When I was very small I visited Sweden with my mother and my much older sister. During our visit we went to Skansen, a folk museum. For years afterwards, my mother denied we’d ever been to Sweden, despite letters (and a gold ring concealed in a book shaped box’s secret compartment) arriving from Sweden for my mother. And despite my memory of the visit of course. Who was the man by the lake? This is the starting point of my graphic mystery/memoir Stranger, about identity and displacement (see rough frames), a work in progress. Not a children’s book this time.
How do we make sense of the world when those we trust make us doubt what we experience? Particularly relevant during the current time of plague, Brexit and political double-speak.