I read with interest about the death of Jan Piénkowski, illustrator, author, and master-designer of pop-up books. None of his books yet stands on our grandkids’ shelves, but two are on their way: Tales from Poland and a Necklace of Raindrops, ordered after reading his obituary and searching online for samples of his illustrations. To my surprise, I had seen quite a few of his pictures without realizing their source.

Pienkowsky (1936-2022) was one of untold numbers of child refugees fleeing Warsaw with his family when the Nazis invaded Poland in 1939. Deprived of his homeland, Piénkowski nonetheless carried Poland’s vivid folklore inside of him. Indeed, two traditional aspects of Polish folklore inspired his artistic style: intricate paper-cut figures and fanciful silhouettes.

As a young boy, Piénkowski found himself enamored with silhouettes, sitting for hours with scissors and populating his fantasies with two-dimensional characters sheared from paper. This mastery led him, as an adult, to expand the possibilities of “pop-up” books, some of which apparently became quite extravagant. All told, Piénkowski published around 140 books as illustrator, author, or both—quite a record of achievement.

Notable to me is the fact that he wandered with his family through various resettlement areas (Bavaria, Italy) before moving to England. There, while his parents struggled to adapt to a new life, their lucky son received a Classical education typical for English boys of the period. This education led him to study Classics and English at King’s College, Cambridge.

Amidst our embarrassing, destructive educational malaise, Piénkowski’s story reminds us how many doors a fine education opens. Yes, in his childhood it was provided mostly to boys. And yes, it was not universal for every child. But the many children in those English classrooms who were schooled in Latin, Greek, and the Great Books found themselves equipped them to do just about anything they desired. And for Piénkowski, “anything” meant creating pages of beauty and adventure for children.

True, a high cost had to be paid for the family’s transition to England. Piénowski did, in fact, suffer from mental problems as an adult, some of which had roots in his childhood traumas and the fears any child in similar circumstances would feel. Still, once again, talent and perseverance transformed a man’s inner turmoil into an artistic legacy of worth.

But back to my internet search. Piénkowski’s illustrations really do reflect the fodder he sopped up in those English schools while a boy. His illustrations also testify to his inborn sense of design coupled with the startling beauty of Polish folk art, all honed by the characteristic patience of a child seeking mastery over a challenge.

Piénowsky’s illustrations remind me, too, just how much pictures in children’s books have changed since my youth. My childhood books from the 1950s may be tattered, but each of their sparse illustrations fueled my imagination and propelled me further into the story.

How modest those books appear when laid next to dazzling new children’s books today! But impressive illustrations can easily obscure a horrid story. When my grandkids got old enough to sift through books for themselves at the library, a wise friend cautioned me, saying “Children’s books have changed. Many have left off story-telling and become tools of indoctrination, so make sure you read them to know what you are getting into.” Boy, was she ever right.

Still, I rejoice at the quality of illustrations children now enjoy. For one thing, these pictures can provide a mini-course in graphic design, not to mention a tour through the history of Western Art. Children who may never see the inside of a museum will experience everything from the soft dabs of Impressionism to gravity-defying designs worthy of Chagall, to resplendent figures ready to step into a Pre-Raphaelite canvas, to elaborate pen-and-ink drawings reminiscent of a Renaissance master. One of my favorite examples comes from Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs by Judi Barrett. To be honest, a story of skies raining pancakes and spaghetti sauce doesn’t do much for me, but analyzing the intricacy and carefully planned use of color in Ronald Barrett’s line drawings does excite me. These drawings have inspired several lively “analytical” sessions with the grandkids at bedtime.

Currently we are fascinated with “eyes,” particularly from the trendy illustrations by Mo Williams in his “Elephant & Piggie” and “Pidgeon” books. What marvelous possibilities he drew in the cornucopia of shapes, angles, rotating positions for irises, and clever combinations of eyes with features elsewhere on these characters’ faces! A child can easily copy them (learn from the master) into her own drawings and story assignments to great effect.

But the favorite illustrators in our household are the ones who draw from the luxuriousness of Slavic folklore: Polish, Czech, Ukrainian, Russian, Bulgarian, Romanian, and Croatian. And right along with these I would add the Hungarian illustrators whose color-drenched pictures add immeasurable luxuriousness to a story.

In short, a study of illustrations opens up so many avenues of study and discussion. They provide a fine way to exploring the intricacies of printing history too. And from printing history, many topics arise, including geography. In the West, we begin the story of printing in Mainz with Gutenberg’s press that promulgated Luther’s German translation of the Bible. But then we look back centuries earlier to the first use of the moveable type as developed in China. Furthermore, printing has always involved chemistry and mechanics, both with those bulky metal plates (and everything engraved backwards) to the puzzling (to me) process of lithography—once called poor-man’s engraving and an art form that flourished especially in 19th-century America. All of these can be traced right up to the technologies that bring us digital printing today.

But perhaps the best study comes from considering the illustrators themselves. How did they develop their craft? Did they pair up with specific authors (as many illustrators do)? What type of tales most inspired them? Were they also authors? And how much of what we call world history is reflected in what they have done? In the case of Piénkowski, his life is a testament to how art is born from tragedy: the tragedy of having one’s country and culture invaded and nearly destroyed. This is the same tragedy we blithely swear never will be repeated—a heady statement that, in light of the terrible events in Ukraine, falls to shambles.

RIP Jen Piénkowski.