Boston Globe-Horn Book Award Acceptance

HAVE ALWAYS been fascinated by the moon, that charismatic but mysterious sphere that has beguiled, bewitched, and filled man with wonder since the dawn of time. Although I am hopelessly unqualified to be an astronaut, I was elated ten years ago when, quite unexpectedly, I was invited to climb aboard a moon-bound rocket ship. The opportunity came in the form of an invitation to illustrate an expansive, brilliantly conceived, and fascinatingly nuanced text, written by Faith McNulty, for a book titled If You Decide to Go to the Moon.

This book is being honored today in the nonfiction category, and that accolade is enormously appreciated. However, from my very first reading, I felt that the manuscript’s accessibility and eloquence were enhanced by its carefully crafted incursions into the world of fiction. (After all, it had fostered and sustained in me the delusion that, indeed, I could actually be an astronaut!) Continued re-readings of the manuscript convinced me that, despite its length, it projected a compelling demand to be brought to life with the considerations and qualities that are normally associated with a much leaner picture book text.

My involvement with If You Decide to Go to the Moon has been one of the highlights of my career. I have immensely enjoyed my long, intense, and exhilarating association with the creation and production of this book, but there is a real sadness in the fact that I will never have the chance to personally express my deep gratitude to its gifted author. Normally I do not collaborate with the authors of the books that I have illustrated. I look forward to meeting, thanking, and befriending the author after the publication of our book. But until that time I am interested only in an intimate illustrational relationship with the manuscript, and I feel it is important for both of us to respond to the editor, who, as the conductor, makes certain that the music of pictures and words comes together as harmoniously as possible. Both the author and illustrator depend on the editor to coordinate their contributions to the book and to provide sympathetic collaboration, objective analysis, and liberating support. In the evolution of this book, editorial wisdom flowed from Grace Maccarone of Cartwheel Books at Scholastic. I will be eternally grateful to her for offering me the opportunity to illustrate this masterful piece of writing and for her sensitive guidance, endless patience, and generous support during the ten years that elapsed between the project’s hope-filled embarkation and the euphoric landing when it was finally published.

What an exciting moment it was when Grace first sent me Faith McNulty’s manuscript! I was awed by the quality of the writing, the evocative descriptions of the moon, and the subtle interactions between factual observations and subjective reflections. The identity of the guiding voice from which the poetic cadences and illuminating facts emanate was left to the illustrator, and I decided to let the voice remain anonymous, depicting instead the individual to whom the commentary was directed. I portrayed him as a highly motivated young astronaut (ignoring the fact that his age — still in the single digits — would present a problem if he were to apply to NASA directly).

We first meet the hero on the jacket, flanked by his footprints in the moon dust and illuminated by the cool blue light of the object of his quest. On the endpaper, I turned the clock back and re-introduced him standing hand-in-hand with his younger sister, accompanied by two cats and a spaniel, and staring in fascination at a full moon rising above a shimmering lake and a distant range of mountains. (This scene was directly inspired by the view that I enjoy from my studio, which is located in an old barn overlooking Lake Champlain and the Green Mountains of Vermont.)

The title page leads into the main body of the text more abruptly than in most picture books, but McNulty has an ambitious itinerary, so I was anxious to hustle the readers aboard the rocket as briskly as possible. However, I felt that the characters of the brother and sister needed some definition before takeoff. I depicted their separation with a suggestion of poignancy as the little girl waves farewell from behind a sign that states: “Astronauts Only Beyond This Point.” The family pets are also left behind as the brother eagerly makes his way to the distant rocket on the launch pad.

Next, on three double-page spreads, liftoff is accomplished. The rocket diminishes dramatically in scale and the colors of the scenes on Earth fade as we enter outer space where, the author observes, “The moon, the mysterious moon, glows like a pearl in the black, black sky.” To achieve the effect of pervasive darkness, I experimented with different pigments, finding I got the effect I wanted from the blackest of spray paints.

As the two-and-a-half-day flight passes, the boy watches in fascination as the moon looms ever larger in the porthole. To capture the ruggedness of the lunar surface, I experimented with collage, layering pieces of roughly surfaced watercolor paper, and I used heavily textured acrylics that allowed me to sculpt as well as to paint the crags and craters. Gray spray paint captured the explosion of the fine moon dust that obscures the young astronaut’s view as the rocket settles onto the moon’s surface.

The moment he emerges, he is struck by the gravitational difference between Earth and the moon. McNulty gives us a hard fact — “if you weigh sixty pounds on Earth, you will weigh only ten on the moon” — and then follows it with a playful observation: “Your first step will be difficult. You will rise in the air and leap forward like a kangaroo, but once you learn how, walking will be fun.” I filled the page with multiple images of the boy lurching and bouncing to convey the awkwardness of his efforts to master the challenges of walking on the moon, but then I showed him leaping like a ballet dancer as he becomes more confident and proficient.

