An Avant-garde Wordless Picture Book: The Marvelous Voyage of Spot and Dot

Potty és Pötty Kalandos Utazása. Budapest: “Ifjuság” Kiadása, [ca. 1920]. (Cotsen 12617)

Say “visual storytelling” and the names of David Wiesnieski, Shaun Tan, Raymond Briggs, and Peter Spier are more likely to pop in the mind than the Hungarian artist Sándor Bortnyik, creator of a single wordless picture book in 1926: Potty és Pötty, kalandos utazása.  While it is not well known outside connoisseurs of the modernist picture book, other such books were published during the 1920s, such as Otto Geismar’s Old Testament stories acted out by stick figures or Edward Baumer’s Kinderparadies.

The story is familiar: a boy and girl are flying kites in the park when a great puff of wind pulls them up into the sky.  When they come down to earth, they find themselves in a strange land where balls grow magically.

Two of the balls carry them down the river to a castle, where they are welcomed by the king and his subjects, which include stereotypical renderings of a Black boy, a Chinese man, etc. in the crowd..  After a sumptuous tea, they enjoy a performance of the circus, fairground rides, a drive in  a touring car through the countryside, and the front row seats at the opera. They bid the king farewell and travel back home in an airplane before transferring to the backs of stars.The style of the illustrations in Potty és Pötty with its palette of flat bright colors and two-dimensional geometric figures bear comparison to Bortnyik’s famous contemporaneous advertising graphics, the best known being for Modiano cigarettes. The major difference was that he was under no obligation to promote a commercial brand, which gave him leeway to experiment with a visual narrative in the style of  Gebrauchtskunst, the early twentieth century design movement which redefined style and purpose of applied art.

If he was trying to break down the distinction between commercial art and book illustration as a minor form of fine art, the story of  two bourgeois children consuming a variety of elite pleasures while guests of royalty, was vendible if retrograde to a socialist who had spent time at the Bauhaus in Weimar.   Probably Bortnyik was pragmatic enough to realize that adapting Bauhaus ideas to trade children’s book illustration was a dead end.  Perhaps having proved to himself that a story could be told as a series of wordless posters, he had no desire to continue it, which might explain why he said nothing about book over his lifetime–unless he relented and included it in one of the many exhibition catalogues and retrospectives of his work in Hungary.

The book’s history is a curious and complicated one and all known editions are quite rare.  To date, the only scholarly article in English is by Samuel Albert at Fashion Institute of Technology in the 2015 collection Children’s Literature and the Avant-Garde.

(Cotsen 12617)

Cotsen owns an edition issued by Ifjuság in Budapest with Bortnyik’s name on the cover title label, title and last illustration.  The color illustrations unaccompanied by text are mounted on leaves of thin card hinged with dark blue cloth in blue publisher’s cloth case; it seems unlikely that an artist’s copy (as the Cotsen copy has been described) would be in an edition binding.  Laid in is a typescript of 22 rhymed stanzas credited to Ernö Szep.  It has not been established if this is the Hungarian text published in a later edition.

Die Wunderfahrt. Leipzig: Alfred Hahns: Dietrich & Sell, [1929]. (Cotsen 1985)

In 1929 Alfred Hahns Verlag and Dietrich Sell copublished the illustrations with a verse narrative by Albert Sixtus, new endpapers conceivably  by Bortnyik, and an illustrated dust jacket by another hand (the Cotsen copy, like most surviving ones, doesn’t have the dust jacket).  Except for the copies designated as the 1.-4. Auflage of 16,000 copies, I have not been able to establish the date of the other copies in WorldCat.   In Germany, the book enjoys a sufficiently high reputation to have been reissued as a facsimile in 2008.An English-language text for Bortnyik’s illustrations called Tatters and Scraps: Two Paper Dolls in Toyland was brought out in 1933 by Chicago publisher Albert Whitman.  It’s almost as rare as the Hungarian edition!  During the 1930s the firm also issued translations of a few modernist German picture books by Tom Seidmann-Freud and Franz Ostini, which were quite different from the rest of the backlist.  Bortnyik—but not the author of Tatters—receives  credit on the title page.  Although the children have been turned into paper dolls, the original illustrations are unchanged.If there is a moral to this peculiar publishing history, it might go like this: pictures need their thousand words, whether or not the artist judged them easy to grasp!

 

 

When You Dance “Do It Big, Do It Right, and Do It with Style”

Who would know better than Fred Astaire?  Get acquainted with some books on dance in the collection featuring people whose movements engage our attention.

