European Masters

Jean-Michel Folon: Just Another Belgian Genius?

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« Less is more. » — Ludwig Mies van der Rohe

Once again, my initial instinct when I hit upon the notion of showcasing the work of Jean-Michel Folon was: « is he too obvious a subject? ». Then reason stepped in with: « to whom, exactly? »

Which brings me to my own tiny Folon anecdote: about twenty years ago, I was helping out a friend, who usually took off the month of January to travel. As it happened, it was usually the worst month for art freelancers, at least in my experience, so he was helping me out too.

Anyway, instead of working from home or some ad agency’s offices, I would work from his boutique, manning the four telephone lines while his regular employees handled the in-person traffic. One day, I took an order from a nice lady who, while I was filling out the relevant papers, gave her last name as Folon. « Like the illustrator? », I asked. « Yes indeed, he’s my cousin! », she replied, clearly delighted. « I’ve been living here in Canada for thirty years, and you’re the first person who’s ever asked! ». Which goes to show that one should think twice before extrapolating from one’s familiarity with a given subject. Or to put it simply, just because you’ve heard of someone, don’t assume everyone else does… whether they should have or not.

I can’t make mention of Folon without bringing up his strongest formative influences, Saul Steinberg (1914-1999) and André François (1915-2005); we’ll return to these gentlemen in due time.

To put it succinctly, Steinberg brought greater graphic and thematic purity to the gag cartoon… by dispensing with the gag, at least in the traditional sense. Not everyone dared to follow that perilous path, but Folon did, and similarly thrived.

Born in Brussels in 1934, Folon initially studied architecture, but soon detoured into drawing and never returned to his early vocation, though he certainly erected his share of edifices… on paper. He timidly began submitting drawings in 1957. A decade later, he had scaled and conquered the lofty North American market, landing cover assignments with The New Yorker, Esquire and Fortune, among others.

For example, this model of witty understatement from the week of April 11, 1970.

He turned his confident, limpid vision across all printed media, but also sculpture, tapestry, stained glass and animation. He passed away in 2005, but not before designing and establishing his own museum. Be sure to check this stunning place out!

Such a multifaceted career and œuvre being too gargantuan in scope for a simple blog post, I’ll mostly stick to a sampling of some of Jean-Michel’s drawings, produced during his first decade as a professional artist.

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And here’s some of his later work:

This is Folon’s jacket for the 45 RPM single issue of Michel Colombier’s music (his adaptation of a baroque adagio by composer Alessandro Marcello). It had originally been recorded in 1971 for his US debut album, Wings (for Herb Alpert and Jerry Moss’ A&M label), which bore a variation of this Folon image as its European cover; the North American one was, to put it mildly, hideous.

Colombier, incidentally, belonged to that coterie of poor souls who did all the heavy lifting while their ‘collaborator’, Serge Gainsbourg, received and happily hogged all the credit.

In 1975, Colombier recycled the recycled adagio as the opening and closing theme for French public national television channel Antenne 2’s daily programming, accompanied by an appropriately graceful animated sequence by Folon.
Another local connection: Folon handled the artwork for this 1979 LP by musical whiz Jean Robitaille, who’d recently co-written the lovely 1976 Summer Olympics’ theme song. But my favourite Robitaille song has to be his duet with beloved songstress Renée Claude (1939-2020), St-Jovite, a fiendishly clever song about a singular sort of voodoo.
I must say I’m gobsmacked at the idea of the French post office selecting a Belgian artist to illustrate its stamp commemorating the 1989 bicentennial of the French Revolution. But what do I know? Folon did a great job.
When I state that Belgium seems to truly value its artists (see another example here), this is the sort of thing I mean: in 2010, five years after his passing, his native land issued a set of ten postage stamps saluting “The Magic of Folon”. ’nuff said.

-RG

André Franquin: a Centenary in Ten Images

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« The first hundred years are the hardest. » — Wilson Mizner

Having just learned this morning that today marks a century since the birth of André Franquin (1924-1997), I again pushed my planned post to the back burner. So, instead of writing about a celebrated Belgian genius, I’ll write about *another* celebrated Belgian genius.

