Childhood Calliope: An Atlas Of Maps
From My Younger Years
W
hat if mapping were an expressive art, a way of coming to terms with a place, with the experience of place, with the love of place?
—Dennis Wood
When we think of a map, we might think of the heavily creased and highlighted travel map that Dad kept under his car seat, or perhaps a scholarly map of the United States, adorned in old-school tones of orange, green and blue, (remember the one you had to memorize when you were in the fourth grade?) We see maps as tools for record keeping and referencing because they have been relegated to a genre that is valued for its purity of representation. In Everything Sings, Dennis Wood posits, “It was as though the map were protected by an impenetrable carapace of reference work authority, an aura that kept the designer’s hands off: he could work around it, he could not touch” (130). As a form of information assumed to be void of any soulful tinkering, there is an underlying assumption that a touch of nostalgia or whimsy might taint a map’s acuity. But in truth, a map is simply a representation of an assertion—and the
assertion of any perspective, any representation of a thing stakes a claim in believing that that thing is worth representing. Peter Turchi posits in Maps of the Imagination: The Writer As Cartographer, “A map intends not to simply serve us but to influence us” (89). We may think of a map as a teller of truth, but its inception was born from the way someone saw the world—their view of the world. Turchi further asserts that, “Cartographers must continually confront the fact that there is no such thing as objective presentation. All maps are like the Way Finder in that, in the name of usefulness, they must assume a bias…That assertion, and the information selected, reveals a great deal about the mapmakers’ assumptions” (73, 83, 88). Additionally, a map may speak volumes of the likeness for which it stands, but what is revealed to us through it is only what we choose to see about the map—and while we may value detachment for the sake of objectivity, there is profound beauty in the way we see. Each of us offers a perspective that only we can reveal, if we so choose to. And so, if we allow ourselves to see, maps can tell a story about the places we, as individuals and as a people, inhabit.
I wanted to create a collection of maps that embodied a vivid sense of childhood. My objective in this series of maps was not to attempt to render a cartographic representation of what the geography and architecture looked like around my home and neighborhood, but rather my intent was to capture the essence of what my younger years were all about—adventure, wonder, and simplicity. Therefore, what my maps portray is the sense of place that was felt by me, at that time. Wood further posits, “As with atlases, every sequence insists on some kind of meaning, imposes some kind of signifying experience” (10). As I reflected on my childhood, there were many favorite pastimes that came to mind, but I decided to explore two that took place in the summertime, very close to my home. As a child, I took great pleasure in going across the street into the lima bean field where I would spend entire afternoons on an archaeological quest, unearthing buried fragments of 18th century pottery. The ceramic gems came in all shapes, colors, sizes, and textures and the idea of discovering artifacts from an “ancient” time and place was fascinating to me. Another adventure which took place almost daily was packing a lunch to take down to the canal where I, my brothers and the neighborhood kids would watch catamarans, sailboats and ferries go by. Images of sparkling sunshine, soft grasses under my feet, and the
protective, overhanging oak we would camp out under came flooding to mind, along with the familiar, constant hum of boats on the water, which was both comforting and relaxing. The stylized format that I designed the maps in, (i.e., Google maps, watercolor, multi-genred text, graphic montage and photos) was with the intention of imparting to the reader a sense of poetic play. As Turchi asserts, “We compel readers to look in the direction we want them to look, to see what we want them to see, the way we want them to see it” (82). The first map in each series starts out in a standard format, to give the reader a general sense of location and “lay of the land.” The introductory maps are then followed by additional maps which embody a more personal sense of what that place meant to me, at that time. Together, the maps evoke a sense of narrative. As Wood instructs on the construction of narrative atlases, the idea is this:
T
he neighborhood is a process, a process-place or a
process-thing that transforms anywhere into here, and here into everywhere, the city into the space of our lives the citizen into the individual and vice versa (18).
