Levi Pinfold

Levi Pinfold

Illustration for Black Dog (children's book)

circa 2011

     We look up into the scene, like a child having just entered the room. We sense sudden movement, then colour and noise. Taking in the grandeur of the space for the first time we see that the man is statuesque, solid. He is the dependent trigger, the battery responsible for the life of this indoor event. He holds onto the air, onto the moment, by the way he tenses each of his fingers. What is out there?, he questions.

     Everything else assumes a slow motion. The toast slides lower off its falling plate, about to meet the same fate as its other now milk-sodden half; in turn, the droplets of milk slowly patter up into the cat's face, startled and scoffing; the maroon cushioned stool plummets calmly into nothingness, about to clunk harmlessly against the painted wooden floor boards; at this clunk the second cat will finally leap from the sill, out from under the child's protective hand which kept it in a perilous perch; the whoosh! of air created by its light leap with agitate the papers on the floor (maybe the red crayon will roll closer the yellow one), causing them to hover lazily before they return to their spots, only a little to the left; and finally, the narrative turns to us. We make the next move. Slowly, as of this first page, we are meant to help set in motion the following scenes, to embark on a journey to find what caused the man to jump so quickly. The artist brilliantly hooks his audience with the powers of perspective and motion, drawing us into his world through a simulated fish-eye lense - making us feel small, curious. Making us return to a childish mind-frame of, What next? And all without a word.

Beatrix Potter

Beatrix Potter

Hill Top on a Winter Night

circa late 1890s (?)

     Just as with words in her diaries, Mrs Potter portrays the same degree of love for her home with watercolour. Here, light escapes from Hill Top's open entrance and from the windows beside and above it, casting an image of comfort and solitude in the midst of looming bushes and branches, each spidery and stricken from the bite of northern temperatures. The sloped drive, padded down with a hint of cart wheels, draws the eye up and out of the cold towards the bay of human (or animal, for that matter) activity, making us wonder - in terms of Mrs Potter's imagination - what could be happening behind those walls.

     The small size of this piece (about that of a regular hand palm) emphasises her skill at rendering what seem like fine details out of carefully thought-out blobs and blotches of (or lack of) colour. Knit together on such a small scale they form an intimate scene, but with closer inspection these details become, ironically, out of focus. This is the magic that lies behind many of Mrs Potter's stories: addressing the minds of children, she weaves together common details of moral with bright interpretations of animal life, creating on the whole an imaginative tale that is in fact very realistic. Read too closely and the tale loses perspective - perhaps it is even called too flowery or frilly - but when seen from a relaxed distance, as with this illustration, its true message is seen at its best.

Vassily Kandinsky

Vassily Kandinsky

Russischer Reiter

circa 1902

     It is strange that, having stared at this work for years, it is still difficult to describe why it is so strong a piece. With a voice made from its colours and contours, Kandinsky's illustration is able to maintain a consistent degree of visual intensity all year round. It is not a cliché image such as a bouquet of flowers (which, however attractive it may be, risks losing strength with the change of season or when paired with another group of flowers), but an image whose voice disguises and alters according to mood and place - one whose voice acts as a shield against the effects of time.

     Like the style of composition itself - with objects slightly blurred in outline, blotched in pools of rich reds, greens or black - it is an image who speaks the particular tongue of its viewer, one that connects almost personally with him or her. It shape-shifts and moulds itself to their tastes, sometimes depending on factors as small as the moment's lighting or scent, all the while remaining the distinct landscape Kandinsky painted it as. His rider tells them, us, to look at that great blue reflective lake; to feel the peeling birch trunks and the taut hide of the horse (as theatrical as it is, almost like one belonging to a toy-soldier); and to listen for any chimes or chirps ringing from the gold onions and the birds in the pines. The rider even turns on his saddle, imploring us to be a part of his scene, to live with it and in it every day so as to know it as a friend, as someone who lasts forever. With that said, who can really describe a true friendship easily, in simple words?