Spirou’s ‘Albums’ were a handy way to dispose of unsold copies of the weekly magazine by collecting a trimester’s worth of issues in an attractive hardcover format. This one’s from March 1948, just to give you an idea of Franquin’s early style.
A panel from Le dictateur et le champignon (1953). The ripe banana-coloured critter with the long tail, if you don’t already know, is Le marsupilami, Franquin’s homage to Elzie Segar‘s Eugene the Jeep (introduced in 1935 and known as ‘Pilou-Pilou’ in French Europe).
This panel took my breath away as a kid when I first saw it, and it still does. It’s from Spirou et Fantasio no. 8, La mauvaise tête (1954). How many contemporary artists could pull off such a scene — let alone the entire sequence, wherein Fantasio ends up winning the race cycling backwards — at all convincingly?
I’ve been reading, for the first time, Franquin’s collected Modeste et Pompon (1955-59). After Franquin was tricked into surrendering his creation to Tintin magazine publisher Les Éditions du Lombard, M&P became just another long-running mediocre domestic strip in many successive pairs of (necessarily) lesser hands… but seeing Franquin bring it to life is a most refreshing pleasure.
A dynamic Modeste et Pompon sample from near the end of Franquin’s run. During Franquin’s relatively brief passage at Tintin magazine, he set a new standard of graphic freedom, opening a breach for his successors that Georges “Hergé” Rémi himself did *not* welcome. Tintin’s papa, in fact, deemed Franquin’s supple and organic line ‘vulgar’.
Album Spirou no. 70 (March 1959, Dupuis), gathering issues 1081 to 1091 and depicting a scene from Le Prisonnier du Bouddha.
Album Spirou no. 96 (April 1965, Dupuis), collecting issues 1395 to 1407. Gaston Lagaffe*, like Le Marsupilami before him, was a minor character introduced by Franquin to relieve the tedium of setting down the adventures of Spirou et Fantasio. The popularity of both these would-be background creations wound up dwarfing that of the intended protagonists.
Franquin’s original painted artwork for the cover of Album Spirou no. 100 — well, duh — (March 1966, Dupuis), containing issues 1447 to 1459.

In 1977, a depressed yet inspired Franquin, suffocating within the confines of his much-imitated (at his publisher’s clueless insistence) style, created — with kindred confederate Yvan Delporte — Idées noires (Black, or perhaps more fittingly Bleak notions) as an outlet. It first appeared in the short-lived* Spirou mag supplement Trombone illustré, then moved to the more welcoming pages of Fluide glacial. An English-language edition, entitled Die Laughing, was published by Fantagraphics in 2018. Check it out here.

Here are a couple of Idées noires punchlines, which should give you an idea of their tone.

Marcel Gotlib wittily hijacked/paraphrased Sacha Guitry‘s bon mot about Beethoven : « After reading a page of Idées noires by Franquin, we close our eyes, and the darkness that ensues is still Franquin’s. »
In countless instances, Franquin even used his signature to expressive comic effect.

-RG

*These days, thinking about Gaston Lagaffe puts me in an ugly mood, I’m afraid. Franquin had expressly, and all along, requested that his creation be put to rest with him. But did his publisher – having built an empire upon Franquin’s creations — honour his wishes? No more than usual. Another arrogant slap — post-mortem this time — in the face of a genius exploited and mistreated his entire adult life. In this world, the interest of the characters… oops, pardon my French, ‘properties’ obviously trumps that of the flesh-and-blood creators. Every time. For there’s always some scab hack or other backstabber (and they *always* claim to be huuuge fans, as Miller said to Eisner, betraying him with a kiss) to aid and abet venal publishers. That’s how we got a pointless Sugar and Spike revival and all those Watchmen prequels. Hopefully, Monsieur Franquin’s daughter will prevail in her lawsuit against Dupuis to settle the matter in a just and fitting manner. [ Update: it didn’t end well. The suits won. ]

