admin

Michael Hearst’s Unique Approach to Children’s Nonfiction

Michael Hearst’s book for children—a collection of profiles of odd animals—is as unique as its title suggests. The format, Hearst says, is a less dry form of the mail order Safari Cards sold on TV when he was a kid. Each profile tells us the Kingdom, Phylum, Class, Order, Family, Genus and Species of the animal, the geographical location, and just what makes it so unusual.  For example, the Hammer-headed is a loud-mouth and has a honk that rivals most car alarms. While Unusual Creatures is loaded with information, Hearst’s writing style is clear and easy to understand. It’s perfect for a young audience, and yet if you read the other essays he’s written for grown-ups, you’ll see that he hasn’t really changed his natural voice all that much. There’s no condescension, but there are plenty of jokes—fart jokes, poop jokes, vomit jokes, all the requisites for nine year olds.

But none of the joking around gets in the way of all the cool information. Despite his insatiable creative urge, and his editor’s initial reluctance, Hearst had no interest in making anything up. The truth was far too interesting. “I don’t want to make up a fake animal. I don’t want to have a real animal and make up fake information about it. That’s just not cool!” He promised his editor that a purely factual book, presented imaginatively, would be far more interesting. And he was right.

Unusual Creatures is fun nonfiction, which is in high demand right now. Its release this past fall was perfectly timed with the implementation of the Common Core Curriculum in New York. I’m sure lots of people will approach the book with this in mind. But after meeting Michael Hearst over coffee at Red Horse Café, I felt that considering this book merely in light of the newest education trend is missing the point. Michael Hearst is an unusual thinker. A creative thinker.

According to Hearst, growing into his imagination wasn’t always easy.  When he was in High School his attention started to drift and he was having trouble in school. “My parents sent me to a therapist and they put me on Ritalin,” says Hearst. “I was constantly drawing in my notebooks instead of paying attention in class. After I started taking Ritalin my drawings became much more elaborate. That’s just what I wanted to be doing!” You can stick a kid in the classroom, but you cannot make him think about what is on the board. But in Michael Hearst’s case, that wasn’t such a bad thing.

Hearst did not illustrate his book, despite the drawing anecdote. He is known for being a composer, musician and a founding member of the band One Ring Zero, the house band for McSweeney’s, whose albums include As Smart As We Are and Songs for Ice Cream Trucks. He’s also written and published essays and articles in addition to his book Unusual Creatures. He draws mostly for fun.

“You’re creatively omnivorous.”  I said.

“Yeah, that’s my curse.”

It’s clear from Hearst’s description of his childhood that his parents were very engaged. They didn’t let their son slack off.  But it seems like they also understood him.  Several times as we spoke he indicated that his mother “forced” him to do one thing or another:  take piano lessons, go to college….But he said it gratefully—glad that he wasn’t left to succumb to his own lack of will or inclination.

He was eventually allowed to stop taking piano lessons, but the damage was done. Two years of piano was enough to plant the seeds for a lifetime of making strange and beautiful sounds.  Piano led to guitar which eventually returned to piano when he studied composition in college. After college Hearst started to branch out even more. While working at Hohner as a harmonica technician he was introduced to the Claviola, a strange, short-lived take on the accordion. This odd instrument, along with many others such as a theremin, glass harmonica, stylophone, Daxophone, LEMURbots, polyphonia,  bass harmonica, and toy piano comprise the Unusual Creatures sounds.

Michael Hearst’s Unusual Creatures project is a convergence of his varied interests. Perpetually fascinated by Camille St. Saens’s Carnival of animals, Hearst had long wanted to create his own musical menagerie.  “[St. Saens’s Suite] wasn’t really meant for kids, but kids love it. I love Program Music…the idea of music representing something else.” But where St. Saens covered the familiar members of the animal kingdom, Hearst wanted to celebrate some of its unsung heroes. He started with the Blue Footed Booby who, Hearst says, does a funny mating dance that looks “kind of like the hora.” While The Weddell Seal makes an appearance on the album, a lot of these animals don’t even have known vocalizations. It’s fun to close your eyes and imagine the animals in concert with their themes. “I love They Might Be Giants and I love Dan Zanes. What they do is great. But I wanted to do instrumental music. And kids have imaginations! They can use them!” He points to the scene at the beginning of Moonlight Kingdom where the kids are lying around listening to Prokofiev and St. Saens on a little record player. “That’s what I grew up listening to.”