The young astronaut begins to explore the moon, discovering no change in the stultifying monotony of the gray landscape, but as he ascends a long ridge, McNulty wonders hopefully “if things will look different on the other side. Will you find something green? Something alive? A meadow of moongrass? A herd of mooncows?” And here I had fun piercing the blackness with his imagined mooncows welling up as benign, bloated, multicolored beasts with large, luminous, lunar eyes. They shuffle toward him plaintively bleating, “MOOOOOOOON,” as he extends his arms in welcome.

We turn the page to see if his hope of finding mooncows will be fulfilled only to confront a scarily stark landscape with the scale so dramatically expanded that the hero seems very small and insignificant. The text coldly informs us: “The answer is ‘no.’ The hills stretch on and on to the horizon, where the rim of the moon meets the blackness of space. Everything on the moon is lifeless and still.” The harsh reality of the moon’s uncompromising sameness and its hostility to life begins to make the little astronaut feel increasingly vulnerable within the confines of his space suit, but there is a reprieve from the growing claustrophobic anxiety when he discovers the plaque and the flag that were left by the astronauts who preceded him in 1969. The flag is the first note of color in the monochromatic bleakness of the moon’s landscape, although it lies in the dust, having been destabilized when those astronauts took off. Their young successor rights the flag, and McNulty observes:

“The flag is . . . a brave and wonderful sight and reminds you of the courage of the astronauts who brought it here. If the astronauts ever return they will find the flag flying once again, and your footprints in the dust.”

At this point, the young adventurer realizes that his air tank is almost empty. He hurriedly retraces his footprints back to the rocket. The author explains: “When you see your spaceship waiting, you are suddenly terribly homesick. You can’t wait to get back to Earth.”

The turning page now brings us to the entrance of a gatefold, which I wanted to design in such a way that it would capture the weary astronaut’s return to Earth and the beauty of the planet as seen from space. Opening that gatefold I tried to visually express the euphoria of the boy’s vision as described by the author. “As you look down at the oceans, you think of all the animals that live there: fish and whales and seals, turtles, dolphins, soaring sea birds, and countless more . . . You can see Earth’s marvelous variety — green forests and grassy plains, mountains, lakes and deserts that are home to animals, plants, and people, too.”

The expansive four-page illustration is composed to suggest the scale of a mural. We see teeming numbers of astoundingly diverse creatures moving across a panorama of nature’s endlessly changing environments, celebrating the miraculous fertility and abundance of the earth. The text is deployed across the climactic spread with the last block centered around a mountain pool where children of different backgrounds and colors play and swim and laugh. In that paragraph the author muses on the amazing contrast between our planet and its satellite:

“Why is Earth so different from the moon? Earth has air and water . . . on which all life depends. Without them, Earth would be as lifeless as the moon. Air and water are Earth’s special blessings. We must guard them well.”

The concluding three double-page spreads bring the young astronaut on a descent through dazzling sunlight and clouds and return him to the farmhouse by the lake where his adventure began. The imagined spaceship disappears, and the illustrational subplot that described his separation from his younger sister ends in a joyful reunion as they tumble together in the lush green grass and share their exuberance with the welcoming spaniel and the two family cats.

There is a brief resolution to another subplot as the last endpaper shows the little sister at dusk arrested by the sight of another moonrise. Then on the back of the jacket a circular illustration leads us to understand that, even though we have closed the book, this story is one of perpetual renewal. The little sister, now encased in a space suit of her own, waves to us happily as she passes the familiar sign that says: “Astronauts Only Beyond This Point.” We realize that she, too, has succumbed to the moon’s eternal appeal to mankind’s imagination, his irrepressible compulsion to explore distant horizons, and his profound sense of wonder. We can only hope that, like her brother, she will return with a renewed commitment to the celebration and preservation of this magnificent planet that nurtures and sustains all of us.

I would like to conclude by expressing my thanks to the entire staff at Scholastic who contributed their inspiring chorus of talents to make the production of this book such a fulfilling creative experience for me. In the room tonight, and deserving of my deepest gratitude, are my beloved wife and best friend, Helen, four of the six kids who have suddenly grown into spectacular adults, and four of their eight wonderful children. Warmest thanks as well to the treasured friends who are here.

An expansive wave of appreciation goes out to all of you who have honored me with this highly regarded award. And that appreciation extends to the entire children’s book community for creating an environment where the magic of published storytelling continues, like the Earth in Faith McNulty’s extraordinary manuscript, to ignite our imaginations and nourish our spirits.

From the January/February 2007 issue of The Horn Book Magazine