**« It is upon the publication of a Franquin article that the supplement is cancelled. In his piece, the fervently antimilitarist Franquin takes to task Thierry Martens, Spirou’s then editor-in-chief, for running articles about Nazi war plane models. » (translated quote from L’histoire de la bande dessinée pour les débutants by Frédéric Duprat, p. 131, Jan. 2011)

Hallowe’en Countdown VII, Day 25

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« Je suis American / Please cook my steak again. » — Ben Folds

Serge de Bechetch (1946-2007) and Jean-Marc « Loro » Laureau (1943-1998)’s Déboires d’Outre-tombe was an off-and-on (1969-75) series of short pieces parodying horror movie tropes. It took its (clever!) title from diplomat-author François-René de Chateaubriand (1768-1848)’s Mémoires d’Outre-Tombe (« Memoirs From Beyond the Grave »); “Déboires” signifies ‘a run of bad luck’ or, originally, ‘an unpleasant aftertaste’ from drinking wine. Nowadays, Chateaubriand is mostly associated with his chef’s favourite steak recipe.

To be honest, while Loro’s artwork was often inspired, Déboires’ gags mostly fell flat; I presume that the creators had no idea how hoary these monster jokes had become, not having been exposed to the likes of Famous Monsters of Filmland, Topps’ ‘You’ll Die Laughing‘ card set, Mad, Cracked, Sick… and all the glut of parody mags. However, Loro was for a time — and right from the start — editor of the French edition of Warren’s Creepy, which was, imho, superior to the original thanks to better printing and, most significantly, its brand-new, first-rate documentary material created by Midi Minuit Fantastique alumni, replacing Warren’s cool, but repetitive in-house Captain Company adverts.

Here are the strips I consider standouts. Just a few years on, Loro would attain his peak with the early cases of gumshoe Abel Dopeulapeul, whom we’ve featured a few years back. Contrast and compare!

Volume one of Déboires d’outre-tombe (1981, Éditions du Cygne).
Volume two of Déboires d’outre-tombe (1982, Éditions du Cygne).
« You can tell a good workman by his tools!!! »
Loro was clearly catching a lot of Hammer films of the era.
The plot, in a nutshell: Bertille constantly henpecks her husband because of his general rakishness and lack of gainful employment. Oh, but he’s found a job, he claims. Just then, she’s anonymously denounced as a witch. « I told you, Bertille. You see… I’ve found some work. »
« So, what have you done today as a bad action? »
« I took the orphans from the youth club to the beach for a swim… »
« And what’s so evil about that? » « The sharks… »

-RG

Hallowe’en Countdown VII, Day 21

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« Insanity is believing your hallucinations are real. Religion is believing that other peoples’ hallucinations are real. » — Dan Barker

When they talk about ‘adult comics’, they mean this — as opposed to ‘comics for randy teenage boys’. By ‘this’, I refer to adaptations of slow-burning psychological horror (or ‘anguish’, really) novels. These weren’t often about literal demons and ghouls, they were about people slowly but surely losing their grip on reality, through natural circumstances or, in a yet more sinister vein, the process of being gaslit by malevolent parties.

These comics are often extremely understated, and I stayed well away from them as a kid, not that I would have understood what they were about. Returning to them, I’ve come to appreciate their low-key, droning power of fascination.

This is Hallucinations no. 2 (Sept. 1969, Arédit). Cover artist unknown. The prolific horror and SF writer André Caroff was a nom de plume of André Carpouzis.
This is Hallucinations no. 6 (Sept. 1970, Arédit). The splendid cover painting is the work of Carlo Jacono (thanks for the ID, Caspar!) and the insides by prolific Spanish cartoonist Adolfo Buylla (1927-1998), who contributed to Gold Key’s spooky titles in the 1970s. Marc Agapit was one of the literary pseudonyms used by Adrien Sobra (1897-1985).
This is Hallucinations no. 10 (July 1971, Arédit). Cover artist unknown. Maurice Limat (1914-2002) was another busy — but sometimes excellent — writer of SF, crime and horror.

Batelier de la nuit (“Night Boatman”) was also illustrated by Mr. Buylla. Here’s a pair of moody pages involving — of course — hallucinations.

