I admit I’m naturally inclined toward the traditionally illustrative styles of Fables, a lovely livre d’artiste with sumptious woodcuts by Marc Chagall. I say naturally inclined because that is the sort of illustration I myself enjoy making: it can be visually distinct and stylistically unique, and Fables is certainly both of these, but it is also fairly literal.

Fables

The narrative bends it around its knee. It is a visual aide, an important crutch to be sure, but also one that can plausibly be dispensed with. Fables is a masterwork in its own right, one could argue, and in no need of visual supplement. Looking at writings done specifically for the livre d’artiste, however, one sees an entirely different pattern.

Jazz

One of abstraction. I use an example from Jazz by Henri Matisse here, because in this case, the pictures were created before the writing, a far rarer occurrence than the opposite. The result — and this is a phenomenon that I noticed in class and will investigate here — is a visual noise. Bereft of literal interpretation, bereft of clear, uncomplicated connection between text and picture, the audience turns to the metaphor of a song, a symphony. I noticed this language used in class. Take Jazz as a starting point. The writing in that case is huge and handwritten, scrawled, really. Looping and gentle and light, it’s fairly easy viewing, and certainly provides intense contrast with the thick, juicy gouache that coats the visual pages. And there it was said in class: it’s almost like a blast of noise, somebody said; it’s so much louder than the writing, we observed; the term ‘visual cacophony’ was thrown about somewhere. The title ‘Jazz’ is appropriate; it draws to mind improvisation, robust and free — and these are things the writing and the art have in common.

Or take A Toute Epreuve, another classic. Whereas Jazz draws thick lines between text and image, A Toute Epreuve muddles them together to form a soft, bouncy, spotty sort of tune — a melody that draws its greatest strengths from its judiciousness, its use of the silent space. Its two components, literary and visual, tangle amongst themselves and fall apart again, weave across and behind and before one another to form something akin to a bright, quivering whistle, or an elastic piano tune, or maybe both. The visuals couldn’t make less sense to a Frenchless observer, and there are points where they resemble a baffling batch of squiggles — at least to my narrative-mired illustrative eye. But there is more than one way to represent narrative.

A Toute Epreuve

Narrative is rhythmic, after all. Even strings of poems, as was the case with A Toute Epreuve, are set in a particular order, a strategic dipping and climaxing of passion and punch. A text with no rhythm is merely an orchestra warming up. Any genius that springs from it can only ever be accidental.

My favorite example, which I’ve saved for last, is Le Chef-D’oeuvre Inconnu, illustrated by Picasso. Apparently, the famous artist grew fascinated by the source material — and it shows, for the work is the most interesting combination of image and word.

Shown here is a section of Picasso’s lengthy foreword. The idea of a foreword being made entirely of image is a fascinating one in its own right, but the pertinent detail here is the build of image up to the words. The deceptively simplistic line-and-dot sketches begin small and grow in size and complexity until they become more akin to what you see above — until they sprawl over entire pages, until they become a vast and intricate labyrinth of black-and-white, and until they terminate suddenly where the story begins. The obviously intentional buildup reminds me strongly of the overture of a musical — a choir of erratic violins hissing up an alien introduction to the strange story about to take place.

This foreword, more than anything else, made me realize the rhythmic and orchestral potentials of accompanying illustrations. I hope I see other illustrated artist books that take advantage of this avenue just as passionately.