In line with Wood’s theory of narrative atlas, in Map 1 I signify a general sense of locale. The residential/field regions that are vibrant indicate a semiotic prominence and value. I employed a “dirty wash” of watercolor pigment featuring colors that are not especially pleasing to the eye—with the intention of creating an emotional reaction in the receiver: that part of the field/neighborhood is not desirable. In each of my maps, the semiotic use of textual structures is present through the use of stylized fonts choices and placement of text. One aspect is the form of text which, “consists of the shape and color of the letters and the layout of the words” as Sean Hall says in This Means This This Means That, (18). In Map 2 the text and artwork is illustrated in a child-like style, and I establish what my personal connection to Shunpike Road and the lima bean field is because the receiver (reader) discovers what the context and sense of place is.
My intention through the design of this map is to embody the nostalgia, adventure and poetic nature of the essence of the Field of Treasures, as I originally experienced it as a child. Map 3 features a very acute sense of presence, and now we see the exact meaning and context of why the lima bean field has value and prominence. Hall explains that once we know a message’s context, the meaning of the message becomes clear, (113). As a semiotic cue to reader, repetition is employed through the tiny map of Lima
Field—an echo of what was first revealed in Map 1. I featured images of 18th century pottery, seen both in a collection of fragments as well as whole pieces. This was done intentionally to convey a compositional gestalt of parts to a whole—as each map is one “part” of the “whole” narrative thread. To create a sense of intertextuality, I included historical, journalistic text in the form of an article about the neighborhood’s annual Lima Bean Festival as background. Certain key words such as Delta Blues and lima bean are positioned close to the images so that the receiver’s (reader’s) eye catches them as he or she follows the visual grid lines of the photos—this creates a sense of play between text and image. Elements of sentiment are infused into the map through a
Mother Goose poem, (which is featured on the right side of the map) along with a photo of an Old Mother Slipper Slapper 18th century ceramic piece.
Map 4 introduces a playful, general sense of the geography between Shunpike Road, (my street) and the Cape May Canal. I used a Google map of the actual area for the backdrop, but embellished it to feature primary colors, signaling to the receiver (reader) a nuance that is classic and timeless. The lay of the land is boldly demarcated with Old English style fonts. Again, prominence is created through the use of color and guides our eye along the grid accordingly. With a nod to Hall, a semiotic icon to the receiver (reader) is the black X and the thumbnail photo of the tree, (14). As Turchi discusses, “There is the issue of color (which ones to use and how); there is the size of the map, which will affect its scale and depends on whether it will be used by armchair explorers or campers, which helps to determine the amount of information included, which involves consideration of font sizes and types” (79). In Map 4 we get a bird’s eye overview of the neighborhood, stretching from North Cape May, Cold Springs, and West Cape May, but in Map 5 we zoom in to the specific intersection of Shunpike Road and County Highway 603. The painted background echoes the palette of grass and sky, harmonizing with the map graphics and photos, as well as creating a sense of vertical “real world” perspective. The reader’s sense of orientation in this way reinforces the suggestion that we are moving, (or even walking) toward the point of destination—this map resonates with a sense of journey. The visual dynamic of the red arrow
on the Google map pointing toward the oak tree in the upper right corner also serves to transition the viewer from a macro perspective to an immediate sense of place. In Map 4 the tree served as an icon for a significant spot, but in Map 5 we see how it connects in a more immediate context; it is the location that myself, my brothers, and the neighborhood kids would sit, eat lunch and watch the boats go zooming by. The tree also connects with a watercolor rendition of a picnic basket and gingham blanket—thus forming a narrative and social convention. As Wood asserts, “Every map has its own tale to tell…Admitting that atlases were narrative—that they were texts—would force the admission that the individual maps were texts too, that maps constituted a semiological system indistinguishable from other semiological systems, like those of paintings or novels or poems” (9).
Works Cited Hall, Sean. This Means This, This Means That: A User’s Guide to Semiotics. London: Laurence King, 2007. Print. Turchi, Peter. Maps of the Imagination: The Writer as Cartographer . San Antonio, TX: Trinity UP, 2004. Web. Wood, Dennis. Everything Sings: Maps for a Narrative Atlas . Los Angeles, CA: Siglio, 2010. Web.