Hello dear reader,

In today’s illustrated letter I will share with you some of the creative process of making When Sadness Comes to Call, my debut picture book, and where the initial idea may have originated. I will end it with a little exercise for (aspiring) picturebook makers.

Where it all started

To start, here is a little process video. Years of research, experimentation and work condensed into a few minutes...

I started working on this project during my studies at the MA Children’s Book Illustration at the Cambridge School of Art. We had just finished the first module, Observation and Experimentation, and were asked to write a proposal for the next module, Sequential Image. I wrote:

How to deal with difficult emotions like sadness, feelings of loneliness, anxiety etc.

I want my sequential images to be about consolation, comfort and emotions. Inspiration may be drawn from instruction manuals and instructive books, tarot cards and other spiritual oriented illustrations.

Areas of research are how comfort, lightness and consolation can be exemplified and induced with the use of colours, composition, humour and the rhythm of the sequential image.

Can I make a sequence that gives the viewer the feeling of being consoled and hugged? It might be that my research will take me on a more humorous path, where the 'instructions for self improvement' and their illustrations will have disparities, because of the improbabilities already inherent in the premise of the project. For this sequence to work, I will probably also need to visualise the difficult feelings and mental states that I want to offer 'solutions' for as well.

I don't know yet if there should be a narrative or a protagonist (for the sequence to have the desired effect of 'comforting' the reader probably yes, because it will allow the reader to identify with the character. But to convey clear and instructive messages, staying true to the original idea, probably not. I will have to find out by experimenting with both approaches).

The intrinsic motivation to make a sequence about dealing with difficult emotions is that I believe that by taking more responsibility for our feelings, instead of banishing them to our unconscious where they might start a life of their own, would enable us to understand ourselves and others better. Instead of having the feeling we need to hide parts of ourselves, as if we are partly in disguise, we can stay true to 'what is at the moment', making it easier to truly connect with others. To give children the opportunity to explore such feelings within the safety of a book and simultaneously giving adult and child a tool to start a conversation about difficult subjects. In this case the outcome will probably not be for children but for adults. Sometimes we want to console somebody grieving for example, but don't know which words to use. Having a 'toolbox of consolation' in your hands could give you an opening to start a conversation or make a friendly gesture. Or if you give it to yourself, it would be a way of 'acknowledging' your emotion, allowing yourself to dwell a little but also giving yourself the message you (and all your difficult emotions) have the right to exist.

The motivation to make an instructive sequence is probably because I am drawn to (well designed) products that promise solutions. Even though part of me longs for autonomy and adventure, the other part wants to be taken by the hand and to be told what to do, step by step (as long as it is fairly simple and fast, of course). Being able to sort out all the difficulties, label them and put them away in boxes without risking failure or rejection.

I am aware of the contradiction between the desire to give room to difficult emotions by acknowledging them and at the same time want to offer solutions, which is in a way denying their right to exist. This friction is hopefully a good source for humour but it might also be that I need to choose for one of the approaches.

It’s interesting for me that even though I still had so many steps to take and was still developing my narrative and visual voice, my vision for this project is clearly present. A vision that already started taking shape during my studies at the art academy, many moons ago.

Going back in time even further, I could argue that my interest in the Jungian concept of ‘the shadow’ (all the parts of our personality that are banned to our unconscious) that I developed during my secondary school years, was another seed. I was introduced to the idea how acknowledging the darker parts inside of us and integrating them is important, even if it makes us feel uncomfortable in the beginning.

It’s a question of responsibility, in my opinion, something we owe to other people, in particular our children.

Troost

In my previous illustrated letter, I mentioned the impossibility of translating the word belonging to Dutch. The other way around I’ve stumbled on Dutch words that I found difficult to translate as well, like the word troost, which lies somewhere between comfort and consolation.

During my final year of the Audiovisual Design (VAV) departmet at the Gerrit Rietveld Academy in Amsterdam, I developed a project that directly connected with an audience. At the time, I felt deflated and disconnected with art presented on white walls in galleries and museums. The art world appeared to me like a game I didn’t really know the rules of, or like a theatre play I couldn’t possibly feel at home in, as I had a hard time being anything else but my stumbling and blushing self. I talked about this doubt and frustration with a friend and peer from my year (hello Daphne!), and wondered out loud how I could communicate more directly with an audience and create something meaningful. In my memory I moaned that I just wanted to make something that could offer troost. She asked me why I didn’t make a project about that very subject. And so, the beginning of a project was born.

We were about to have a group exhibition in De oude kerk (The old church) in Amsterdam, which context I used to develop this project further. I invited a few other artists and musicians to the project, to form a Troostcomissie / Consolation commission and created a long questionnaire (see image below), which we used to interview people on the opening night. As you can see in the footnote, the original idea was to offer customised comfort to each participant (around 20 people). I had also created a two week long program, with almost daily consolation sessions with authors, musicians, philosophers and more. I remember feeling driven by purpose and vision. It all came together serendipitously, and with hard work, in a relatively short time, something I don’t think I had experienced before,

Below is a photo of the room in the church and how I decorated it for the duration of the exhibition. There was always tea and chocolate present. Sometimes also homemade apple pie.