This is Hallucinations no. 12 (Nov. 1971, Arédit). Cover artist unknown. The series must have met with some success, as its publishing frequency increased from quarterly to bi-monthly. I swear I recognise that style; around 1980, I had a European sticker album of spooky scenes that this artist illustrated. I’ll dig it up yet…

A decade ago, I got my hands on some original art from issue 53 of Hallucinations, “L’orgue de l’épouvante” (“Organ of Terror”, 1975), illustrated by Belgian cartoonist Jean Pleyers, and adapted from Jean Murelli’s novel.

Since I own only six pages of the 200+ tale, I have no solid idea what’s going on, but it’s intriguing. I’ve spotted a cheap copy and should soon be able to fill in the blanks. Here’s a plot blurb: « Reporter Luc Rohard is a hardcore skeptic who refuses to view his colleague Vérac’s disappearance in supernatural terms. His investigation leads him to a small village in which has retired sinister doctor Domitis. Is the latter a mad criminal who’s lost his mind in the course of obscure experiments on the human mind, or…? But who shall ever know the truth about the Vampire of the abbey and his troubling companion? »

-RG

Hallowe’en Countdown VII, Day 16

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« When asked if they would like to have sex with me, 30 per cent said, “Yes”, while the other 70 per cent replied, “What, again?” — Silvio Berlusconi

A certain subset of Italian Fumetti — namely the sex and horror digests of the 1970s — constitutes a quagmire of oft-truly repellent material in which indisputable gems yet glimmer bright. Mostly the covers… designed to lure the sailor — or reader — to his doom.

While several of the most prolific artists of the medium were evidently talented fellows, only a couple (Averardo Ciriello being the other one) truly draw my interest, since, despite low pay and a breakneck production pace, they didn’t swipe much… or at all — unlike their colleagues. For most of the industry and society, consent and copyright appeared to be pretty fuzzy, casually dismissed notions.

I favour the work of Fernando Carcupino (1922-2003) over that of his contemporaries because he always knew how to keep things light, bright and original — never wallowing in poor taste or sadism, even when the subject matter called for it, and I thank him for it. Here are some highlights from his illustrious career.

A piece from La Settimana Umoristica no. 5 (Apr. 1954) entitled “Celluloid Terror”. All the classic ghouls are there, even that very year’s Creature From the Black Lagoon. Carcupino could spot an enduring classic from a long way off!
A selection of our fine products, as they appeared in print.
Vampirissimo no. 11 (Nov. 1975, Edifumetto). “An Abyss of Terror”.
Leaned in too close and got poked in the eye! I Sanguinari no. 9 (July 1975, Edifumetto). “Flamenco of the Damned”.
Il Vampiro no. 5 (March 1974, Edifumetto). “The Black Snow”. Why, hello, Mr. Chaney!
Lo Scheletro no. 13 (July 1974, Edifumetto). “The Grim Bell Ringer”.
Zora la Vampira no. 1 (Jan. 1974, Edifumetto) — “Human Flesh” In French, Zora became ‘Zara‘, for some reason.
Lo Scheletro no. 3 (March 1975, Edifumetto). “The Abominable King Kong”.
Tabù no. 23 (Oct. 1975, Edifumetto). “Please Don’t Bite My Butt”.
I Notturni no. 9 (Sept. 1973, Edifumetto). “Peter the Fornicator”. Impressive, given his mug.
Vampirissimo no. 8 (Aug. 1974, Edifumetto). “Death by Fright”. Oh, he’s a spooky one, all right.
Vampirissimo no. 7 (July 1974, Edifumetto). “Monster Dimension”. This is the sort of composition and treatment that Bill Sienkiewicz would “introduce” to mainstream comics a decade later, blowing the minds of Marvel Zombies who’d consumed naught but the House of Ideas’ offal, just as Jim Steranko had blown their older brothers’, a decade prior.
Lo Scheletro no. 7 (Apr. 1974, Edifumetto). “Demon in Love”.
This fine* monograph from Korero Press (2019) spotlights a certain facet of Carcupino’s œuvre, though it’s pretty light on the horror, which is fine by me. The narrow thematic focus (on sex, the other half of the equation) does manage to render the proceedings a tad tedious after a while, but that’s to be expected. For a better sense of the man’s versatility, check out his website.

