A MASTER WHO BELIEVED IN THE MEANING OF EACH LINE

Author: By Peter F. Neumeyer

Date: SUNDAY, November 2, 1997

Page: N2

Section: Books

Such is a typical observation by Leo Leonni, the venerable Dutch-Italian-American sculptor, painter, designer of striking public art -- and writer-illustrator of a shelf full of books for children. Lionni's world is one of design, of color and shape, of power and of whimsy. Historically, his story is important partly because it bears witness to the end of civilized Jewish intellectual-artistic life in the Fascist Italy of the 1930s, and partly because it touches on strong currents of contemporary Western art. It is a heartwarming story of still another refugee -- schooled politically and artistically by the tumultuous years of midcentury -- who then left his genial stamp for the better on American design. Lionni's personal warmth won the lasting friendships of such contemporaries as Saul Steinberg, Marc Chagall, Ben Shahn, Buckminster Fuller. His natural joy and his omnivorous receptivity to the visible world made him a natural for children's picture books. Of the more than 30 he created, ``Frederick'' and ``Swimmy'' have become influences and touchstones for artists and for children.

Swimmy, the tiny fish-hero of Lionni's fourth children's book (1963), articulates the mission of his author when he declares: ``I'll be the eye.'' The situation is this: A giant tuna has swallowed all the other little fish. Swimmy, as he flees, encounters the rainbow-colored beauties of Lionni's aquatic world. Coming upon another school of fishes -- all cowering in fear of being gobbled by another giant of the deep -- Swimmy takes charge. As all the little red fish choreograph themselves into the shape of one large composite fish, contrastingly black Swimmy positions himself, as he says, as their eye.

And just like Swimmy, Lionni has acted as an eye, celebrating the world, declaring his opposition to political repression, and espousing the political solidarity of the oppressed. Born in 1910, in Holland, of a talented opera singer mother and a Jewish father whose understanding of his son's aspirations weave a touching thread through the autobiography, young Leo fled Europe in 1939. Sociable, talented, original, he flourished in the world of American advertising art. He worked with leading agencies and directed giant accounts -- Ford, Olivetti, the American Cancer Society. He played a founding role in the first International Design Conference. And shortly thereafter, in 1948, he served as art director for the graphically pioneering Fortune magazine.

Enlisted by Bauhaus veteran and art educator Joseph Albers, Lionni also taught at Black Mountain College and, as he tells it, ``moved toward pictorial storytelling,'' reflecting his attachment to the work of Klee, De Chirico, and especially Max Ernst and Ben Shahn. Lionni's personal odyssey continues around the world, a story of acclaim and of the joy of creative achievement, fulfilled most movingly after he and his beloved wife, Nora, moved back ``home'' -- back to Italy -- in 1959.

Lionni's ``Between Worlds'' comes across as a deeply felt, contemplative reminiscence, the moving meditation of a capacious mind growing old in wisdom. But the book sorely lacks an index -- necessary precisely because the historical and artistic context is so rich.

Notwithstanding bright, fresh colors, the extractions from 16 Lionni books presented as ``Frederick's Fables'' must sadden those who love the originals. The sheer mindlessness of this edition lies in its violation of the very principles of the picture book, announced by Lionni when he explains that ``the line of action begins to move inexorably through the pages from left to right, parallel to my writing. . . . The habit implies a stylistic unity within each book, guiding the fluctuations of text and images through the intricacies of telling to the conclusion.''

In this volume, Lionni's original ``stylistic unity,'' and especially his ``fluctuations of text and images'' are obliterated. Right-hand halves of double spreads are shunted to the left, and thus cut in half. Pictorial narrative flow and balance is aborted by the deletion of entire illustration sequences. Illustrations no longer accompany their original texts. (All words are retained; paragraph delineations disappear.) And those illustrations that survive have been picked with seeming editorial incomprehension of half Lionni's point. In the case of ``Swimmy'' alone, the entire visual rhapsody of the wonders of the deep has been deleted. The original coherent and cohesive 32-page artwork has been reduced to a 9-page action synopsis. There is not even a clear publisher's notice of the violence that has been wrought.

Far better to have used these 164 pages of refreshed color to reproduce only five books -- true to the lovely vision of the artist, and to the memories of children.

And yes, it does matter. At issue is not solely aesthetics, but commitment, responsibility. Reflecting on the morality of the artist at a time of life when, he says, ``past, present, and future seem to converge,'' Lionni states: ``Every position in space has a meaning of its own. In practical and moral terms, you must feel responsible for every line you draw, for every decision you make.''