The Artistic Imaginary of Tomie dePaola

Edgy. Shocking. Groundbreaking. These are often the words we use when we talk about modern art. In 1980 the BBC produced a documentary written and presented by Robert Hughes called “The Shock of the New.” In the series, and the accompanying book, Hughes traces “the hundred year history of modern art—its rise, its dazzling achievement, its fall.” Hughes’ presentation is insightful, compelling, and witty, and his choice of title highlights the way we and the art world have conceived of “modern art.” The dazzle of the new, the need to be groundbreaking—these expectations are not confined to the world of high art. This is a narrative that trickles down not only into the way we market new films and award prizes to children’s book authors and illustrators, but even in how we talk about upcoming NBA players and the latest New York Times bestseller.

Last week, children’s book author and illustrator Tomie dePaola passed away. When I heard the news—amidst all of the other distressing stories in our world—I was particularly saddened. I found myself revisiting his books in my collection. The Legend of the Indian Paintbrush. The Clown of God. The Hunter and the Animals. Days of the Blackbird. Strega Nona. He created over 270 books in his lifetime. As Harrison Smith noted in The Washington Post obituary for Mr. DePaola, “on at least six occasions, he illustrated 10 or more books in a single year.” Certainly he was prolific, brimming with creative energy. 

And yet I was surprised, shocked in fact, when I came across this paragraph about halfway through The Washington Post’s obituary, one of the first to hit the web after Tomie dePaola’s passing: 

Mr. dePaola was not considered as groundbreaking as Maurice Sendak, whose 1963 masterpiece “Where the Wild Things Are” changed the very idea of what a picture book for children was allowed to say, or as introspective as Arnold Lobel, who created the Frog and Toad series.

However, Mr. dePaola’s straightforward style and gentle humor made his books widely accessible and easy to digest.

My shock and surprise was twofold. The comparison to Sendak and Lobel was unnecessary and disrespectful within the context of an obituary, coupled with Smith’s fairly weak attempt to make his “case” for dePaola despite claiming dePaola’s inferior position. Secondly, this paragraph, placed fairly centrally and plainly within the obituary, reveals how we think about art and artists in modernity. Great art must be groundbreaking. It must cause rupture; it must “do something new.” DePaola, in Smith’s opinion, is not groundbreaking, not introspective. He is instead straightforward, tame, and easy to digest. He is simple. 

"Matisse is my favorite," dePaola said in a 2007 interview with The Boston Globe, "because he didn't want the viewer to see the hard work that went into his painting. He would start out with a rendering, then simplify and simplify. I try to be as clear and simple as I can be in my illustrations, so that the child can tell what is going on and what the emotions are." When a critic in 1874 called Monet’s painting of a sunrise “mere impressions,” Monet responded emphatically, “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m doing!”  One man’s criticism is another man’s intention. Perhaps in a less dramatic way, this is an Impressionism moment. This obituary reveals that when we conceive of art the way Smith does, we actually miss the point, and instead impose our own paradigm on it. 

Tomie dePaola working in his home studio. Photo Source.

Painting of Matisse by dePaola.

It is true. DePaola was not a groundbreaking artist, but he was a great artist. Robert Hughes would contend that his not being groundbreaking was for the best. Reflecting on the modern art world twenty-five years after the release of the original documentary, Hughes commented that “the ground is choked with events that defy brief, coherent summary.” DePaola is not flashy. He did not believe in breaking with tradition, with doing something entirely new. Instead, dePaola was an artist in love with and enmeshed in a tradition of craft, beauty, and, often, the religious imaginary. He was a man who fell in love with art and stayed in love with it his whole life. The Boston Globe article relates one of dePaola’s early encounters with the works of other artists:

After high school, he went to Pratt Institute of art in Brooklyn and decided early to specialize in illustration. "In my first week, one of my classmates invited me to an opening at MOMA, of [French painter] Georges Rouault," dePaola said, "and I was totally blown away. That same night, I saw my first Picasso and first Matisse." Rouault and Matisse became his heroes, along with medieval painters Giotto and Fra Angelico.

DePaola, much like Sendak, carried these artistic heroes with him into his art and craft. Perhaps more than, or certainly differently than Sendak, dePaola was indebted to his art’s historical past. In many ways, one could say that dePaola hid himself within his work, not in order to be found, but instead to witness to and be a part of a tradition or lineage that he clearly thought was worth continuing and passing on. 

L-R (clockwise): Two Acrobats with a Dog by Pablo Picasso (1905), The Blue Window by Henry Matisse (1913), The Annunciation by Fra Angelico (1445) and photo from a gallery in the 1953 Rouault exhibition at MOMA that Tomie dePaola would have visited.

When I see a Tomie dePaola illustration, I definitely know it’s Tomie dePaola. The soft and gentle eyes, the motley of beautiful colors, scenic Italian vistas, an icon sitting in a corner, a spark of joy. But when I see one of his illustrations, I also see Fra Angelico, Giotto, the late Medieval and early Renaissance frescos, Botticelli. DePaola was not groundbreaking, but he was also not straightforward in the way Smith means it. His work is layered—layers of hard work and layers of art historical tradition. Perhaps dePaola exhibits what Nagel and Wood describe in their book Anachronic Renaissance, that while “a work of art does bear witness to the moment of its fabrication . . . it is equally important to understand its temporal instability: how it points away from that moment, backward to a remote ancestral origin, to a prior artifact or image, even to an origin outside of time, in divinity.”

Photograph of Tomie dePaola’s home chapel, illustration of the Madonna and Child from The Clown of God, illustration of a group of city dwellers from The Clown of God.

So perhaps dePaola is much like Giovanni, the main character in his story The Clown of God. On the surface, Giovanni’s juggling looked easy and simple, but beneath it, there were years of practice and work, and in the final pages it all pointed away from him, to something higher. And so too we can say in the end of Mr. dePaola: “But he was happy, and he could do something wonderful.”

from the final pages of The Clown of God