Review by Karl Verhoven
While the simple drawing charms from the start, it takes a long while before Sylvie Kantorovitz’s memoir of her childhood slips into gear. Her family moved from Morocco to France when her father was appointed principal of a boy’s school, and around a third of the book concerns the young Sylvie enjoying life as a child. A few bumps concern nasty comments flung at her Jewish heritage, causing her to conceal it times, but while no form of insult is pleasant for a child, there’s no hint given that these were more than isolated incidents. She hangs about with her friends, her brother can sometimes be a nuisance, and she tries to do well at school.
It’s not until Sylvie starts discussing her mother that any more than a momentary unease manifests. She’s a difficult woman who doesn’t greatly understand her children, and who needs to bolster her self-esteem via association by frequently announcing her husband’s position. She’s constantly angry, and when Sylvie asks her if she ever loved her husband, the surprising response is “I knew I had made a mistake the moment we got married”. It’s brutally frank for a young child, who loves her father, and speaks volumes about her mother. By contrast, her father is an inspirational teacher who’s also artistically talented, although not compelled to draw. Sylvie is, but her mother doesn’t value art.
Every time it seems as if Sylvie will take an interesting turn the narrative is dragged back into comfort, as if it’s being created for Sylvie’s own family and she’s determined nothing should upset them. She grows from five to seventeen, and while there’s a constant frigid air of disharmony in the house it’s downplayed in favour of concerns about exams, the joy of having a room to oneself and a holiday trip to the countryside.
Only the cartooning elevates Sylvie. It performs admirable sleight of hand by looking so simple, yet is actually graceful and meticulously composed. Everything needed for any panel is there without any fuss, and the inclusion of a few childhood drawings displays the talent from an early age.
It’s not a case of wishing an unpleasant childhood on anyone, but unless reading about someone growing up in France is a personal fascination there’s so little beyond the everyday to interest to a general audience.