Hoop dancing, one of the most familiar forms of Native American dance, is now showcased in annual competitions such as the one at the Heard Museum in Phoenix, Arizona, featuring some 80  contestants. The solo performer needs great skill  to stamp time to the drum beat while twirling, throwing, and spinning hoops around the body.   Its origins cannot be precisely pinpointed, but hoops were used in many Native American tribal healing rituals to restore cosmic balance. “Cangleska wakan”–Lakota for sacred circle—symbolizes the  Sioux concept of the universal interrelation of all created things as they grow and develop in the past, present and future.

Jacqueline Left Hand Bull’s picture book Lakota Hoop Dancer (1999) introduced children to Kevin Locke (1954-2022), also a master of the Native American indigenous flute. Descended from a distinguished Sioux family, Locke was widely honored for his work as an educator who passed on traditions through the performance of indigenous song and dance.

Lakota Hoop Dancer. New York: Dutton Children’s Books, c1999. (Cotsen 91771)

Locke learned the hoop dance from Arlo Good Bear, a Manan Hidatsa Indian, at a point when its survival was at risk.  Suzanne Haldane’s photography captures his easy demeanor which belies the athleticism necessary to execute the dance’s complicated moves. Performing against a backdrop covered by a patchwork quilt, Locke forms shapes with a handful of hoops to represent creatures in the story he is telling simultaneously.  Informally dressed in red, the color of the sun, and blue, that of the moon, his regalia is worn from the waist down.   In the second dance Haldane recorded, Locke’s splendid regalia almost overshadows the deft manipulation of more hoops into wonderfully complex forms.  To better appreciate this dance form, watch this video of Locke at the 2016 Smithsonian Folklife Festival, where he demonstrates “the hard part” and places the performance of the hoop dance in the context of his culture and its relevance to the lives of non-indigenous people.

The leap from dance as an expression of the sacred to  a reflection of contemporary mores here is a breath taking shift in tone.  This post was inspired by the discovery of an image of social dancing, which was removed from a 1930s reissue of satirical lithographs mercilessly sending up the fashionable folies of the “right sort” in the famous periodical Le bon genre. The impeccably dressed dancing master plays the kit violin on tiny beautifully shod feet while his pupils in sheer white Empire gowns work without partners to master new steps.  One works on leg lifts to strengthen her quadriceps and another practices what she hopes will be irresistible airs in front of a mirror.

When British satirists saw Le bon genre, they immediately grasped its potential for mischief across the Channel.  Gillray found it unnecessary to add much in the way of damning details in the French artist’s depiction of two couples waltzing.  Far less dainty  than the previous print, the spectator’s eye is drawn not to the grace of the handsome, fashionably young couples twirling in the closed position as much as their obvious physicality.  Sexual desire and the heat of exertion seems to rise from the bodies of the pair to the right; the man’s fleshy thighs and his partner’s exaggerated shoulder blades so noticeable in the other pair are slightly repellent.  It is a good explanation as any of why the waltz’s introduction caused a scandal in 1813.

Mourka: the Autobiography of a Cat. New York: Stein & Day, 1964. (Cotsen 67863)

The energy of dancers is channeled through the execution of patterns or choreography; bears, dogs and some other animals can be trained to do this. Before concluding that pigs will fly sooner than cats pirouette, look at Mourka: The Autobiography of a Cat (1964) whose subject was George Balanchine’s pet.  It is probably best categorized as a children’s book for adults illustrated with shots of cats in motion by the great photographer of dancers, Martha Swope.  Suspended in midair, Mourka and partner look as if they were destined for the stage of the New York City Ballet.

The delightful book has a heartbreaking backstory.  The text was written by Tanaquil Le Clerq, the fourth Mrs. Balanchine and one of his muses. Recognized as perhaps the most promising dancers of her generation, choreographers of the stature of Jerome Robbins and Merce Cunningham created roles for Le Clerq.   Her career was cut cruelly short when she caught polio during the company’s European tour in 1956.  At age 27, she was paralyzed from the waist down, eventually recovering the use of her torso and legs. During the 1960s, she spent a great deal of time in the couple’s apartment, with only the cat for company when Balanchine could not be with her.  While she avoided speaking about ballet, it was inescapable because of her husband’s running the company. Perhaps watching Mourka’s balletic leaps became a kind of therapy which reignited her need for self-expression through movement—first by writing this book, then by coaching others in her famous roles, and finally by teaching at the Dance Theatre of Harlem.  Her students report how inspiring they found her eloquent demonstrations with arms and body.

None of these dancers are remotely alike, and yet they make Astaire’s observation about the power of authentic movement fresh again.