-RG

*marred somewhat by the usual “We Italians...” introduction, yet another variation on the line of “we are so passionate, we love women so much, we can’t control ourselves” bullshit. I guess it’s perfectly commonplace, for some people, to confuse misogyny with love . Right…

Hallowe’en Countdown VII, Day 13

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« If you don’t go over the top you can’t see what’s on the other side. » — Jim Steinman

On this blog — and these several past countdowns — I haven’t devoted much attention to the 1970s Skywald “Horror-Mood” line, mostly because it doesn’t often catch my fancy. My idea, my sense of Hallowe’en — and horror — is rather moodier and/or more whimsical, more innocent than the strain of the weird gathering momentum by the dawn of the decade, as exemplified by the Skywald line.

But what makes this entry an exception? Well, this thing’s so enthusiastically bombastic that it’s hard to take seriously. Yet the craft on display is tough to deny. Courtesy of Messrs Alan Hewetson, writer (also the rag’s editor) and Jesús Durán Castillo, illustrator, “13” is a messy patchwork of dangling bits purloined from Ambrose Bierce‘s An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge, Edgar Allan Poe‘s The Pit and the Pendulum, and (what the heck) traditional French-Canadian folk song Dans la prison de Londres (Hewetson’s Canadian, let’s not forget). It’s also a jaunty, bracing scamper on the bonkers side, a wild ride on the escalating, circular chain of delusional obsession. Buckle up!

If you’ll forgive me the interruption, that top panel is a classic.

Who knows… was this, in some queer fashion, an inspiration for the 1997 Joe Pesci vehicle 8 Heads in a Duffel Bag?

“The 13 Dead Things” appeared in Psycho no. 13 (Nov. 1973, Skywald), bearing this lovely cover painting by Vicente Segrelles.

-RG

Out of the Clutter: Silvestre’s ‘Simple’.

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« Luckily, there are ideas. Ideas. When too many things go astray, stop or turn against you, the mind engenders favorable phantasms, worlds made to order, happy endings, golden images of yourself, utopias and holy readers (one is enough) capable of forgiving any affront and of remaining loyal beyond the limits of the reasonable. Ideas. Useful to keep going. » — Silvestre

Several years ago, during a visit to a favourite bédé store, I picked up, at random, an intriguing book, whose appeal largely lay in that it didn’t seem to be vying for my attention at all. If you’ve a certain bent of mind, the understated article will often exert a stronger pull than all the hard sell screamers in the world.

I read and enjoyed it, then the book faded deep into the collection, only to bob to the surface after our recent move.

See what I mean? Very low-key. This is the French edition of “Simple” by Silvestre (Jan. 2000, Éditions Amok), a translation of the Spanish original published in 1998 by Edicions de Ponent.

For a long time, I couldn’t find out more about it, and I still know precious little. It didn’t make much of a ripple in the pond, and its wake seems to have dimmed even further in the intervening years.

There’s little sense in my translating the dialogue (with one exception), but here’s the setup: our protagonist, Silvestre, sits in a corner and has exchanges with his demons and other monsters of the id. But they’re eloquent and visually arresting apparitions.

I love that, while seeming identical at a casual glance, each Silvestre figure is individual. The artist may have employed a stencil or a rubber stamp… at least that’s what I would have done.

Incidentally, Silvestre is a pseudonym of Spanish cartoonist-graphic designer-poet (et cetera) Federico Del Barrio (1957 –), which he reserved for his more explorative work.

