One night, in the midst of a crushing bout of insomnia, I read the entire thing from beginning to end. It was unlike anything I had expected.
Through his expressive and haunting drawings, Mr. Small gives voice to the terrified boy he was during his neglectful, quasi-abusive boyhood. He puts cinematic techniques to such good use that reading Stitches is not like reading at all. It's like watching a film of his life.
In one scene that stands out for me, his mother is dragging him up the stairs. The artist zooms in on a single detail—his tiny hand being swallowed up by the grip or her much larger calloused one—and in so doing draws the reader to the emotional core of what is happening. As someone who writes first person nonfiction I am deeply jealous of the artist's ability to convey so much with so little, to be so economical in his storytelling. It would take pages of prose to evoke what Mr. Small is able to communicate inside of a single 2" x 3" rectangle.
I love to have my expectations upended, to have my mind blown, my prejudices thrown back at me and transformed into awe. With Stitches, Mr. Small has managed to do all of these things.
The artist in his studio.
