Waiting for Adeline’s Illustrator
Britt Van Deusen is an artist who lives in Richmond, Virginia, with her husband and three girls (two human and one canine). Britt studied painting at The College of William & Mary and The Marchutz School in France, and she has been a portrait artist for many years.
When she is not making art, Britt often reads books that feature both people and animals in starring roles, she regularly cooks somewhat fancy meals, she occasionally plays silly songs on her guitar, and with stunning frequency, she discovers birds’ nests left abandoned in nature.
For more information, visit www.brittvandeusen.com.
On Working With Britt
By the time I heard from Brandylane Publishing about their interest in Waiting for Adeline, I had been home with our three children for fourteen years.
People love to joke that stay-at-home moms are nurses, doctors, chefs, housekeepers, chauffeurs, veterinarians, or whatever job involves the messy business of life — and yes, we are all those things. But no one ever says that we are writers. I don’t think I’ve heard that one before. That one that lives secretly, deep down, in a place of hope. A place of maybe. A place I’ve heard whispering but not often gone.
When I began working with Britt on the book’s illustrations, it quickly became clear that there was something different about her. There is a knowing, or an intention, that aligns perfectly with the focus of a portraitist. She will look at you and not through you, and ask that you do the same of yourself; go on, she’ll say, and dig deep. Go see what your maybe might tell you.
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When we received the art direction from my editor, we scheduled a call together almost immediately. It was very well done, but Britt wanted more detail, and it was clear that we’d need to collaborate. We were completely breaking the rules by doing it, but she needed photos, she said, and she had questions; she needed details to build out our portrait. So we went page by page, and line by line, and we began to make small changes. I told her about the window behind Daddy’s chair, for example, or the love for our family dog. In the painting by the refrigerator, we put Mama on the floor with Adeline, remembering how often I was there in real life. The more we worked together, the more her artist’s eye impressed me, which not only made Adeline more beautiful, but it also made it make more sense visually. She suggested close-ups versus vignettes, considering the flow of paintings within the book. She discovered the quiet moment mid-story, and then she painted that moment thoughtfully. She insisted on bright colors and fun clothes, and defined the book’s palette inside the rainbow world of Pantone. And while I edited the story on and off, she added the beautiful details — the bunnies, wildflowers and butterflies — for our readers to crawl into bed with at night. All of these details mattered to Britt, and then she’d take these details, wave her magic wand, and she’d send me her works-in-progress.
I can’t tell you how much fun this part was. The collaborating was great, but getting a text midday with a beautiful and colorful painting of something you’d only ever imagined, and not even this well, is thrilling. And somewhere in the middle of all of this, inspired by her, almost as if she had given me permission, I was able to hear what the whispers were telling me: No, you’re not just a mom who happened to write a book. You are a writer.
I hope you get to meet Britt one day, or work with her, or have her paint your child’s portrait. You will walk away with a renewed sense of energy and of life and of art.
Or you will, at the very least, get digging.