In the words of Richard Dawkins, « in the beginning was simplicity. »
The visual fireworks soon arrive, scores of them artistic references. Am I imagining an allusion to Saul Bass‘ immortal Anatomy of a Murder poster?
« Jests help while away the time, sir. But if some of them fail to amuse you, I can teach you others. My repertoire is infinite. With me, you’ll never be bored. You’ll see, we’ll have a lot of fun. »
Silvestre’s tone toward his visitors is generally contemptuous and hostile, with one exception: he’s fully deferential when appears Her Majesty, the Great Muse of Comics.
A pair of his real-life collaborators turn up, and he’s not happy to see them. The chain smoker is writer Felipe Hernández Cava, and the lanky one Raúl Fernández Calleja, aka Raúl. Both look as if conjured by the magic pen of Marc Hempel!
Ah, and here (panel three) come Spanish icons Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, riffing on Pablo Picasso’s famous 1955 sketch.
Now we’re groping our way through a sticky, malignant fog of German expressionism and woodcut novels!
A page from the delicious and delirious final sequence… it was hard to choose just one. Such an expressive line!

-RG

Félicitations, Emmanuel Guibert!

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« Drawing is of the spirit; colour is of the senses. » — Henri Matisse

I recently heard that the masterful Emmanuel Guibert (1964-) was inducted, early this year, to France’s Académie des Beaux-Arts, official recognition of the highest order, right up there with his 2020 Grand Prix at Angoulème or his knighthood of the Ordre des Arts et des Lettres.

Having long followed the man’s career, briefly met him and heard him speak, I’m convinced that he deserves every accolade he receives, and I know all this attention won’t even go to his head for, in addition to his staggering talent, the man just radiates patience and kindness.

In 2006, he was concluding a talk in Montréal by taking some questions from the audience, and an old lady asked an incredibly basic one… that most would have dismissed or shrugged off with a « how can you not know that already? ». But no, he gently responsed to her query in the most illuminating way, elevating the moment to the delight of everyone in the audience, including, of course, the lady with the question.

A 1997 illustration created for an issue of long-running (1971-) bright kids’ magazine Okapi on the theme of The Titanic. This shows the doomed ship’s third class restaurant.
A sequence from the album that first brought Guibert to prominence, La fille du professeur, a collaboration with Joann Sfar, whose script won the 1997 René Goscinny award at the Angoulème festival. Note the remarkable fluidity and animation of the choreography.
A sequence from his wild collaboration with WOT? favourite David B., 1999’s Le capitaine écarlate (The Scarlet Captain), which fancifully thrusts real-life author Marcel Schwob (1867-1905) amidst the lunatic fray.
The pirate ship, travelling through the sky on its own wave, is trapped betwixt an airship and the grappling hooks of the Parisian police posted on the Eiffel tower. Of course.
Here’s a glimpse into Guibert’s working method, two panels from Le capitaine écarlate: « Inking the pencils is always a problem: it’s even nonsensical to have to draw the same thing twice! Generally, the inking stiffens the drawing, since the pencilling stage is allusive and the inking stage is descriptive. So I try to do the opposite: I settle all the drawing problems in pencil and then, I put my page over a light table in order to reinvent the drawing in pen, leaving out a lot of the details. But that’s just a last resort. It’s hard to be quick and spontaneous while trying to convey subtle things. Ideally, I’d love to do without pencilling, but I need it to nuance my drawing. » (from a talk with Hugues Dayez published in La nouvelle bande dessinée, 2000, Éditions Niffle)
A page from his probable magnum opus, La guerre d’Alan, in which he recounts visually the real-life recollections of an American exile he met by chance in 1994 on the Île de Ré. This part of the saga is available in English as Alan’s War. Here, a bunch of malnourished GIs hike for an hour for a steak meal provided by a lumberjack. For Alan, coming from a family of modest means, it was his first time eating steak.
« Observe, improve yourself, fill up your noggin! » is the crux of his advice to young cartoonists. Leading by example, he’s constantly observing and rarely stops drawing. Thankfully, some collections of Guibert’s sketches have seen print, and they’re delightful. Here are some samples from Le pavé de Paris (Oct. 2004, Futuropolis), which is the exact size of a Parisian cobblestone, just like those lobbed at the police by demonstrating students during the tumultuous events of May 1968.
I’m in awe at his ability to discern and render infinitely delicate shifts and nuances of colour and tone, especially in low light.
« Drawing allows you to tear off pieces of reality and to take them home. In my notebooks, I know that the most beautiful drawings, the most vibrant ones, are those I did in places or before people that I want to keep near me. »
« This is why my notebooks are so precious to me: they are riddled with accidents and unrepeatable little things. And while I practically can’t bear to open one of my published books, I often find myself checking out my notebooks. »
A page, drawn in 1999 and intended for L’enfance d’Alan. Guibert initially planned to cover his friend’s life in order, but postponed the childhood part, since he possessed fuller documentation of Alan’s war years. In the end, this page didn’t make the cut, which gives you some idea of the very high standards Guibert sets for himself.
L’enfance d’Alan appeared in 2012, and was followed in 2016 by Martha & Alan; like the rest of the Alan Cope memoirs, they were published by L’Association.
The lion’s share of what’s kept me this long from showcasing one of my very favourite cartoonists: most of it is virtually impossible to scan, unless I’m willing to destroy the spine of some often rare, precious — and treasured! — volumes.

