Kids interview Alphonse Allais
by Charactorium · Alphonse Allais (1854 — 1905) · Literature · 5 min read
Two 12-year-old students visit an exhibition on Montmartre artists. In front of an all-black painting, they meet a joker in a top hat: Alphonse Allais. He agrees to answer all their questions.
—Where were you born, and what did your parents do for a living?
I was born in Honfleur, a small port in Normandy, in 1854. You see, my father was a pharmacist. Imagine a shop smelling of dried herbs and alcohol, with jars everywhere. I was supposed to take over! They even sent me to study pharmacy in Paris. But grinding powders in a mortar all my life didn't appeal to me. I preferred writing funny stories. So, slowly, I dropped the remedies for the pen and inkwell. My parents weren't thrilled, you can imagine.
Grinding powders all my life didn't appeal to me.
—Did pharmacy ever help you as a writer?
Oh yes, more than you think! A pharmacist likes to mix, experiment, invent strange things. I kept that taste all my life. Instead of mixing syrups, I mixed words and wacky ideas. Imagine a scientist who, instead of making potions, makes serious jokes. That was me! I even imagined crazy inventions, just for fun. My father's mortar taught me one thing: when you crush two ingredients together, you sometimes get a surprise. It's the same with words.
Instead of mixing syrups, I mixed words.
—What were your evenings like at the Chat Noir cabaret?
Ah, the Chat Noir! It was a cabaret in Montmartre, on the hill of Paris. Imagine a smoky room full of poets and singers, laughing until dawn. I was a night owl, getting up late and joining my friends in the evening. We called ourselves the 'fumistes' — artists who love to mock and mystify people for fun. I even became editor-in-chief of the newspaper Le Chat Noir. We invented jokes, puns, canulars, that is, elaborate pranks to gently deceive.
We were fumistes: laughing and mystifying, that was our job.
—What did you eat in the evening, and what did you drink there?
You're curious, I like that! In the evening, we didn't always eat very well, you know. Bohemian life is joyful but not rich. We often dined at the local brasserie when we had a few coins. And we drank a lot in the cafés. In my day, the fashionable drink was called absinthe, a green drink nicknamed 'the green fairy'. Imagine a glass where you drip water over sugar. All the artists drank it. Too much, probably. But the atmosphere was wonderful.
Bohemian life is joyful but rarely a full plate.
—Is it true you exhibited an all-black painting? Why?
Absolutely! In 1883, I hung a rectangle of entirely black paper in an exhibition. And I titled it seriously, with a long caption, like a real painting. Then I made one all white, one all red. You'll laugh: in my day, no one had ever painted a canvas in a single color! People didn't know whether to laugh or get angry. Later, I gathered these images in my Album primo-avrilesque. It was a joke, a parody of painting. But years after me, real painters did the same… without laughing, for them.
I painted the void for laughs, before they did it seriously.
—Did people understand it was a joke, or did they make fun of you?
Good question, my child! Some laughed heartily, others thought I was crazy. The secret was the caption. A black rectangle is nothing. But if I write a funny and complicated title underneath, then your imagination starts working! I exhibited at the Salons des Arts incohérents, where deliberately absurd works were shown. Imagine a gallery where everything is meant to surprise and make you smile. I wanted people to wonder: 'But what is art, really?' Without ever giving a lesson. Just by tickling your mind.
A black rectangle is nothing; it's the caption that makes you dream.
—I heard you wrote music with no notes. Is that possible?
It's quite true, and I'm proud of it! In 1897, I composed a Marche funèbre pour les obsèques d'un grand homme sourd. A funeral march is the sad music played at funerals. Except mine… contained no notes! Just empty measures, silence from start to finish. Imagine a perfectly blank page of music. When asked why, I replied that 'les grandes douleurs sont muettes' — great sorrows are mute. In other words: when you're in great pain, you say nothing. So my music fell silent too. It was a prank, but with a little truth inside.
Great sorrows are mute: my music fell silent too.
—How did it feel to invent things that nobody understood?
You know, it amused me enormously! I liked being the first to do a brilliant silly thing. A score with no notes, a painting with no drawing… people shrugged. But I smiled to myself. Imagine inventing a game so new that no one knows the rules yet. It's a bit lonely, but exhilarating. I wasn't seeking fame, only the pleasure of surprising. Many of my ideas seemed foolish in my time. And yet, they foreshadowed things others would do long after my death, in 1905.
I liked being the first to do a brilliant silly thing.
—What's your favorite pun? Can you tell us one?
With great pleasure! I loved a game called the holorime. It's two sentences that sound exactly the same but are spelled differently. Listen to this one: 'Par les bois du djinn, où s'entasse de l'effroi, / Parle et bois du gin, ou cent tasses de lait froid.' Say them aloud: they sound the same! But one speaks of forest and fear, the other of drink and milk. Funny, right? I liked twisting language like twisting wire. It was my little magic trick.
A holorime: twin sentences to the ear, strangers to the eye.
—Why did you call a book 'Two and Two Make Five'? That's wrong!
Ah, you're sharp! Of course two and two make four, everyone knows that. Precisely: I called my collection of tales Deux et deux font cinq to make you jump. I loved absurd logic, that is, reasoning very seriously about false things. Imagine a professor who demonstrates, with a grave face, that the sky is green. It makes you laugh, but also think. I wrote aphorisms, short, striking sentences, often paradoxical. Paradox is when an idea seems false yet contains a grain of truth. That was my whole kitchen!
Reasoning very seriously about false things: what a delight!
—If someone met you on the street in your time, what would they notice first?
You'd probably see me in the evening, because I slept during the day! A gentleman in a dark suit, stiff-collared shirt, a fine top hat on my head. Maybe a wide, soft tie called a lavallière, fashionable among artists. Imagine a street in Montmartre with no engine noise: just horse hooves on cobblestones and gas lamps. You'd see me walking to a cabaret, a notebook in my pocket to jot down ideas. And if you said hello, I'd probably answer with a joke. I couldn't help it.
I slept during the day; it was at night that I truly lived.
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This imaginary interview was generated by artificial intelligence from sources documented in Alphonse Allais'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.