But Hearst’s fascination did not end with the music. The book came next: a fresh take on a retro schoolbook format—distinct, nostalgic and… unusual.  There are jokes, quizzes, and sidebars to break up all the information and, as I’ve mentioned, there’s plenty of information. Hearst’s website has videos of interviews and presentations that further expand on his Unusual world.  The varied media gives his audience multiple ways into his subjects. A child may hear a piece from the CD and say, “Whoa, what made that noise?” and discover more about a Polyphonia. Or he may read a profile and wonder “How slow is a Slow Loris?” then look for video online.  At schools and other venues, Hearst does what he describes as a TED talk for kids “I play video of the animal, I talk about the animal. But then I’ll show them a Theremin and say ‘this is an instrument invented by Leon Theremin.’” Then he plays and even lets the kids try out the instrument. No one has to force this kind of lesson on a kid.

From here a child may want to invent his own instrument or create an Unusual Creature profile and, indeed, Hearst receives lots of fan mail along these lines. The reader/listener’s knowledge grows web-like, organically. So, the effect of the project on its audience mirrors the way it was created—the magical combination of following one’s natural inclinations and being forced to stay with certain pursuits. It was only completed with so much care and infectious energy because Hearst remained interested, and his interest branched out in new and sometimes unexpected directions.

In reference to his earliest misadventures with piano, Hearst says, “I guess as a parent you sometimes have to….force.” It’s true. But sometimes you also have to know when not to force, and let a kid follow his imagination.

At the risk of being a traitor to my generation, I have to say: even as we have tried harder than any of our ancestors to mentor, please, and encourage our kids, we have completely lost control of them, and in the process we’ve lost control of our own lives as well.

I live in Park Slope, Brooklyn, quite possibly the world headquarters of helicopter parents, but I have a pretty good hunch it’s happening in nearly everys middle-class neighborhood nationwide, urban or otherwise. There’s a mindset in these parts that children should be treated like adults, with all of their tastes and distastes respected.

Having grown up with twelve siblings and roughly zero of my tastes and distastes even acknowledged—“respect” was generally uttered only in the context of what the small residents of the house should have for the taller inhabitants—this sounded sweet to me. Kids are people too, after all—short, often totally unreasonable people, but people nonetheless. In practice, however, this notion was a lot less quaint.

My suspicions were realized on an early fall evening when my French friend Lucie came to dinner with her husband and two children. The Durand kids were obedient, respectful, and, when told to be, quiet. They didn’t seem to require cajoling or lengthy explanations when asked to set the table. They simply did what they were told. If they didn’t want a certain dish at dinner, they didn’t eat it, but they also were not offered a myriad of other choices. Not a single cheese stick was proffered.

After dinner, we parents were sitting around the dining room table, finishing a bottle of wine, while the kids played in the living room. A mom could get used to this, I thought, reclining—reclining!—in my chair. But the sweet, slightly inebriated reverie did not last long.

Soon enough, my younger daughter, Daphne, wanted my attention, so she did as she usually does: Namely, she started to act bananas, screaming and yelling for me.
By this point, I’d been exposed to the well-oiled Durand machine for about four hours, more than enough time to soak up some deep wisdom. So instead of doing what I usually did—tending immediately to Daphne’s (loud) calls—I looked to Lucie for advice. She leaned across the table, put a strong, steady hand on my arm, and offered an adage she told me her Parisian mother had often employed: “If there is no blood, don’t get up.”

So simple—and so excellent. Of course!

I didn’t get up. Things were loud for a little bit, and Daphne was irate at my lack of bustle on her behalf. And then, as fast as her wails had started, they stopped, and she resumed playing with the other kids.

Soon, whenever things spun out of hand in my own home, I found myself wondering: What Would Lucie Durand Do? Swallowing my pride, along with plenty of the kids’ uneaten dinners, I took things a bit further and started asking Lucie, point-blank, for advice. For instance, when Daphne decorated the length of our rather long hallway with crayon, my husband and I were unsure how to react. Time-out? Stern warning? Daph was just shy of three years old, so taking away privileges or toys wouldn’t really register much with her.

When I asked Lucie what they might do in France with this type of toddler misdemeanor, she didn’t hesitate: “You go to the kitchen and get a sponge with soap and water. Sit her on a stool and have her scrub.” I was incredulous. Scrub it all off? My husband had tried and couldn’t erase so much as a single scrawl. Then Lucie assured me that I only needed to make Daphne wash the wall for a minute so that she had a chance to understand the consequences of her action—and to see how damn hard it is to get crayon off a wall.

Often Lucie has a strategy or phrase that does wonders for any given standoff between my kids and me, but, more than that, she has a refreshing attitude: There shouldn’t be any standoffs. “After all, Catherine,” she often reminds me, “you are the chief.”

The chief—has a nice ring to it, no?

For me, Lucie is a gold mine of great advice, but she’s made it very clear that her way of parenting is natural for practically everyone in France. Here in the States, we’ve been talking and talking and talking about our kids’ feelings. Meanwhile, over there, French children don’t talk back!

