Comments on The Arrival
The following is an extract from an article written for Viewpoint Magazine, describing some of the ideas and process behind this book.
Looking over much of my previous work as an illustrator and writer, such as The Rabbits (about colonisation), The Lost Thing (about a creature lost in a strange city) or The Red Tree (a girl wandering through shifting dreamscapes), I realise that I have a recurring interest in notions of ‘belonging’, particularly the finding or losing of it. Whether this has anything to do with my own life, I’m not sure, it seems to be more of a subconscious than conscious concern. One contributing experience may have been that of growing up in Perth, one of the most isolated cities in the world, sandwiched between a vast desert and a vaster ocean. More specifically, my parents pegged a spot in a freshly minted northern suburb that was quite devoid of any clear cultural identity or history. A vague awareness of Aboriginal displacement (which later sharpened into focus with a project like The Rabbits) only further troubled any sense of a connection to a ‘homeland’ in this universe of bulldozed ‘tabula rasa’ coastal dunes, and fast-tracked, walled-in housing estates.
Being a half-Chinese at a time a place when this was fairly unusual may have compounded this, as I was constantly being asked ‘where are you from?’ to which my response of ‘here’ only prompted a deeper inquiry, ‘where do your parents come from?’ At least this was far more positive attention than the occasional low-level racism I experienced as a child, and which I also noticed directed either overtly or surreptitiously at my Chinese father from time to time. Growing up I did have a vague sense of separateness, an unclear notion of identity or detachment from roots, on top of that traditionally contested concept of what it is to be ‘Australian’, or worse, ‘un-Australian’ (whatever that might mean).
Beyond any personal issues, though, I think that the ‘problem’ of belonging is perhaps more of a basic existential question that everybody deals with from time to time, if not on a regular basis. It especially rises to the surface when things ‘go wrong’ with our usual lives, when something challenges our comfortable reality or defies our expectations – which is typically the moment when a good story begins, so good fuel for fiction. We often find ourselves in new realities – a new school, job, relationship or country, any of which demand some reinvention of ‘belonging’.
This was uppermost in my mind during the long period of work on The Arrival, a book which deals with the theme of migrant experience. Given my preoccupation with ‘strangers in strange lands’, this was an obvious subject to tackle, a story about somebody leaving their home to find a new life in an unseen country, where even the most basic details of ordinary life are strange, confronting or confusing – not to mention beyond the grasp of language. It’s a scenario I had been thinking about for a number of years before it crystallised into some kind of narrative form.
The book had no single source of inspiration, but rather represents the convergence of several ideas. I had been thinking at one stage about the somewhat invisible history of the Chinese in Western Australia, particularly in an area of South Perth once used as vast market gardens a century ago, which is now grassed parkland. I did a little research into who these people were and how they related to the Anglo-Australian community around them, and came to be particularly motivated by one short story, ‘Wong Chu and The Queen's Letterbox’ by the West Australian writer T.A.G. Hungerford, which draws on the author’s childhood memories of a strange, segregated group of misunderstood men, and considers their tragic isolation from families back in China.
Drawing on more immediate sources, my father came to Australia from Malaysia in 1960 to study architecture, where he met my mother in who was then working in a store that supplied technical pens (hence my existence some time later – I have a special appreciation for technical pens). Dad’s stories are sketchy, and usually focus on specific details, as is the way of most anecdotes – the unpalatable food, too cold or too hot weather, amusing misunderstandings, difficult isolation, odd student jobs and so on. In researching a variety of other migrant stories, beginning with post-war Australia and then broadening out to periods of mass-migration to the US around 1900, it was the day to day details that seemed most telling and suggested some common, universal human experiences. I was reminded that migration is a fundamental part of human history, both in the distant and recent past. On gathering further anecdotes of overseas-born friends – and my partner who comes from Finland – as well as looking at old photographs and documents, I became aware of the many common problems faced by all migrants, regardless of nationality and destination: grappling with language difficulties, home-sickness, poverty, a loss of social status and recognisable qualifications, not to mention the separation from family.
