I first came across this book a few years ago at Book Expo America, and it stuck in my mind. For some reason I remembered it a few weeks ago, ordered a copy on-line and promptly forgot about it again until it arrived in the mail today. (I’m pretty certain this is a glaring symptom of book addiction, but in my defense I accumulate an irrational number of books on a regular basis.)
It’s a weird little book, a satire of mid 20th century children’s books and modern art in one tidy volume. I love going to art galleries, but tend to walk briskly through modern art and contemporary art galleries. Most of it just doesn’t interest me—it’s not compelling to look at, and I either don’t understand or don’t care to understand what point the artist is making. I know I’m missing something about it, but try as I might, I can’t be interested in everything. So the children’s perspective in this book resonated with me:
“Is the art pretty?” says Susan.
“No,” says Mummy, “Pretty is not important.”
John does not understand.
“It is good not to understand” says Mummy.
John does not understand.
It’s a short book, only 42 pages, but they fully commit with every word. Even the history of Dung Beetle books inside the back cover is part of the gag, concluding with, “For just as the humble a Dung Beetle gathers faeces from the forest floor in which to lay its eggs, the child lays ‘eggs of knowledge’ in the turd of its own mind.”
Like I said, it’s a weird little book.