Excerpted from French Twist by Catherine Crawford Copyright © 2013 by Catherine Crawford. Excerpted by permission of Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

To the memory of Dr. José Gregorio Hernández

While sitting one night with my friend Eric, a young woman came and sat next to us. She was the next musician to play that night. Her name was Jen. She is (as I was told later by my friend) the descendent of the great American literary theorist and philosopher, Kenneth Burke, whose primary interests were rhetoric and aesthetics. She is also the daughter of the musician Harry Chapin and is a wonderful musician in her own right. Her music explores the intersection of jazz, folk and pop.

Our conversation with Jen was permeated with the music coming from the back room. It was Les Bandits, whose melodies sounded as if a multitude of instruments were in synch creating music of the ‘20s. I was on my own, thinking about the life of Dr. Hernandez known as “Doctor of the Poor.” As a protector of Barbès, his bust sits diplomatically amid the wines and spirits.

“That is a dark place…for a different crowd,” my colleague Joanna says laughingly in reference to Barbès, a bar in Park Slope, Brooklyn. She is right. Barbès is a haphazardly designed establishment through which not much light filters. Its walls have no TV sets and it is difficult to read a book there, but you can still converse with folks like the writer Jean-Vincent as he jots down his impressions of Paris—a fictional account set in modern times, a time that has the aura of the mid-twentieth century. “French people are longing for something new,” he says, as he pauses in his writing. I didn’t inquire about the plot, theme, or characters of his work, leaving him to work alone. I returned to thinking about Dr. Hernandez and of his days in Paris studying medicine.

Live music constantly flows from the back room. It is a fitting complement to a nice evening; Barbès sounds as if it were a giant juke box. If you have read Ned Sublette’s Cuba and its Music you will immediately recognize the songs. Sublette’s book is premised on the idea that the impact of Cuban music on the United States is everywhere to be found. New Orleans, Sublette explains, was the port of entry for what became a unique musical relationship with Havana. The music of Barbès has, indeed, a Latin flavor even when a band called Sherita is playing a fourteenth century Sephardic/ Ladino song. Sublette’s book on Cuban music begins in Cadiz before the time of Christ—a time when the Gaditanos traded with North Africans and were bringing African musical sounds to southern Europe, called by the ancient Greeks “hispania.” Havana and New Orleans forged a unique commercial and musical relationship by the nineteenth century.

“Fifty Shades of Grey,” says Robert, a man from Ireland. We were talking about the erotic book by the British author E.L. James, “Why not Fifty Shades of Green?”, he adds as he enlightens us with the history of Ireland vis-à-vis England. The strong rhythmic groove of a song drowns out our conversation. On any given night it could very well be the Latin American sounds of Guinea’s Mandingo Ambassadors or Cumbiagra, whose Colombian songs interact nicely with other musical styles. The brass band Mexican Band of the Death, likewise, transports us to Sinaloa, and Les Chauds Lapins to French songs of the ‘30s and ‘40s. What is happening at Barbès, other than the music, is a gathering of individuals with similar tastes and ideas. It has become a meeting place, a kind of library where you can find information about politics, books, film, art, and sports, but most importantly, you are talking with people interested in the things other people have to say. And yet, just as we drink our beverages in a capricious way, we delude ourselves into thinking that alcohol drinking and music bring clarity to our reasoning. “Amo esas noches trágicas porque son las mejores…” said the late Peruvian poet Luis Nieto about his time spent on bars and drinking.

“Did you see the Woody Allen movie, Midnight in Paris?” “Yes”, I replied. I am reminded of the Parisian bars in Allen’s movie—Café Le Select, Les Deux Magots, La Coupole—that played a big part in the lives of writers belonging to what was called the “lost generation. Places like Barbès, I am told by a bar regular, allow people to enter a world of illusion and ideas, of solidarity and companionship. Bars are timeless, I am told, as I am reminded of a quotation by Charles Bukowski: “Drinking is an emotional thing. It joggles you out of the standardism of everyday life, out of everything being the same. It yanks you out of your body and your mind and throws you against the wall. I have the feeling that drinking is a form of suicide where you’re allowed to return to life and begin all over the next day. It’s like killing yourself, and then you’re reborn. I guess I’ve lived about ten or fifteen thousand lives now.”