The table with the cloth underneath the wooden top, is inspired by the Japanese Kotatsu table. As the church gets very cold, we wanted to provide a way to stay warm. I cannot however remember if we indeed managed to borrow the heating devices for praying churchgoers to put underneath and if anyone put their legs underneath the fabric, as was the intention. I do however remember carefully deliberating which type and colour fabric to choose (that was within my student budget). I am only noticing now that I chose the same colour as I’ve later chosen to represent ‘Sadness’ in my picturebook. In the right corner of the room, though not visible in this photo, is a statue of Saint Nicolas. You can however see the shadow on below polaroid of the wall and the miniature drawings Sachi Miyachi made on the opening night, documenting the exchanges me and my fellow ‘commission members’ had with the public, interviewing them with the questionnaire you have seen earlier, disclosing their desire for comfort, and their heartaches (I’m sure, within the boundaries of what felt comfortable for them at the time).

Art or therapy?

All I remember of that night was that I was uncomfortably sweating and squinting as a very warm and bright stage light was shining directly in my eyes, whilst I was conducting the interviews with strangers and some familiar faces. Only afterwards, a great life lesson I’ll always remember, I realised I could’ve done something about it in the moment. Move the light, or move my chair. A colleague from another year and department had later commented on my work, wondering who was more in need of troost at the time - me, or the participants?

It’s been both inspiring and cringe to dive back into my exchanges and documentation of this project. I was so naive and optimistic, to gather all these props, ideas and collaborators, including teachers and already quite established artists and writers to perform during the afternoon consolation sessions. I guess one can still get away with that, as a young and poor student? People can always say no, anyway.

At least I steered away from composing a consolation song (troostlied) for a choir, arrange one out of thin air and have them perform my piece in the church (without having any musical credentials, besides having just finished a singer songwriter course that I enjoyed). According to some old notes and e-mails, that was my first plan.

I still like the idea of this project about consolation but, in hindsight, I was in over my head. Not only did I cross an invisible boundary between art and therapy, one I would not cross so lightly now I’m a little older, it was also my final year at the art academy and I needed to create work for my final presentation. Creating customised art for 20 individuals suddenly became a big task that I started to postpone. I suspect I may also have been too much of a perfectionist to actually deliver, by definition, imperfect and inadequate consolation. I have felt guilty for years about never sending anyone any troost (especially the lady that seemed to really need it - I’ve always wondered how she was doing afterwards).

An inventory of consolation

For the graduation exhibition I did create a little booklet called Troonstinventaris (Consolation Inventory), in which I collected and illustrated people’s answers to the question of what they consolatory. I can’t remember where I’ve kept so I can’t really share much here, except for the following drawings, based on sign language.

And the following illustrations of some of the suggestions, demonstrating how far away I still was from the compassionate approach towards sadness, that is at the core of the picturebook When Sadness Comes to Call, that I later made

Somewhere in our attic, I do however still have the rolodex where I collected all the answers from people on what they found consoling, organised in themes and alphabetical order. I still have those filled-out forms. A knitted piece of comfort, a few consolation songs, a drawing, the booklet (falling apart), and Polaroids documenting the project.

Connecting the dots

My own comfort, to soothe myself and alleviate any feelings of guilt, is that this project has eventually brought me to creating When Sadness Comes to Call which has reached and comforted many...

In making picturebooks I’ve finally found the medium that allows me to communicate and connect more directly with an audience. Picturebooks are tactile, immediate, and inherently a shared experience. The finished book is a collaboration with the reader, whom I’ve always considered a kind of co-author.

While working on When Sadness Comes to Call, I intentionally left as much space as I could - between words and images, and, quite literally in the white of the pages. I used minimal artwork to convey emotion and lay bare the essentials of the theme. Ultimately, It’s the reader who creates meaning as they engage with the book and make it their own. In that act of meaning-making and reflection, one can feel seen, and perhaps a little less lonely and heavy with their sadness.

The message of the book is one that I’ve only slowly come to understand myself, through each iteration of the project and every conversation I had about it - whether with friends, family, peers, teachers, or even strangers.

At the risk of sounding self-important (especially knowing mine is just one of many picturebooks about emotions published around the same time in 2019, and that I had a lot of help along the way), I find it amazing to zoom out and think of myself as a little girl, feeling lost and alone with her emotions, and see how that experience, eventually led to creating of a book that’s now been published in over 20 languages. More importantly, it’s a book that has helped many people connect with their emotions and cultivate more compassion - for those emotions, and for themselves.

The personal becomes the universal

If I were to offer any advice about making picturebooks and getting published (though this is not a role I feel entirely comfortable with), it would be this: stay true to yourself. The most personal and vulnerable feelings and motivations may be what fuel your work and they may also be what resonates most deeply with others.

I hope you’ve enjoyed this glimpse into the backstory of creating my debut picturebook. I might write another letter soon, sharing more about the creative process and the many iterations behind When Sadness Comes to Call.

What do you find comforting? How do you comfort others and how do you prefer to receive comfort? Let me know in the comments. And if you have any questions about my creative process, don’t hesitate to ask.

With love,

Eva

If you want to learn more about my work or find risograph prints of my books, you can visit my website.

An excersise

For those of you here as (aspiring) picturebook makers, seeking something more practical, I will end this news letter with an exercise:

Write a letter to your child self. Speak to them from the from the perspective you have now, as an adult. What would you want that child to know?

This can be a powerful way to connect with important themes that matter to you, and to begin gathering treasures from your own memories and lived experiences.

You can write it as a full letter, or simply jot down sentences and doodles on loose paper that you can rearrange later. You might even tuck it into an envelope and mail it to yourself.

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