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Shaun Tan

Datum narození: 1974

Shaun Tan je australský výtvarník, spisovatel, filmař a ilustrátor grafických románů.

V roce 1995 úspěšně absolvoval univerzitní studia výtvarného umění a anglické literatury. Ve filmové branži je jeho jméno spjato s krátkometrážním snímkem The Lost Thing, na kterém se podílel jako spolurežisér. V roce 2011 za něj byl oceněn Oscarem. Za svoji profesní dráhu obdržel již celou řadu ocenění, např. v roce 2011 byl oceněn Pamětní cenou Astrid Lindgrenové.

V ilustrování grafických románů se jeho styl kresby vyznačuje výhradním použitím tužky a následného jemného počítačového kolorování, které je obohaceno jeho snovou, surrealistickou imaginací. Za jeho nejslavnější grafický román je považována kniha Nový svět , jejíž děj pojednává o osudech emigrantů – o nedobrovolné cestě do tajemné, neznámé země, stesku po domově a po své rodině a o hledání naděje. Toto dílo je také pozoruhodné tím, že se jedná o tzv. němý román beze slov. Autor se při jeho vyprávění zcela obešel bez textových prvků. Mezi známé knihy dále patří román Erik a Příběhy z konce předměstí. Za zdroj své inspirace považuje českého rodáka Petra Síse, taktéž světoznámého ilustrátora [zdroj?].

„Každá fikce je falešná; to, co ji dělá přesvědčivou, je její průběh podél pravdy. Nakreslit dobrý obrázek je jako říct opravdu dobrou lež - klíčem je spojující detail.“

„You discover how confounding the world is when you try to draw it. You look at a car, and you try to see its car-ness, and you’re like an immigrant to your own world. You don’t have to travel to encounter weirdness. You wake up to it.“

„Today is the tomorrow you were promised yesterday.“ The Lost Thing

„So you want to hear a story? Well, I used to know a whole lot of pretty interesting ones. Some of them so funny you'd laugh yourself unconscious, others so terrible you'd never want to repeat them. But I can't remember any of those. So I'll just tell you about the time I found that lost thing....“ The Lost Thing

„Sometimes the day begins with nothing to look forward to...“ The Red Tree

„The Federal Department of Odds and Ends: sweepus underum carpetae.“ The Lost Thing

„It's funny how these days, when every household has its own inter-continental ballistic missile, you hardly even think about them.... A lot of us, though, have started painting the missiles different colors, even decorating them with our own designs, like butterflies or stenciled flowers. They take up so much space in the backyard, they might as well look nice, and the government leaflets don't say that youto use the paint they supply.“ Tales from Outer Suburbia

„Have you ever wondered
What happens to all the
poems people write?
The poems they never
let anyone else read?
Perhaps they are
Too private and personal

Perhaps they are just not good enough.

Perhaps the prospect
of such a heartfelt
expression being seen as
shallow silly
pretentious saccharine
unoriginal sentimental
trite boring
overwrought obscure stupid
simply embarrassing

is enough to give any aspiring
poet good reason to
hide their work from
public view.


Naturally many poems are IMMEDIATELY DESTROYED.
Burnt shredded flushed away
Occasionally they are folded
Into little squares
And wedged under the corner of
An unstable piece of furniture
(So actually quite useful)

Others are
hidden behind
a loose brick
or drainpipe
sealed into
the back of an
old alarm clock
put between the pages of
that is unlikely
to ever be opened.

someone might find them one day,
The truth is that unread poetry
Will almost always be just that.
to join a vast invisible river
of waste that flows out of suburbia.

Almost always.

On rare occasions,
Some especially insistent
pieces of writing will escape
into a backyard
or a laneway
be blown along
a roadside embankment
and finally come
to rest in a
shopping center
parking lot

as so many
things do

It is here that
something quite
takes place

two or more pieces of poetry
drift toward each other
through a strange
force of attraction
to science
and ever so slowly
cling together
to form a tiny,
shapeless ball.

