never wake up again?” I ask.
“No, not where she is now.
Should we go out and look at the stars?”
There is an intimacy and sense of immediacy to Lunde’s expressive prose that achieve remarkable integration with Torseter’s dream-like media collage illustrations that bring an ethereal quality to the aching reality of this powerful take of loneliness and healing and the trials and tribulations of coming to terms with loss. Muted colors help to bring visual identification to the book’s themes, as does the effective employment of minimal motifs like pencil sketches and the blurred details of a dream. Dotting the drab but breathtaking visual scheme are the red birds and the orange fox, which serve as emphatic, fleeting images envisioned during the acute stages of grief.
The title’s significance is revealed in a metaphorical passage:
I look up at the stars.
I look at the moon that looks like a boat.
My dad’s arms are like a boat, too.
One that sails me out into the middle of the yard.
The boat stops.
The stars are so far away and yet so close.
The final spread offers hope and acceptance with budding color as the spring season approaches. The collage work in My Father’s Arms Are A Boat is purposely made to look three-dimensional to increase the life like quality of the characters and their environment. Torseter is one of Norway’s most acclaimed illustrators and has won the highest prizes his country has ever handed down. In addition to this unforgettable collaboration with Lunde, he worked solo on his astoundingly creative wordless book The Hole, which will also be covered in the present series. Lunde is a major writer in Norway and has been published in many European countries. This is his first to be published in the United States. He has written lyrics for over a hundred songs and has translated Bob Dylan into Norwegian. It is hard to imagine that an author’s beautiful prose could be better matched with magnificent illustrations as it is here in this remarkable collaboration. My Father’s Arms Are A Boat, haunting and unforgettable, forges a path to the human heart.

Enchanted Lion Books 34 pp. $15.95
Note: This is the third entry in a continuing series that will examine non-American picture books of a high level of artistry and creativity that were released during 2013. The series will also include a few special items and recent releases.
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Another tantalizing essay on another tantalizing picture book!
I do love these illustrations, Sam. Have you had a chance to try ’em out on some kids?
Thanks so much John! Yes these are absolutely exquisite illustrations and they serve this deeply moving story magnificently. I have indeed read this book to a full class and then talked about it at length. The more gifted kids were genuinely affected. Like the previous book I reviewed this week (HELLO MR. HULOT) it works just as well with older kids and adults, in no small measure because of Lunde’s impassioned prose.
Amazing that such austere themes are examined in European picture books with far more regularity than what we see in American books. From what you post in this review the illustrations do look stunning. No wonder Torseter is held in such high esteem. You got me wanting to own a copy myself. Another superbly written piece Sam.
Frank you make a very persuasive point there. There are some exceptions of course, but by and large there is a general pattern, which I have have attributed in part to cultural tendencies. Yes, Torseter is a master -one of the best presently working today- and I plans on taking a look at some of his other books. Thanks for the very kind words.
Sam. this is such an absorbing vehicle! The geometric resolve of the Scandinavian interior design here provides a thrilling context for the personal turmoil of the boy, and his father. From there the geometry of the moon/boat yields the father’s caring arms. And suddenly the moon-kin animals’ bad rap falls away and we have beautiful fragile creatures. Thanks so much for unlocking this corner of the art world I’d never have otherwise visited!
Jim, so convincing is your application of the ‘geometric resolve’ of the interior design and the geometry of the moon/boat yielding to ‘fragile creatures’ that I’d say it is a perfect pontification of the book’s major theme within the parameters of illustrative technique. This is a masterful comment that I am deeply appreciative for. This particular picture book once seen is wholly unforgettable.
Sam, this is one of the most exceptional reviews you have written in your long and rewarding series. The book being considered (to use a word you are partial to when really excited with a work of art) looks like a flat out masterpiece, and I haven’t even held it in my hands yet. I see what you mean but perfect collaboration of author and illustrator, and that would seem to be the case. European books and children’s books tend to take on more serious subjects with far less misgivings to their credit.
Thanks so very much for that great compliment Peter. Yes this beautiful Norwegian book is indeed a masterpiece, and the European mind-set when it comes to illustrated book is a more serious and reflective one in large measure. Many thanks my friend.
Oh and this is really some sentence, Sam:
There is an intimacy and sense of immediacy to Lunde’s expressive prose that achieve remarkable integration with Torseter’s dream-like media collage illustrations that bring an ethereal quality to the aching reality of this powerful take of loneliness and healing and the trials and tribulations of coming to terms with loss.
Great job.
Thanks again Peter!
Sam — I love the title. Right off the bat it screams “Strength!” And the fact that, “…that there is more meaning behind the seemingly innocuous habits of these domestic creatures.” That would feed my intrigue. And the spare illustrations speak volumes.
Thank you for sharing MY FATHER’S ARMS ARE A BOAT!
‘Strength’ indeed Laurie! I’d say that’s a central thematic concern in this book, and for sure the spare illustrations establish the mood and psychological state of mind. Thanks so very much my friend as always for the great comment!
This is one of the most exquisite of all picture books. And one with lasting emotion. It has brought out the best in your writing. I purposely waited till I was able to obtain a loan copy before placing a comment. Stark and beautiful.
Thanks so very much for that Tim! Great that the book impressed you, though as you know I had made that prediction!
Great idea for a series. I’ve been meaning to check out more of your children’s book posts in general, because I’m fascinated by the form (I’m even working on a screenplay now that incorporates picture books). The artwork for this one is just gorgeous – great pick! Looking forward to the rest.
Well thanks so very much for the cherished support and kind words my friend! I am absolutely delighted that you are pleased with the series and are hankering for more. I must say the coverage of picture books has opened up an entire new world for WitD, and I am now committed to this series. This particular book is deeply moving and the illustrations are indeed sublime. Thanks again Joel!
I’ve slowed down because of the frenzied pace of the Hitchcock Festival, but I will return with a vengeance! Ha!