The Sensual World of Tomi Ungerer
(through a series of Merriam-Webster definitions)
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Writing an article about Tomi Ungerer that focuses on definitions is ironic, considering that Ungerer was an idiosyncratic artist who radically defied definition. He frequently experimented in art and in life, rejecting the limitations of form and expectations. To classify Ungerer in any definite terms feels reductive. And yet, when I read his books, I think of one word: sensual. It’s a word he himself uses to explain his artistic style. But the word—much like Ungerer—is not without nuance, misinterpretation, and irony. And as much as Ungerer indulged in the gratification of the senses, he also understood violence and destabilization. His experiences growing up in Strasbourg during the horrors of World War II under the Nazi occupation profoundly influenced him. Scenes of terror, anxiety, bloodshed, and debauchery are not only in his political anti-war posters; they’re also in his books for children.
While Ungerer may have had a proclivity to shock and awe, he also believed in the power of poetry.
“Always for children, never use a word tree, bird, or flower. Say this is a daisy; this is a forget-me-not. Isn’t that lovely? A forget-me-not…Every word is a poem. Every word is part of a possible poem.” — Tomi Ungerer, on writing for children.
His worlds contain many poetic contrasts: humor mingles with fear, satire fuels eroticism, beauty is found in the unexpected—the delight of his stories exists within these tensions. You can feel the energy of his ravenous curiosity, his zest for life! Even when his protagonists face harrowing situations, they’re never afraid. Instead, they lean on their playful ingenuity. In stories such as Moon Man (1967), Zeralda’s Ogre (1967), Flix (1997), and Emille (1960), the main characters are outsiders, but because of their unique talents (and a bit of luck), they become heroes. But Ungerer isn’t one to let them revel in their glory; instead, he has them happily return to their outsider existences. The goal isn’t for these misfits to gain acceptance (although that’s usually a happy side effect) but to help others in need.
I have an idea for a book about hunger or thirst, but I haven’t got the ending. There is another children’s book I still want to do. It’ll be just for the poetry, for the atmosphere. I love the fog, and I love the full moon, so I’d like to make a book on that. My books don’t always need to be engagé, aggressive, with a lot of detail. I also like simple books that are just for dreaming.
— Tomi Ungerer, on Fog Island for Apartamento Magazine
In one of his most poetic books, Fog Island (2012), Ungerer uses atmosphere and sensory detail to evoke an eerily captivating story. Ghostly tones of gray and black fill the open landscapes; as if a thick fog has enveloped the book. The text is equally sensuous:
“The steps were steep and slippery and in the moonlight, everything seemed to be dusted with flour. They climbed and climbed and climbed…At last they reached a door set into a high stone wall. They rang the bell and the door opened slowly, squeaking on its rusty hinges. There stood a wizened old man.”
In this misty folkloric tale, two adventurous young siblings, Finn and Cara, are swept out to sea to the mysterious—and possibly deadly—Fog Island. While ashore, they meet the surprisingly friendly and extremely hairy Fog Man, an ancient islander who shows them how he creates the fog and offers them warm bowls of soup along with plenty of evening gaiety. However, when they wake up in a shelter of ruins, the Fog Man is nowhere in sight. Had it all been a dream? Eventually, they make it home safely, but no one believes their story. Then Cara finds a long piece of hair in her soup, and she and Finn smile knowingly—it was real! Thrillingly, both the children in the story and the children reading the story are in on the secret.
