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“This stunningly illustrated book, rendered in deep blues and greens, charts a river’s meandering course through cities, farms and jungles.” —Entertainment Weekly A Winner of the New York Times/New York Public Library Best Illustrated Children’s Books Award There’s a river outside my window. Where will it take me? So begins the imaginary journey of a child inspired by the view outside her bedroom window: a vast river winding through a towering city. A small boat with a single white sail floats down the river and takes her from factories to farmlands, freeways to forests, out to the stormy and teeming depths of the ocean, and finally back to the comforts—and inspirations—of home. This lush, immersive book by award-winning picture book creator Marc Martin will delight readers of all ages by taking them on a transcendent and aspirational journey through an imaginative landscape. “A subtle study of how imagination allows children to safely explore the unknown without ever leaving home.” —Publishers Weekly
Presents a biography of the Russian artist from his point of view, detailing his struggle to find acceptance for his work and his why he chose the themes he did for his art.
Marc, an imaginative Russian boy, discovers his talent for drawing and, with the encouragement of a friend and an art teacher, decides to become an artist, in a delightful story that is based loosely on the childhood of Marc Chagall. Reprint.
GROWING UP IN Russia in the late 1800s, Marc Chagall doesn't know what art is. He doesn't even know what drawing is until one of hisschoolmates shows him how to trace a picture in a magazine. Marc tries it himself, then decides to pull pictures out of his own mind - his Uncle Noah on the roof, giant chickens, flying cows, happy men with fiddles, and women with lambs. Suddenly Marc knows what he wants to do with his life. He wants to be an artist!
There was once a forest...so begins a timeless story of renewal.
Chronicles the life of Marc Chagall, a celebrated twentieth-century artist who was born in Russia.
A gorgeous, expressive picture-book biography of Marc Chagall by the Caldecott Honor team behind The Noisy Paint Box. Through the window, the student sees . . . His future--butcher, baker, blacksmith, but turns away. A classmate sketching a face from a book. His mind blossoms. The power of pictures. He draws and erases, dreams in color while Papa worries. A folder of pages laid on an art teacher's desk. Mama asks, Does this boy have talent? Pursed lips, a shrug, then a nod, and a new artist is welcomed. His brave heart flying through the streets, on a journey unknowable. Known for both his paintings and stained-glass windows, Marc Chagall rose from humble beginnings to become one of the world's most renowned artists. Admired for his use of color and the powerful emotion in his work, Chagall led a career that spanned decades and continents, and he never stopped growing. This lyrical narrative shows readers, through many different windows, the pre-WWI childhood and wartime experiences that shaped Chagall's path. From the same team behind the Caldecott Honor Book The Noisy Paint Box, which was about the artist Kandinksy, Through the Window is a stunning book that, through Chagall's life and work, demonstrates how art has the power to be revolutionary.
"One of the hottest new authors in the thriller genre. . .Awesome." --Brad Thor Fear Is Contagious In a small town in Utah, people are contracting a horrific disease with alarming plague-like symptoms. The CDC quarantines the area but outbreaks are already being reported in China, Japan, and England. Evidence suggests this is not a new strain of superbug--but an act of war, an orchestrated deployment of unstoppable terror. . . Special agent Jericho Quinn, hellbent on finding the sniper who attacked his family, steps into an even bigger, and deadlier, conspiracy: a secret cabal of elite assassins embedded throughout the globe. Infecting the very fabric of the free world. Exterminating targets with cold, silent precision. For Quinn, it's as insidious as the virus that claims new victims each day--and he plans to wipe it off the face of the earth. . . Praise for the novels of Marc Cameron "Action-packed, over-the-top."--Publishers Weekly on Act of Terror "Fascinating characters with action off-the-charts. Masterful."--Steve Berry on National Security
It is an odd thing: a desire comes to me to write, and to write in my faltering mother tongue, which, as it happens, I have not spoken since I left the home of my parents. Far as my childhood years have receded from me, I now suddenly find them coming back to me, closer and closer to me, so near, they could be breathing into my mouth. I see myself so clearly a plump little thing, a tiny girl running all over the place, pushing my way from one door through another, hiding like a curled-up little worm with my feet up on our broad window sills. My father, my mother, the two grandmothers, my handsome grandfather, my own and outside families, the comfortable and the needy, weddings and funerals, our streets and gardens all this streams before my eyes like the deep waters of our Dvina. My old home is not there any more. Everything is gone, even dead. My father, may his prayers help us, has died. My mother is living and God alone knows whether she still lives in an un-Jewish city that Is quite alien to her. The children are scattered In this world and the other, some here, some there. But each of them, in place of his vanished inheritance, has taken with him, like a piece of his father's shroud, the breath of the parental home. I am unfolding my piece of heritage, and at once there rise to my nose the odours of my old home. My ears begin to sound with the clamour of the shop and the melodies that the rabbi sang on holidays. From every corner a shadow thrusts out, and no sooner do I touch it than it pulls me Into a dancing circle with other shadows. They jostle one another, prod me in the back, grasp me by the hands, the feet, until all of them together fall upon me like a host of humming flies on a hot day. I do not know where to take refuge from them. And so, just once, I want very much to wrest from the darkness a day, an hour, a moment belonging to my vanished home. But how does one bring back to life such a moment? Dear God, it is so hard to draw out a fragment of bygone life from fleshless memories! And what if they should flicker out, my lean memories, and die away together with me? I want to rescue them. I recall that you, my faithful friend, have often in affection begged me to tell you about my life in the time before you knew me. So I am writing for you.