A bibliographic tool, brought to you by Grover

Anyone who has been in my university book classes, and probably in some of my public workshops, knows that one of my favourite examples of an artist book is the Little Golden Book, The Monster at the End of This Book, starring that lovable furry critter, Grover.

I have read it to students of all ages, including, of course, children (especially my own son). My copy is old, battered and yellowing but it holds up as a valuable teaching tool. Why? If you're asking that, you've never read it. 

Grover has been told that there's a monster at the end of the book, so the storyline revolves around his fear of getting to the end of the book. The fun centres upon the knowledge that kids love doing things they've been told not to do.

You have to do the voice, of course. Since asking nicely doesn't work, Grover starts setting up 'obstacles' for the reader.

He uses rope. He uses bricks. His reactions get increasingly dramatic. The children start to got wild, clamouring to turn the page. Older students laugh as much as their dignity allows.

I hope that you know the big reveal – that the Monster at the End of This Book is Grover himself. He self-soothes by turning it back to the reader: "And you were so scared! I told you and told you there was nothing to be afraid of." And then the very last line of the book is him holding his head in his hands and thinking 'Oh, I am so embarrassed' in teeny tiny letters. 

Written by Jon Stone and first published in 1971, my copy is the Tenth Printing, 1978. That's ten reprintings in 7 years. Imagine how many reprints there have been since then! The success of Little Golden Books, of course, is that they were in every major supermarket, positioned in racks near the checkout, so that bored kids would clamour for one while their parents waited in line. 

The power of this book is less the physicality of the book and more the agency granted by the concept and the power embued upon the child, encouraging them to turn the page themselves while someone is actively begging them not to (which probably explains the number of printings - I wonder if it is the most accidentally-ripped book of the 20th century?). It introduces and encourages the idea that page-turning takes you somewhere new, with or without images. 

The lesson here for artist book makers is that, while alternative formats and pop-ups and etc are alluring, they are just bells & whistles if you have a good concept that can engage the page itself. Mind you, I sometimes think the other end of the artist/design books spectrum can go a bit far with its ethos of austere design simplicity. BUT we are all in the alternative book universe, and as such are still interested in what is becoming an historical form as people become more reliant on digital devices. 

And The Monster at the End of This Book has not escaped this movement to the digital and overwhelming desires for spin-offs and sequels. The latter stars that horrible little squeaker, Elmo (ugh).

The DVD version has buttons to press to 'turn the pages'. It's also an online app, and I'm sure that now, if kids go to read the book online, AI will pop up on the screen and ask them if they'd like a summary [slumps]. None of this is as powerful as turning a flimsy piece of paper and watching a ton of bricks fall down, even though the image is completely static. It doesn't need to be animated. This is the power of a book. Any book. We do the action in our head. To lose that is to lose an important aspect of imagination and agency. 

So do yourself a favour, if you have grandchildren or godchildren or babysitting clients, get a copy of the original book and read it to them. I used to read it regularly to my dementia-riddled mother and she thought it was hilarious. These days she doesn't know what a book is, and that is a kind of living in reverse.*

If you're a book artist, have a good look at the strategy used in this classic book. How could you progress a story in your visual work? The thing is that up to now, artist books have had an advantage when in the hands of people who grew up with books and know the magic of turning pages. We are dealing with a new world of engagement now, full of bells and whistles and hooks... can we make the simple act of turning a page alluring for this next era without overt augmentation? Should it involve action and 'noise', or seductive materiality? I'm not arguing for either side, just trying to work it out for myself as I get back into making books after a few years in the wilderness. 

* I keep trying to tell my father that she's going through the stages of life backwards now, but he doesn't quite understand the concept. As a parent, I can see that she was 5yo last year, and is now closer to 3yo, and if she lives a long time yet, she will end up in bed, reverted to a baby. I know, Benjamin Button used this idea, but it's a real one, and is being enacted in nursing homes and other homes across the world. My father wasn't very involved with us kids when we were small, having to go off to Vietnam and etc as a soldier, so he doesn't know what 3yos like to do (like finding funny-shaped clouds and admiring freshly-blown bubbles). He thinks we're a pair of numpties when we get together. Oh well, he's missing out on the fun.