In seeking to re-imagine such circumstances (of which I have no first-hand experience) my original idea for a fairly conventional picture book developed into a quite different kind of structure. It seemed that a longer, more fragmented visual sequence without any words would best captured a certain feeling of uncertainty and discovery I absorbed from my research. I was also struck with the idea of borrowing the ‘language’ of old pictorial archives and family photo albums I’d been looking at, which have both a documentary clarity and an enigmatic, sepia-toned silence. It occurred to me that photo albums are really just another kind of picture book that everybody makes and reads, a series of chronological images illustrating the story of someone’s life. They work by inspiring memory and urging us to fill in the silent gaps, animating them with the addition of our own storyline.
In ‘The Arrival’, the absence of any written description also plants the reader more firmly in the shoes of an immigrant character. There is no guidance as to how the images might be interpreted, and we must ourselves search for meaning and seek familiarity in a world where such things are either scarce or concealed. Words have a remarkable magnetic pull on our attention, and how we interpret attendant images: in their absence, an image can often have more conceptual space around it, and invite a more lingering attention from a reader who might otherwise reach for the nearest convenient caption, and let that rule their imagination.
I was particularly impressed by Raymond Briggs’ The Snowman, having come across it for the first time while thinking about my migrant story. In silent pencil drawings, Briggs describes a boy building a snowman which then comes to life, and is introduced to the magical indoor world of light-switches, running water, refrigeration, clothing and so on; the snowman in turn introduces the boy to the night-time world of snow, air and flight. The parallels between this situation and my own gestating project were very strong, so I could not help reading the silent snowman and small boy as ‘temporary migrants’, discovering the ordinary miracles of each other’s country in a modest, enchanting fashion. It also confirmed the power of the silent narrative, not only in removing the distraction of words, but slowing down to reader so that they might mediate on each small object and action, as well as reflect in many different ways on the story as a whole.
Of course, this came at some expense, as words are wonderfully convenient conveyors of ideas. In their absence, even describing the simplest of actions, like someone packing a suitcase, buying a ticket, cooking a meal or asking for work threatened to become a very complicated, laborious and potentially slippery exercise in drawing. I had to find a way of carrying this kind of narrative that was practical, clear and visually economical.
Unwittingly, I had found myself working on a graphic novel rather than a picture book. There is not a great difference between the two, but in a graphic novel there is perhaps far more emphasis on continuity between multiple frames, actually closer in many ways to film-making than book illustration. I have never been a great reader of comics (having come at illustration as a painter) so much of my research was redirected to a study of different kinds of comics and graphic novels. What shapes are the panels? How many should be on a page? What is the best way to cut from one moment to the next? How is the pace of the narrative controlled, especially when there are no words? A useful reference was Understanding Comics by Scott McCloud, which details many aspects of ‘sequential art’ in a way that is both theoretical and practical, not least because it’s a textbook written as a comic – and very cleverly done. I noticed also that many Japanese comics (manga) use large tracts of silent narrative, and exploit a sense of visual timing that is slightly different from Western comics, which I found very instructive. Simultaneously, I had been working in some capacity as an animation director recently with a studio in London, adapting The Lost Thing as a short film (where much of the narrative is silent) and closely studying to the techniques used by storyboard artists and editors in that industry. All of these pieces of ‘research’ informed the style and structure of the book over several full-length revisions.
The actual process of then producing the final images came to be more like film-making than conventional illustration. Realising the importance of consistency over multiple panels, coupled with a stylistic interest in early photographs, I physically constructed some basic ‘sets’ using bits of wood and fridge-box cardboard, furniture and household objects. These became simple models for drawn structures in the book, anything from towering buildings to breakfast tables. With the right lighting, and some helpful friends acting out the roles of characters plotted in rough drawings, I was able to video or photograph compositions and sequences of action that seemed to approximate each scene. Selecting still images, I played with these by digitally, distorting, adding and subtracting, drawing over the top of them, and testing various sequences to see how they could be ‘read’. These became the compositional references for finished drawings that were produced by a more old-fashioned method – graphite pencil on cartridge paper. For each page of up to twelve images, the whole process took about a week… not including any rejects, of which there were several.
