At the beginning of the 19th century, a puppet maker constructs a female marionette of extraordinary finesse. Shaped in the likeness of his beloved cousin, who died under tragic circumstances, the doll becomes the plaything of his desires. But the puppet Querida awakens to sensual perception and consciousness. Soon her body transforms into flesh and blood for a limited period of time and she manages to escape the oppressive situation. Soon she finds herself on an exciting, dangerous and distressful journey, at the end of which, with the help of a mysterious blue-haired woman, her winged friend Romeo and her great love, the mighty giant Mangiafuoco, she finally finds her freedom, self-determination and independence ... and is able to avenge the unredeemed spirit of the dead cousin.
This one was sent to me by the publisher, with the comment that they thought it might appeal to me. It's an illustrated erotic fairytale loosely based on Pinocchio, which does make me wonder what kind of impression I'm putting out into the world. I liked it though, so I guess they nailed it.
In this version of the story, the puppet is a doll called Querida, whom the puppeteer puts into a variety of erotic poses and situations before she develops her own consciousness and autonomy and starts to take control of her existence. Familiar elements – the blue-haired fairy, the snail, the tricksy fox and cat – reappear here in strange (and generally horny) new guises, in the service of a fable about women's sexual empowerment, very loosely interpreted.
The writing is sensuous and dreamlike, even a little coy, although it's hard to make it out sometimes. It was originally written in Spanish by Carlos Atanes, then translated into German by the publishers, and apparently re-translated into English (by a nameless translator) for the edition I was sent. The English is not always the most fluent.
The dreamy fairytale episodes are perfectly fine for this kind of project, but the real draw is the mannered, angular artwork of Jan van Rijn, which is excellent. The book seems to exist in multiple versions: a smaller one in black-and-white, and a larger coffee-table hardback in full colour. You lose a lot by shrinking the pictures down and desaturating them, although some of the art in the colour version seems to be censored (with strategically placed flowers) where the black-and-white versions are not, so it's a bit of a strange situation.
I was reminded of a few comparable things; one is Nicole Claveloux's brilliant Contes de la fève et du gland, where again the illustrations are the main selling-point; the other, from the point of view of the prose, is Aline Reyes's adult choose-your-own-adventure book, Derrière la porte. (I guess the French are the masters of this kind of thing.) For me this didn't quite live up to those examples, but it's nevertheless a fascinating project that has made me very curious about the little publishing house that put it out.