instance, the size of a book has much to do with how it is likely to be used on the floor,
bed or table. This could lead to the radical but valid deduction that, since most
paperback novels are folded in half backwards to be read comfortably in bed, then the
back margins should be increased massively to facilitate this. So far no publisher has
been persuaded to make a change along these lines, but there has been a big response
to a recent suggestion that many picture books are larger than their artwork or function
demands.
Some—like Kathleen Hale’s Orlando in its original format—need vast scale so that it is
almost possible to walk into that particular world. In contrast to this and to the
standard picture-book formats for floor and table-top use, Eric Carle’s German
publisher issued a version of The Very Hungry Caterpillar measuring only 125 mm × 90
mm, which rather set a fashion for miniature versions of established titles, and which
works because the very young child has to take the book in both hands to turn the
pages and discover what happens. The 9 pt size of type is absolutely splendid in the
conditions which have been created: most children are intrigued by very small type, and
the argument that this may tire their eyes may well have been overstated. At the
opposite extreme a 96 pt type size would be perfectly acceptable in an alphabet book. In
other words, the apparent size and style of type is selected in response to the page size,
the number and level of the words and the nature of the artwork.
In some instances a bold or a sans serif typeface would still prove a natural choice to
accompany a strong black line with primary colour infill—artwork of the Leo Lionni,
Dick Bruna, Roger Hargreaves kind—but most book designers have agreed for some
time that the machine-age aesthetic of the sans serif has failed their readers, and
represents the typographic equivalent of the high-rise apartment block. Leading
designers of typefaces have largely rejected modernism, and now favour more
humanistic and user-friendly letter forms. The craft revival of calligraphy in all its
aspects and not just as a model for everyday handwriting, has gained ground and this
too is significant because it encourages the appreciation of the tones, textures and
finishes of materials—whether natural, recycled or otherwise.
Children have an eye for the imperfections of the handmade, and this may well have
been better accommodated by the crude, hand-coloured productions of Jemmy Catnach
(Hindley 1878) and his like than by the current mechanical precision of letter form,
colour register and glossy paper. The gap in attainment between the child’s own efforts
and the polished but soulless industrial artefact is one which children’s book artists
have striven to bridge over the ages, frequently working closely with a skilled colour
printer. But as printers have become larger and more specialised, this direct link has
been taken over by designers and production experts employed by the publisher. In
recent times Janet and Allan Ahlberg have shown, paradoxically, that meticulous
attention to the detail of production can still communicate this human touch.
What we think of as an illustrator’s personal style can be viewed as a triumph of
apparent spontaneity in the face of the levelling effects of printing, and it is interesting
to look at the instantly recognisable handwriting of such different artists as Ardizzone,
Blake or Steadman in this light. The nostalgia factor in children’s literature is not
unrelated to these visual qualities, for there is a deliberate cultivation of a period idiom
at work in Sendak, Ardizzone and countless younger artists. It seems to cast a longer
CHILDREN’S BOOK DESIGN 459