Much of the difficulty involved combining realistic reference images of people and objects into a wholly imaginary world, as this was always my central concept. In order to best understand what it is like to travel to a new country, I wanted to create a fictional place equally unfamiliar to readers of any age or background (including myself). This of course is where my penchant for ‘strange lands’ took flight, as I had some early notions of a place where birds are merely ‘bird-like’ and trees ‘tree-like’; where people dress strangely, apartment fixtures are confounding and ordinary street activities are very peculiar. This is what I imagine it must be like for many immigrants, a condition ideally examined through illustration, where every detail can be hand-drawn.
That said, imaginary worlds should never be ‘pure fantasy’, and without a concrete ring of truth, they can easily cripple the reader’s suspended disbelief, or simply confuse them too much. I’m always interested in striking the right balance between everyday objects, animals and people, and their much more fanciful alternatives. In the case of ‘The Arrival’, I drew heavily my own memories of travelling to foreign countries, that feeling of having basic but imprecise notions of things around me, an awareness of environments saturated with hidden meanings: all very strange yet utterly convincing. In my own nameless country, peculiar creatures emerge from pots and bowls, floating lights drift inquisitively along streets, doors and cupboards conceal their contents, and all around are notices that beckon, invite or warn in loud, indecipherable alphabets. These are all equivalents to some moments I’ve experienced as a traveller, where even simple acts of understanding are challenging.
One of my main sources for visual reference was New York in the early 1900s, a great hub of mass-migration for Europeans. A lot of my ‘inspirational images’ blu-tacked to the walls of my studio were old photographs of immigrant processing at Ellis Island, visual notes that provided underlying concepts, mood and atmosphere behind many scenes that appear in the book. Other images I collected depicted street scenes in European, Asian and Middle-Eastern cities, old-fashioned vehicles, random plants and animals, shopfront signs and posters, apartment interiors, photos of people working, eating, talking and playing, all of them chosen as much for their ordinariness as their possible strangeness. Elements in my drawings evolved gradually from these fairly simple origins. A colossal sculpture in the middle of a city harbour, the first strange sight that greets arriving migrants, suggests some sisterhood with the Statue of Liberty. A scene of a immigrants travelling in a cloud of white balloons was inspired by pictures of migrants boarding trains as well as the night-time spawning of coral polyps, two ideas associated by common underlying themes – dispersal and regeneration.
Even the most imaginary phenomena in the book are intended to carry some metaphorical weight, even though they don’t refer to specific things, and may be hard to fully explain. One of the images I had been thinking about for years involved a scene of rotting tenement buildings, over which are ‘swimming’ some kind of huge black serpents. I realised that these could be read a number of ways: literally, as an infestation of monsters, or more figuratively, as some kind of oppressive threat. And even then it is open to the individual reader to decide whether this might be political, economic, personal or something else, depending on what ideas or feelings the picture may inspire.
I am rarely interested in symbolic meanings, where one thing ‘stands for’ something else, because this dissolves the power of fiction to be reinterpreted. I’m more attracted to a kind of intuitive resonance or poetry we can enjoy when looking at pictures, and ‘understanding’ what we see without necessarily being able to articulate it. One key character in my story is a creature that looks something like a walking tadpole, as big as a cat and intent on forming an uninvited friendship with the main protagonist. I have my own impressions as to what this is about, again something to do with learning about acceptance and belonging, but I would have a lot of trouble trying to express this fully in words. It seems to make much more sense as a series of silent pencil drawings.
I am often searching in each image for things that are odd enough to invite a high degree of personal interpretation, and still maintain a ring of truth. The experience of many immigrants actually draws an interesting parallel with the creative and critical way of looking I try to follow as an artist. There is a similar kind of search for meaning, sense and identity in an environment that can be alternately transparent and opaque, sensible and confounding, but always open to re-assessment. I would hope that beyond its immediate subject, any illustrated narrative might encourage its readers take a moment to look beyond the ‘ordinariness’ of their own circumstances, and consider it from a slightly different perspective. One of the great powers of storytelling is that invites us to walk in other people’s shoes for a while, but perhaps even more importantly, it invites us to contemplate our own shoes also. We might do well to think of ourselves as possible strangers in our own strange land. What conclusions we draw from this are unlikely to be easily summarised, all the more reason to think further on the connections between people and places, and what we might mean when we talk about ‘belonging’.
