Ezra Jack Keats’s Bestie

In celebration of the opening of The Snowy Day and the Art of Ezra Jack Keats this week, the head of the Ezra Jack Keats Foundation, Laura Pope, shared the following note and essay from her father with us. Their words speak for themselves and help express the true joy the Skirball feels in presenting this wonderful exhibition.

In celebration of the opening of The Snowy Day and the Art of Ezra Jack Keats this week, Deborah Pope, head of the Ezra Jack Keats Foundation, shared the following essay by her father, Martin Pope, with us. Martin and Deborah’s heartfelt words help express the true joy the Skirball feels in presenting this wonderful exhibition.

Because my father and Ezra Jack Keats were best friends, I grew up thinking Ezra was my uncle. He had not yet written The Snowy Day when I was of an age to read picture books and so when he did, I couldn’t really grasp the magnitude of his accomplishment. Nor could I, as a child, understand the fact that my father, Martin Pope, was a world-renowned scientist. For me, these two men were present as playfellows, co-conspirators, and cheerleaders.

The essay below was written by my father  for the opening of The Snowy Day and the Art of Ezra Jack Keats at The Jewish Museum in New York City, now at the Skirball. I would like to add a few words to his. The experience of poverty and prejudice might have hardened my father’s and Ezra’s hearts; instead, it made each of them, in his own way, determined to work against the perpetuation of such injustice. Their deep affection for and belief in one another fed their resolve to escape from deprived childhoods and realize their dreams, one in science and one in art. Integral to their plans was marking their path—the path of books, friendship, and imagination—to help coming generations of children find their way to better lives. Even now, at the age of 95, I think you will hear in my father’s words the depth of his continuing dedication to their shared childhood dreams.

Ezra Jack Keats (left) and my father, Martin Pope (right). Different men, kindred souls.

Ezra Jack Keats (left) and my father, Martin Pope (right). Different paths, same road.

My story with Ezra began eighty-one years ago, in the East New York section of Brooklyn, so often pictured in his books. We met in summer school; he was fourteen and I was twelve. Ezra had failed algebra because he wasn’t interested in math, I failed because I corrected my teacher. Our bond as friends was cemented that summer. Continue reading