Kids interview Albert Dubout
by Charactorium · Albert Dubout (1905 — 1976) · Visual Arts · Performing Arts · 5 min read
Two young visitors, aged 12, push open the door of an old studio bathed in Mediterranean light. Paper cats lie everywhere, and an old gentleman with a mischievous smile welcomes them, pen in hand. Albert Dubout sets down his drawing and leans toward them to answer their questions.
—What was your day like when you were drawing all those crowds?
Ah, you know, my child, my afternoons were long and quiet. I would sit down with my pen and my India ink, that very dense black ink, and trace silhouettes one by one. Imagine a beach filled with hundreds of tiny little figures, each with its own funny gesture. One runs, another falls, a third steals a hat! I invented a little story for each of them. You almost needed a magnifying glass to discover them all. It was patient work, like filling a huge anthill. Evening often came before my crowd was finished.
In my crowd, every little figure had its own story.
—Didn't it tire your eyes, all those tiny details?
A little, yes! But it was my pleasure, you see. Each character was as big as a grain of rice, sometimes even smaller. I would lean my head close to the paper, the pen must not tremble. Imagine writing your name a hundred times on a postage stamp: that's what I did, but with people! A packed stadium, a bustling station. People laughed as they looked for hidden details. That's what made my style, that joyful swarming. I didn't want to draw a sad crowd. I wanted people to want to dive into it.
Each character was as big as a grain of rice.
—Why did you draw so many fat cats?
Because I loved them, quite simply! In the evening, when I finished my drawings by lamplight, my pet cats would roam around my table. They would watch me work with their big greedy eyes. So I drew them: big round tomcats, mischievous, always on the lookout for a fish. Imagine a cat so plump it spills over its cushion! People loved them so much that I put them on postcards. Even today, I'm told, these cats adorn calendars and posters. They became my own little trademark.
My cats watched me draw, so I drew them too.
—What was a postcard in your time?
Ah, good question! In my time, you would take a small illustrated card, write a message on the back, and send it by mail to your family. The humorous postcard was meant to make the recipient laugh. I would put my greedy cats and funny couples on them. Imagine a small image traveling from town to town, in the mailman's bag, making strangers smile. That's how my humor entered every home in France, even the humblest. A tiny drawing can make a very long journey.
A tiny drawing can make a very long journey.
—Where were you from? They say you loved the South very much.
I was born in Marseille, in 1905, a port city, noisy and full of sun. The Midi — that's the name we give to the South of France — never left me. I loved sketching Provençal markets, bullfights, those bullfights so popular in our region, and the beaches of the Mediterranean. Imagine the smell of fresh fish, the cries of vendors, the harsh light. All of that lived in my drawings. Later, I settled near Montpellier, in Languedoc, in my house-studio. The South was both my setting and my inspiration.
The sun of the Midi never left me; it lived in my drawings.
—Is it true that you drew movie posters?
Yes, and I'm proud of it! In 1940, I drew the poster for the film The Well-Digger's Daughter, by Marcel Pagnol. A poster is that big image stuck up in the street to announce a film. Pagnol told stories of Provence, my people of the South, so we were made for each other. I drew his characters in my comical style, a bit exaggerated, with the Provençal sun in it. Imagine walking down the street and an image makes you laugh even before seeing the film! I also illustrated his books. Our two worlds were like brothers.
Pagnol told stories of Provence, I drew it: we were made for each other.
—Who are the little husband and the giant wife people talk about?
Ha! Those are my two prankster characters. I had invented a scrawny little husband, very shy, crushed by an enormous, bossy wife. Imagine a man as tall as a matchstick next to a lady as wide as a wardrobe! She gives orders, he obeys, and that generated endless gags. I published them in humorous newspapers, those magazines that have funny drawings. People waited to see the poor little husband's latest blunder. That couple made entire generations laugh. The opposite of two things is often where laughter is born.
The opposite of two things is often where laughter is born.
—Why did you always want to make people laugh?
Because I lived through very hard times, my child. I experienced two wars, the Depression, fear. When I went up to Paris in the 1920s to publish my drawings, I could see that life wasn't easy for everyone. So I chose laughter. A press drawing is a funny image in a newspaper, and for a few seconds, it makes you forget your worries. My couples, my cats, my crowds: all to bring a smile. Imagine a remedy that costs nothing and is shared. Making people laugh was my way of helping them.
Making people laugh was my remedy that cost nothing.
—Did you draw Don Quixote? Was it hard to imagine him?
Not hard, no, rather a delight! In 1938, I illustrated Don Quixote, that old Spanish story of a slightly mad knight who mistakes windmills for giants. To illustrate means to make the drawings that accompany a book. I gave the knight and his squire Sancho an air both comical and touching. I surrounded them with my crowds and animals, as always. Imagine every page turned into a little spectacle teeming with life! It was one of my great achievements. I loved it when my comedic line met a beautiful old story.
Each page became a little spectacle teeming with life.
—Did you prefer drawing for books or for the street?
Both, honestly! The illustrated book is patient work: I adorned each page with abundant drawings, as for Don Quixote or Pagnol's tales. The poster, on the other hand, must quickly catch the eye of a passerby. Imagine: on one hand a long quiet journey through pages, on the other a flash in the street. I enjoyed going from one to the other, with the same pen and the same humor. What mattered to me was that the drawing told something. Whether small on a stamp or large on a wall, a drawing must always have a story to tell.
Small or large, a drawing must always have a story to tell.
—And today, can we still see your drawings somewhere?
Yes, and it touches me that you ask! Near Palavas-les-Flots, that little seaside resort in Languedoc, a museum bearing my name was set up. And guess where? In a former lighthouse! I loved sketching its beaches and its little train. Imagine climbing a tower by the sea and finding my cats, my crowds, my prankster couples there. I died in 1976, near Montpellier, but my drawings, they still make visitors smile. That's the beautiful thing: a drawing can make people laugh long after its artist is gone.
A drawing can make people laugh long after its artist is gone.
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This imaginary interview was generated by artificial intelligence from sources documented in Albert Dubout's profile. It dramatises what the figure might have said based on what we know about them, but does not constitute attested historical testimony. For primary sources and factual documentation, refer to the full profile.