Like most creative artists who are also critics, Shulevitz displays time
and again in his own work the criteria that are the foundation of his
critical theories. Snow is no exception. Through a minimalist text and
carefully composed illustrations, it demonstrates his belief that the
true picture book, with its inevitable melding of words and art, is a
distinct genre. The premise is as simple as it is universal (at least in
cold climates): the transforming power of a snowstorm. The setting is a
dour, gray little town suggesting an Eastern European locale of
old-except for television and radio. Neither of the latter is
particularly prescient when it comes to predicting weather, for
"snowflakes don't listen to radio, / snowflakes don't watch television."
Only a hopeful small boy recognizes the first snowflake as a harbinger
of the wonder to come. Nor is he discouraged as one adult after another
tries to disabuse him. With each turn of the page, marvels occur that
are presented only in the illustrations: the rooftops gradually whiten;
the village becomes an enchanted landscape; nursery rhyme characters
emerge from their niches in the Mother Goose bookstore, joining the
small boy in a joyous winter ballet. As in Shulevitz's Dawn, the changes
are gradual and logical-not quite as dramatic, perhaps, but nonetheless
satisfying, with a touch of the fantastic. The palette is appropriately
subdued, depending in the concluding pages upon the contrast between a
freshly blue sky and snow-covered buildings rather than brilliant colors
for effect.