-RG

The Brave Josef Lada

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When I looked up Czech painter-caricaturist Josef Lada (1887-1957), I was surprised to find him called ‘one of the best-loved Czech painters of all time‘. There’s no question that Lada’s work remains immensely popular among Czechs, but I suppose the question for context would be « how many painters from that corner of the world are well known outside of outside of the Czech Republic and ex-USSR countries » (probably not many). Lada doubtlessly deserves his lasting fame, at any rate.

My familiarity with his style comes from his illustrations for Jaroslav Hašek‘s sardonically hilarious novel The Good Soldier Švejk, a favourite family book from which we can all quote at length, and which I own in several Russian editions (thanks to inheriting my grandfather’s copy). There have been many adaptations of Švejk, but I can only imagine him the way Lada depicted him. Visit BibliOdyssey for a glimpse of the good soldier.

While his renown is assured thanks to his work on Hašek’s magnum opus, the entirely self-taught Lada is also fondly remembered for his illustrations to children’s books (which he occasionally wrote himself), as well as paintings of pastoral life, probably inspired by his childhood in the small village of Hrusice. For a fuller biography, head over to The Genius of Josef Lada, the most complete source of information that I could find online in English.

Here’s an assortment of images from various books – among others, Ezopské bajky (The Fables of Aesop) from 1931; Kocour Mikeš (Tomcat Mikeš), written and illustrated by Lada between 1934 and 1936, and being a sort of a take on Puss in Boots; Nezbedné Pohádky (Naughty Fairy Tales) from 1946 – as well as some postcards and aforementioned village illustrations.

A typical pub night, 1929.
Winter Pleasures, 1936.

« In the first year of his life, [Lada] had a life-altering accident – he fell on his father’s knife and the injuries sustained permanently blinded his right eye. Some art historians later attributed the artist’s flat-perspective painting style to this incident.»

Lada’s depiction of ‘vodnik‘, an evil water spirit.
A page from Zvířátka (which translates to ‘beasts’ or ‘animals’), a book comprising a dozen animal illustrations.
A New Year postcard from 1928.
A collection of Lada’s caricatural cartoons – ‘A Hundred Cheerful Drawings’ – published in 1970. I found this little volume in a used bookstore, and was delighted to find what was clearly the work of the artist who illustrated Švejk – I didn’t know Lada by name, back then. I don’t speak Czech, but it’s still plenty fun to leaf through.

For more Lada art, visit the Notes From a Superfluous Man blog!

~ ds

Never Forget: Cabu, le grand Duduche

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« A shaggy mane, odd, steel-rimmed little glasses, a get-up owing rather more to personal fancy than to the edicts of fashion, a candid gaze, the smile of a malicious dunce, that’s Le Grand Duduche… and it’s also Cabu. » — René Goscinny

On this significant day, I will spotlight Jean Cabut (b. 1938, d. 2015) alias Cabu, and his wondrous Le Grand Duduche series, begun in 1963 and concluded in 1982, published in Pilote, Hara-Kiri, Charlie Hebdo and Pilote Mensuel. An absurdly massive collection of the entire series (672 glossy pages!) was published by Vents d’Ouest in 2008. Even as a hardcover volume, the thing’s so big and heavy it can barely bear its bulk, and is therefore virtually unreadable. It should really have been three books in a slipcase. But hey, the reproduction is first-rate… for what it’s worth.