Harbour’ pencil on paper
Inspection’ pencil on paper
‘The City’ pencil on paper
‘The story of The Giants’ pencil on paper
‘The market’ pencil on paper
‘The place of nests’ pencil on paper
‘Ticket’ pencil on paper
‘Dinner’ pencil on paper
‘Four seasons’ pencil on paper
This is not a required daily. It’s an opportunity for conversation and, ok, extra credit too. 🙂 No due date.
Ok, since I’ve made all of you write on Shaun Tan’s The Arrival, I figured I’d give it a go. I’m going to do as I’m asking you to do in these dailies and write a series of impressions, built from the text, rather than a formal essay with a thesis tying everything together. So here are some impressions. Leave a comment and get some class participation credit!
First off, the wordlessness of the comic underscores its central emotional point: the feeling of uprootedness all migrants feel when moving to a new home. All migrants must learn new sign systems. A sign, to use some literary criticism, is the union between signifier and signified. A signifier is an octagonal stop sign, for instance:
and what it signifies is to put your foot on the brake pedal and stop at the sign.
There’s nothing about a red octagon that has anything to do with the action of braking, but we’ve been so conditioned to see it as a sign (signifier + signified) that we don’t think twice about braking when we see stop signs. And we’re surrounded by hundreds and hundreds of these familiar signs on a daily basis. They make up our local world, our home, and they give us a sense of mastery of our environment.
The strange thing about being a migrant (or even traveling) is that the sign system that you know dissolves, replaced instead by something new and strange. And your language—the tool you use to make sense of new signs—is useless in this new world.
And so Shaun Tan’s decision to make a wordless comic has everything to do with giving readers the sense that they too have been uprooted—they too are seeing things as a migrant. Tan writes in Viewpoint Magazine, and excerpted in his website, http://www.shauntan.net/books/the-arrival.html, about the process of writing The Arrival:
In seeking to re-imagine such circumstances (of which I have no first-hand experience) my original idea for a fairly conventional picture book developed into a quite different kind of structure. It seemed that a longer, more fragmented visual sequence without any words would best captured a certain feeling of uncertainty and discovery I absorbed from my research.
Tan begins his book with a series of pictures of signs that represent home: a clock, a hat, a pot, a teapot, tea-cup with sugar—all of these items help designate place in the mind of the father protagonist. The nine-panel sequence ends with an image of the father, mother, and daughter, underscoring the connection between these things of everyday life—these tokens of the familiar—and family.
This sure system of signs gets overturned immediately upon arrival in this new world. Tan models the splash page of the harbor with a prominent statue of a man greeting a traveler on the Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor, but he’s switched the familiar symbol of American liberty, so we encounter the vision of these two men shaking hands with all of the strangeness of a stranger. That the image is a warm gesture of welcome lets us know that this new world might be strange, but it’s kind to strangers. The buildings in the background might be a bit chaotic and imposing, but the statues in the foreground tell us that this is a city built upon the embrace of brothers and sisters from abroad.
Of course, all of this gets me thinking that The Arrival speaks to current debates about immigration in America, but I’ll let you decide the book’s politics. We can get a good sense of Tan’s vision from his description of his background:
I realize that I have a recurring interest in notions of ‘belonging’, particularly the finding or losing of it. Whether this has anything to do with my own life, I’m not sure, it seems to be more of a subconscious than conscious concern. One contributing experience may have been that of growing up in Perth, one of the most isolated cities in the world, sandwiched between a vast desert and a vaster ocean. More specifically, my parents pegged a spot in a freshly minted northern suburb that was quite devoid of any clear cultural identity or history. A vague awareness of Aboriginal displacement (which later sharpened into focus with a project like The Rabbits) only further troubled any sense of a connection to a ‘homeland’ in this universe of bulldozed ‘tabula rasa’ coastal dunes, and fast-tracked, walled-in housing estates.
Tan shortly complicates the image of welcome in the harbor with a twelve panel sequence modeled upon the Ellis Island experience. Here, the alternating images of the protagonist’s body parts, along with various indecipherable signs, lets us feel the uncertain objectification of the migrant’s body, marked by a system of signs that we as readers cannot understand—a system of signs which carries enormous significance for his future treatment.
