Award-winning author and illustrator Brian Selznick revolutionized children’s literature by blending text and images in an unprecedented way in works like The Invention of Hugo Cabret — a book that not only earned him the Caldecott Medal in 2008 but was also adapted into a film by Martin Scorsese. With detailed illustrations and narratives that flow like movie scenes, Selznick has captivated readers of all ages and established himself as one of the most innovative names in contemporary literature for young audiences.
You reinvented the way stories are told to young readers by blending text and imagery in a nearly cinematic way. At what point did you realize you wanted to break away from the traditional formats of children’s books?
The discoveries I made about words and pictures in The Invention of Hugo Cabret came out of my desire to find a way to illustrate the story that thematically matched the narrative itself. Since the book was going to be about early cinema, I came to wonder if there was a way the images could parallel the experience of watching a black and white silent movie. My main inspirations were cinema itself, especially the films of Alfred Hitchcock who famously used the movie camera to show the viewer what was important in the story, often without any accompanying dialogue or voice overs, and the Wild Rumpus in Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak. That six page spread has no text and no white space, the reader moves from one drawing to the next and the story, and time, move forward accordingly. I wondered if there might be a way to combine these ideas so that the story of Hugo was told both visually and with text. My goal was that at the end of the book you wouldn’t remember what you saw and what you read, it would all combine into a single thing in your mind.
The Invention of Hugo Cabret was born from your passion for Georges Méliès and automata—especially that sad episode in which his collection was discarded. How did you turn that quiet sense of indignation into such a magical and sensitive story for young audiences?
I had long wanted to tell a story about a boy who meets Georges Melies, but I had no plot. It wasn’t until I read Gaby Woods book Edison’s Eve, about the history of automata, and learned of the collection and destruction of Melies’s automatons, that the story really began. I imagined a boy climbing through a pile of broken machinery and saving a single automaton, and then trying to fix it. It took me three years to make the book, and I began by trying to figure out who this boy might be and why he thought he could fix this complicated machine. I researched the real life of Melies and used that as the structure for my book. He really did lose everything after World War One and end up working in a toy booth in a train station, and he really was rediscovered and celebrated at the end of his life. Hugo, who was my invention, becomes the fictional engine that ties together these real life events. Hugo became an orphan who must fix the automaton to save himself from his loneliness and poverty. My editor at Scholastic Tracy Mack said that if the reader cares about Hugo as a character, then they’ll care about the unusual things Hugo cares about, like old machines and silent movies.
Your work carries a nostalgic aura, as if each page takes us back in time. Is there a memory from your own childhood that you believe directly influenced your narrative style?
I’ve always been interested in history as well as fantasy. As a kid I loved the magician Harry Houdini (my first book was about him!), and I loved books like The Borrowers, by Mary Norton with wonderful pictures by Joe and Beth Krush, about a family of tiny people living below the floorboards of a boy’s home. I basically read this book as if it was non-ficiton, believing there were tiny people below my own floorboards and leaving them tiny furniture I made from spools and matchbooks. When I write now I generally prefer the feeling of magic without there being “real” magic. That’s because the real world can be magical. There can be amazing coincidences and uncanny events that happen to all of us, and that’s the feeling I’m interested in exploring.
You began your career as an illustrator for other authors’ books before creating your own stories. How did that transition—from bringing others’ visions to life to shaping your own imagination—help define your journey as an artist?
My first book, The Houdini Box, was a story I wrote myself, and I did write two other books, The Boy of a Thousand Faces and The Robot King, but I did spend most of my time illustrating books for other writers. I ended up doing four picture book biographies written by Pam Munoz Ryan and Barbara Kerley, by which point I’d been making books for almost fifteen years. It was only after I finished those books that I realized I wanted to do something new but wasn’t sure what that might be. I had the great good luck of becoming friends with Maurice Sendak during this time and he encouraged me to make the book I most wanted to make, one which I would write myself. From that inspiration, I ended up making The Invention of Hugo Cabret, and since that time I’ve mostly been writing my own stories, like Wonderstruck, The Marvels, Big Tree, Kaleidoscope and Run Away With Me. I did illustrate one book by another author, Baby Monkey Private Eye, a beginning reader by David Serlin, who is my husband.
Your stories often involve lonely characters searching for belonging or identity. What draws you to this kind of human journey?
I’m usually focused on the plots of my books and don’t think much about the themes, but after I finished The Invention of Hugo Cabret a reader said to me that they loved how the book was about the ways in which we make our own families. I hadn’t thought about that so directly before and I realized it’s my main theme. Almost all my books since then have had characters making their own families, in one way or another. It’s a pretty universal experience, after all. We grow up and then move out into the world where we create new circles of people we love.
You studied at the Rhode Island School of Design and also worked in bookstores. How did these hands-on experiences shape both your aesthetic and commercial view of the literary world?
At RISD I did not want to become a children’s book illustrator. Rather I was hoping to go into set design for the theatre, so I acted and designed sets up at nearby Brown University since RISD had no theatre. Instead I took figure drawing classes there and classes designed to help us think creatively which ultimately all helped me when I changed my mind about my career after college and decided to pursue children’s books. The theatre work can be seen in all my book in one way or another, down to the fact that many of my books feature drawings of curtains opening like the beginning of a play.
Awards like the Caldecott Medal and the Inkpot Award have cemented your place in literature and visual arts. But outside of accolades, what has been the most emotionally meaningful moment of your career?
Two things come to mind. When I first met Maurice Sendak he didn’t know my work so he asked me to send him a box of the books I’d been making for the last fifteen years. He didn’t like any of them and told me that even though I could draw, none of these books lived up to the potential he saw in me. When I finished Hugo and sent it to him, he invited me to his house in Connecticut and as we walked through the woods with his dog he told me he’d read the book and that this was the book he’d been waiting for. That was an extraordinary and moving moment for me. The other moment involves an author and illustrator named Remy Charlip who made all my favorite childhood books, including one called Fortunately. That book and several others remain in print, though many people have forgotten him or don’t know about his brilliance. I met him just as I was starting work on Hugo and was able to tell him how much his books meant to me. I also realized he looked just like Georges Melies so he posed as the character in the book. Soon after we met he had a massive stroke and was never really able to communicate again, though we remained close friends. When Hugo won the Caldecott Medal he was able to come to the ceremony and when I told the two thousand librarians that Remy Charlip was in the room with us they all spontaneously leapt to their feet to give him a standing ovation. His face was projected large onto the screens in the room and I’ll never forget that moment. It was almost as if I’d won the award just so Remy could have this experience.
Many children and young readers discover your books at a time when they’re developing their artistic and emotional sensitivity. How do you view the responsibility—and perhaps the privilege—of creating works that can leave a lasting mark on readers in their formative years?
I don’t really think about the readers while I’m making my books. I’m too busy trying to figure out the problems I may have with the plot or the drawings. But it’s always a thrill to hear from readers after the books are published, and now that I’ve been making books for thirty four years there are several generations of people who grew up reading something I wrote or illustrated. I love hearing how my books affected people and I don’t take what they say lightly or for granted. It’s a great privilege to make something that matters to a young person, which they remember when they grow up. I’ve heard the most wonderful stories about so many different ways my books have affected readers, and it’s one of the things I most love about my job.
Follow Brian Selznick on Instagram