Duduche is a gangly lycéen (high school student, sort of) wending his way through classes and student life, doing as little work as possible but expanding a maximum of ingenuity. It’s most certainly not about the plot.

The strip displays a fantastic level of graphic bravura and formal experimentation, while retaining 20/20 narrative clarity. I felt it was a fool’s errand to try singling out a “typical” example, since every page is unique — so here’s a sampler. Amazing, and yes, highly recommended, even if you can’t read the (marvellous and abundant) text.

Ah, remember cursive?
Little Duduche has to give away his cat’s latest litter, with deplorable results. « A female cat can have up to 20,000 descendants in just a span of five years. If you don’t want to take care of tons of cats or feel responsible for many homeless ones, it’s a good idea to spay or neuter your cat. » It’s just common sense, folks.
Expressive, varied lettering is another crucial asset in the toolkit of the complete artist. « Mister Duduche! You will no longer find it quite so droll when I quiz you on aerial warfare of 1917-18! »
Okay, this was hell to scan and reassemble (do open it in a separate tab to see the glorious details). But I felt it essential to showcase Cabu’s mastery of scale, perspective, architecture and general cohesion. Once in a while, Cabu would pull out one of these ambitious strips with over a hundred distinctive and identifiable figures, in service of a couple of dozen individual or entwined jokes. It is a rare breed of genius that can conceive such an array of moving parts and keep them all under control.
1- “Sir! Sir! Sir!” ” “Belphegor is getting deafer by the day...” 2- “May I go out, sir?” “Yes.” “Watch this…” 3- “Sir! Sir! Sir!” 4- “Sir, may I go out… to tell the principal’s daughter that I love her?” “No. There’s already another.” 5- “Well, I never!” 6- “Sir! May I go out to smash the other freak’s face in… it’s urgent!” “Okay, okay. But make it quick!“
“If you notice that the elderly maid, who’s known you all your life, is suddenly afraid of you…“
Duduche catalogues the telltale signs of his entrance into ‘the awkward age’. “If you notice that the house cat is now wary of you…“
Interesting: I had no idea until just now that the country fair game of ‘Chamboule-tout’ was known as ‘Coconut Shy‘ in English. Live and learn!
Duduche’s utter inability to keep a poker face can be a bit of a liability. I love the well-observed detail of the study monitor keeping his feet warm with a hot water bottle. In French, the lovely, evocative term for that item is ‘bouillote‘.
Here’s one from Pilote no. 590 (Feb. 1971, Dargaud). Though Cabu could be much, much acerbic than his American colleague, he and Jules Feiffer had a lot in common. “What’s on tonight at the film society?” “It’s a flick with, ah, what’s his name again… ?” “It’s on the tip of my tongue, his name…” “… I’ve got his name on the tip of my stump, your weirdo… isn’t it Fred Astaire?“

Coming back around to what makes this a ‘significant day’… Eight years ago to the day, Cabu was among those viciously murdered during the terrorist assault on the Charlie Hebdo offices. Honestly, I can’t bear to talk about it, but it’s crucial that this horrible event not be forgotten, and not merely because one of my artistic heroes was slaughtered that day.

« When she visits the gravesite of her late husband in Châlons-en-Champagne, Véronique Cabut-Brachet can witness just how much the French have not forgotten him: locals and fans come regularly to reflect (“It’s Cabu’s grave that people are looking for, and some people come just for it: nearly one a day, yes!” and for the past five years, according to the caretaker of the Cimetière de l’Ouest, interviewed by France Bleu). The artist’s gravestone is copiously covered in flowers but, especially, pencils in jars, a touching homage and the most beautiful of symbols. » [ source ]

Cabu’s headstone in Châlons-en-Champagne. Photo © Radio France – Sophie Constanzer.

-RG