Tan’s vision of migrant experience, though, is a hopeful and positive one. Kind strangers replicate the welcoming embrace of the harbor statues, helping the confused protagonist understand this new world of signs, from decoding the world of a grocery store (who knew that those dog-like curly-tailed creatures like radish-like thingies?) to working a telephone.
There’s a nostalgic quality of yearning in the story, helped along by the vintage-soaked sepia pictures–a yearning for a time in which a community of experienced migrants helps newer migrants feel at home in their new world. Without prompting, for instance, the grocery store owner invites the protagonist—a man from a different culture—into their own house for dinner (a gesture helped along by the friendship between their pets), breaking bread together and swapping stories of traumatic displacement.
These stories provide the dark backdrop to Tan’s narrative. If the new world is one built upon acceptance of the stranger—a confusing but vibrant urban world filled to the bursting with different cultures—the old worlds these characters flee are built upon persecution, oppression, and nameless fear.
One of the most fascinating and haunting images for me comes in a story that another migrant tells the protagonist. Here, the splash page shows giant-sized uniformed men, their masked faces outfitted with a single search light, a Cyclops-eye combing the darkness, their hands holding black vacuums, their flaring open bells sucking up humans. At least one analogue here is genocide: human beings relegated to vermin, dirt to be vacuumed up and wiped from the streets of cities. Tan’s technique here goes beyond sign switching—swapping the Statue of Liberty for two men shaking hands—and takes us instead into something like magical realism, which mingles this-worldly experience with a world of magic, fairy-tales, and the other-worldly—things beyond human experience. Here, Tan uses a non-representational image of persecution in order to better give readers a window into the wrenching, awful worlds of displacement at the hands of genocide, war, persecution.
He’d earlier used a more subtle suggestion of oppression in the dark tails which threaten to smother an entire city. Look at page five–that full page (“splash page”) image of the family walking out of the village, the tail of some dragon-like beast carving a serpentine line over the top third of the picture. Tan’s got us going in all sorts of ways here. First off, the heavily realistic way he draws the family (the bottom left corner of McCloud’s picture plane on 52-53) in the first few pages makes us as readers expect a realistic comic. The tail pulls the rug out from under us. As with the image of the vacuum wielding Cyclops giants, we don’t know whether this is real or symbolic. And we have to imagine the rest of this beast–the closure that McCloud talks about. Why does the family seem to pay no mind to this enormous figure? Have they grown used to it? Is this why they’re leaving the city? Does this speak of the way in which people who have lived in oppressive circumstances begin to regard the terrible as normal? They know they want to leave, but they accept the terrifying until then as commonplace. The next page–a double-splash of the entire city swarming with dragonish tails, the darkness gathering in the top left corner, makes me wonder whether Tan’s depiction veers more here toward the fantastic–where the real meets fantasy. Why don’t we see an entire dragon here? What’s the effect of hiding the heads? One thing is certain: the dragon-creatures don’t seem to represent good, and they don’t seem concerned specifically about the family. They’re infecting the entire city, and they’re threatening the entire city.
And yet, because these experiences of persecution and exile are universally shared by seemingly all of the migrants in this new city of migrants, the migrants build an opposite world of brotherly love from the ashes of their collective trauma.
The book ends with a hopeful image of the newly assimilated daughter showing a new migrant around town, the system of new signs she now identifies as her own. Returning to the first picture of the book, one of the last pages shows a twelve panel page of the new signs of familial comfort in this new home replacing the old signs of home that had begun the book (note the paper craft in the shape of the new pet).
As the inside front and back cover shots of immigrants tell us, we’re all migrants, and the more we realize this fact, the more we identify with the migrant, the better we’ll treat the stranger in our midst.
And all of this reminds me of these words from Leviticus 19:34: “The stranger who resides with you shall be to you as the native among you, and you shall love him as yourself, for you were aliens in the land of Egypt.”
The characters and the nation depicted in Tan’s Arrival heed this passage. Tan’s book asks whether we do too.