Judging a sardine by its can (third visit)

In a series of posts on judging books by their covers, culminating in "Covering anatomy", we (Dr C, Growlery, JSBlog, Unreal Nature) have concentrated on the luridly and explicitly sexual. There are, though, other ways in which a cover can give, or be received as, a false message.

The cover on the left is that of the first Kate Atkinson book I read. And the the first she wrote, for that matter, but I'm looking at it from the reader's viewpoint, here.

I had seen it often enough on the shelves in bookshops, but it had never invited me inside. I can't give any valid reason for this: only a thoroughly unjustified reflex prejudice which said to me: "Jokily lightweight and vacuous middle class chick lit". Luckily, a scathing lecture from someone with a more open mind athan mine made me buy the book, open the cover, and read. I've never looked back, but nor have I forgotten the prejudice which might have cut me off from discovery. Book covers are, as Unreal Nature commented a couple of weeks ago, packaging designed to "bait the hook" and catch a buyer. The designer can't know the prejudice of every potential mark; the best s/he can do is make broad judgements about what might attract the largest possible group of consumers and at least avoid alienating as many as possible of the rest.

I'm not proud of the prejudice which might have kept me from Kate Atkinson; whether it's better or worse than the assumptions which shape covers like those we have been discussing thus far, I don't know.

Judging a sardine by its can

Both JSBlog and DrC have mentioned the strange covers which adorn some fiction paperbacks; both draw their examples from science fiction. Neither mentioned film posters, which were very similar – consider, for example, the semiotically similar images used to publicise The day the earth stood still and King Kong.

On the covers of SF paperbacks, a frequent feature was a young woman in stylised pose wearing a costume which served no discernible purpose beyond attracting the viewer's eye to her erogenous zones. An example which I particularly remember was Heinlein's Podkayne of Mars which, in the version I read (illustration on the left), appeared to show the protagonist clutching a crystal ball whilst standing on one leg, examining the horizon, and being molested by a green octopus (this may or may not relate in some way to Unreal nature's post on Isabella Rossellini; I wouldn't know).

A quick Google image search reveals numerous other covers including, to be fair, a range of approaches ... from a skinny rib disco Podkayne whose handbag can also be used as a large padlock to the one also shown here (right) which sees our heroine as a latter day Alice in Wonderland.

As an aside, I seem to remember that the Podkayne storyline includes nuclear device which goes well beyond the rumoured “suitcase nuke”. It comes a s small package which can be hidden amongst the sundry travel items within an eleven year old boy's carry on luggage.

Unreal nature has a related post, considering book cover depiction of male stereotypes.

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• Robert A Heinlein, Podkayne of Mars, her life and times. 1963, New York,: Putnam.

  
  

Judging a sardine by its can, again

An important aspect of Diane Arbus' social documentary portraits has always been the detailed environmental setting within which they are taken. Any viewing of the nominal subject which does not take in the background is seriously limited. I've spent more than an average amount of time studying Arbus images and, in particular, once spent a full day running a University of Texas seminar on three of them – including Topless dancer (which was interesting, with two nuns in the session).

On Thursday last week, my partner went to the Diane Arbus exhibition at the National Museum of Wales in Cardiff. She came back with a lot of very perceptive comment on what she'd seen, including some background detail on which I'd never myself picked up. In particular, she commented on the way that a card in Topless dancer is half hidden by a curtain.

On the left (in the pair of illustrations below) is the full image, with the card (on camera left, halfway up image, level with the dancer's elbow) circled in red. On the right is an enlargement of the card itself. (As always, click the images to see them at a larger scale.)

There is, of course, no reason whatsoever for me to be surprised that someone who makes her living as a topless dancer has a Leonardo da Vinci card in her dressing room. That I think it worth mentioning says something only about me, and about not judging books by their covers.

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• Diane Arbus, Topless dancer in her dressing room San Francisco, Cal. 1968. Silver/gelatine photograph.