Left undisturbed,
this ball gradually
becomes larger and rounder as other
free verses
confessions secrets
stray musings wishes and unsent
love letters
attach themselves
one by one.

Such a ball creeps
through the streets
Like a tumbleweed
for months even years

If it comes out only at night it has a good
Chance of surviving traffic and children
and through a
slow rolling motion
(its number one predator)

At a certain size, it instinctively
shelters from bad weather, unnoticed
but otherwise roams the streets
for scraps
of forgotten
thought and feeling.

time and luck
the poetry ball becomes
A vast accumulation of papery bits
That ultimately take to the air, levitating by
The sheer force of so much unspoken emotion.
It floats gently
above suburban rooftops
when everybody is asleep
inspiring lonely dogs
to bark in the middle
of the night.

a big ball of paper
not matter how large and
buoyant, is still a fragile thing.

Sooner or
it will be surprised by
a sudden
gust of wind
Beaten by
driving rain
in a matter
of minutes
a billion

One morning
everyone will wake up
to find a pulpy mess
covering front lawns
clogging up gutters
and plastering car

Traffic will be delayed
children delighted
adults baffled
unable to figure out
where it all came from

Stranger still
Will be the
Discovery that
Every lump of
Wet paper
Contains various
faded words pressed into accidental

Barely visible
but undeniably present
To each reader
they will whisper
something different
something joyful
something sad
truthful absurd
hilarious profound and perfect
No one will be able to explain the
Strange feeling of weightlessness
or the private smile
that remains
Long after the street sweepers
have come and gone.“
Tales from Outer Suburbia

„Yes, we all know that there's a good chance the missiles won't work properly when the government people finally come to get them, but over the years we've stopped worrying about that. Deep down, most of us feel it's probably better this way. After all, if there are families in faraway countries with their own backyard missiles, armed and pointed back at us, we would hope that they too have found a much better use for them.“ Tales from Outer Suburbia

„There is an implicit recognition here that important things in life are not always immediately visible, and can't always be named, or even fully understood. Others still are entirely imaginary -- like a red tree growing suddenly in a room -- although this does not make them any less real.“ Lost & Found

„without sense or reason“ The Red Tree

„terrible fates are inevitable“ Lost & Found

„Why do I always listen to your insane plans? Why aren't we at home watching TV like everyone else? What possible difference will any of this make?“

„It's as if they take all our questions and offer them straight back: Who are you? Why are you here? What do you want?“ Tales from Outer Suburbia

„Staring at a blank piece of paper, I can't think of anything original. I feel utterly uninspired and unreceptive. It's the familiar malaise of 'artist's block' and in such circumstances there is only one thing to do: just start drawing.

The artist Paul Klee refers to this simple act as 'taking a line for a walk', an apt description of my own basic practice: allowing the tip of a pencil to wander through the landscape of a sketchbook, motivated by a vague impulse but hoping to find something much more interesting along the way. Strokes, hooks, squiggles and loops can resolve into hills, faces, animals, machines -even abstract feelings- the meanings of which are often secondary to the simple act of making (something young children know intuitively). Images are not preconceived and then drawn, they are conceived as they are drawn. Indeed, drawing is its own form of thinking, in the same way birdsong is 'thought about' within a bird's throat.“

„The green painted concrete out in front of the house, which at first seemed like a novel way to save money on lawn-moving, was now just plain depressing. The hot water came reluctantly to the kitchen sink as if from miles away, and even then without conviction, and sometimes a pale brownish color. Many of the windows wouldn't open properly to let flies out. Others wouldn't shut properly to stop them getting in. The newly planted fruit trees died in the sandy soil of a too-bright backyard and were left like grave-markers under the slack laundry lines, a small cemetery of disappointment. It appeared to be impossible to find the right kinds of food, or learn the right way to say even simple things. The children said very little that wasn't a complaint.“ Tales from Outer Suburbia

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