“Would Bukowski drink at Barbès?” I ask Aaron, whom I call the Book-Man for his vast intellectual knowledge. Aaron is, for the most part, a quiet man who prefers to be anonymous… “The whiskey might be too good for him here,” he replies in reference to Bukowski and Barbès’ costumers, who are mainly white and professional and not necessarily Park Slopers. Barbès exudes a kind of bohemian intelligence that is appealing I contend… pre-empting the thought of the new residents to Park Slope feeling more comfortable in a classier and brighter bar environment. Yes. Bukowski’s bar would be located elsewhere, in another part of Brooklyn. Barbès is located in a beautiful brownstone community that is being infringed upon by a recent influx of affluence determined to prettify the neighborhood. Moms, nannies, strollers, and an array of beautiful dogs crowd its tree-lined streets. The bodegas and bars of yesterday are disappearing—Minsky’s, The Gaslight Inn with its pinball machine, etc. In their place, a number of trendy places have emerged with names like Café Dada, Surfish…Those of us who moved to Park Slope many years ago would have never realized that this new manicured Park Slope would emerge and extend beyond Ninth Street and on Sixth Avenue. A Park Slope where nouveau wine and cheese stores collide with the other Brooklyn of endless pressing unwritten stories.

My conversation with Aaron transpires as we look at Pamelia (Pamelia Kurstin with Pete Drungle) playing the theremin. Looking at her, you feel like you are suspended in air; you are looking at a rare musical instrument that you have never seen before. What is suspended in air are her hands and fingers which control the instrument. Are there electrical impulses she controls to create the music? We don’t know for sure. What I saw was a woman manipulating marionettes or playing air guitar. You are mesmerized not only by the eerie sounds of the theremin, but also the desire of the musician to play a dated musical instrument that creates art for us to enjoy.

“Why do we like Barbès?” I ask Jason M, a regular who is reading The Foie Gras Scramble. Foie is about a motorcycle rider traveling from Brooklyn to Montreal. Jason is the author and is re-writing it. This is his reply: “Barbès isn’t a place for misfits (as I’d heard someone else characterize it). Rather, it is a place of serendipitous congruence where people from disparate backgrounds and bents can find areas of common appreciation and complaint. True, the creative types tend to frequent this place, but so do those whose work would cause them not to be categorized as such, perhaps as a salve for this and a chance at lending their voice to the chorus. Barbès is indeed beautiful.” The music of Los Yungas. (“Los Pobres También Somos Felices”) plays amid our bar merriment. The lyrics are reminders of other similar Peruvian chicha songs: “Los pobres también tenemos, tenemos nuestros corazones, somos más felices, sabemos amar…” In the end, the people who come here are the ones who make Barbès an engaging bar. I look around and, indeed, it is people like Jason G. who could be writing his short stories…alone in a corner. Pat, another regular, explains the meaning of a painting titled Wedding Dance by Bruegel. He is an art handler at a prestigious museum in Manhattan. Excited, we hear about the upcoming museum exhibitions. As the beers come and go and the music surrounds us, Peter, a cinematographer, shares his latest cinematography project, Casting By. This documentary film is about the innate talent of casting directors as they discover the right person (an actor) for a role to cast for a film.

The sound from the back room is steady each night. It could be the smooth melodies of blues guitarist Mamie Minch, whose musical sensibility and style sounds as “if she stepped out of a seventy-eight RPM recording.” Or, it could be Matuto’s “Brazilian Carnaval” played with an American bluegrass accent, or Spanglish Fly, which reminds one of the sounds of many Latin countries. So too, People’s Champ, Llama, Slavic Soul Party…whose fusion music is what a sociologist will call “multiculturalism in music”. The music complements our evenings, adding another level of mind stimulant. Dr. Jose Gregorio returns to my thoughts. In June 29, 1919 one of the few existing cars in Venezuela would end his life.

“Por favor, un chilcano de pisco” I ask Claire, the bartender. The drink goes appropriately with the singing by Yma Sumac. Claire apprises me, in a humorous way, of her time in Bolivia and finding chicha as a beer. The bartenders are Viola, Alita, Quince, Angie, Francesco, Geoff, Claire, Meredith, and Hanna. As one listens to them, one becomes aware about their lives as actors, musicians, and writers. Hanna Cheek, for instance, did a gripping erotic monologue as part of The Pumpkin Pie Show at The Theatre Under St. Marks. The bartenders share our conversations, but more importantly, they also have much to say about us, the regulars.

When Mondays arrive, and with them Chicha Libre, the music is that of the Peruvian jungle. The owners of Barbès, Vincent and Olivier, play these songs to the delight of their patrons. On a different day, Olivier’s wife and Las Rubias del Norte (Blondes of the North) play Peruvian “waynos”, which remind me of my own native Andean music. It has a French accent, but who cares if the melodies are inspiring? We are at this bar to hide from the outside world. That is why we are here, in a safe place (a kind of cave) for chatter and laughter along with the image of Dr. Jose Gregorio. The piano music and lyrics like that of Fats Waller (“Bless you for building a new dream…”) also helps, subdues our fuzzy and out of focus vision. It’s swing leads us musically on a different journey. It removes us momentarily from an uneven course of events that is all around us.

NOTE: The author of this paper should be named Jason Cuatro. VR was named an honorary Jason… Barbès has now five official Jasons.