From Spain, a son’s affectionate tribute to his wandering, heavily decorated, yarnspinning father.
Recalled as the not-quite-adult-sounding narrator remembers them, “all tangled up, like a ball of wool that someone has dropped,” his often-absent father’s rousing if unlikely tales are backed up, or at least inspired by head-to-toe tattoos. They feature death-defying encounters with a double-tailed tiger and a giant bird, a conversation with a huge spider and remarkable feats like catching in midair both the lad himself, who as a baby once flew out a window as the car rounded a bend, and also a crazed trick-shooter’s bullet. Alternating tattoo-style vignettes of animals, hearts, skulls and the like framed in baroque flourishes with wildly fanciful full-page cartoons, pop surrealist Magicomora provides urbane visual counterparts to the stories’ increasingly freewheeling flights. “When I was little,” concludes the narrator, “I thought Dad was in charge of hanging the moon in the sky. Not I know that’s not true. But sometimes, on nights when he’s out there, he does hang up a star. That one, for example.”
A strange and entertaining affirmation of the parent-child bond. (Picture book. 10-12)