Imaginary dialogue between François Cavanna and Cabu
by Charactorium · Cabu (1938 — 2015) · Visual Arts · Society · 5 min read
It is in the cluttered offices of the editorial staff, on Rue Nicolas-Appert, one afternoon at deadline that François Cavanna rests his elbows on Cabu's drawing table. The walls smell of India ink and cold coffee, and a radio crackles an old jazz record that Cabu put on himself. They have known each other since Hara-Kiri, since that stupid and nasty newspaper they created together in the early sixties. Cavanna comes without a notebook or recorder, just with the desire to make the man behind the line he has seen taking shape before his eyes speak.
—Before Hara-Kiri, before us, there was a kid from Châlons who secretly drew his teachers. Tell me about that kid, Cabu.
That kid was me, and I haven't changed much, you know that. I drew everywhere, on my notebooks, during class, I sketched the teachers, friends, everything that moved. As early as 1954, at sixteen, L'Union in Reims was already publishing my drawings — imagine the pride of a high school student! Le Grand Duduche was born from that, a dreamy and pacifist high school student, a bit clueless, who hangs out at the back of the class. He's the most tender of my characters because he's the closest to me. You who knew my beginnings, you know I never left the schoolyard. The pencil, at that age, wasn't yet a weapon; it was a way to survive boredom.
Le Grand Duduche is the most tender of my characters because he's the closest to me.
—You were sent to Algeria from 1958 to 1960. You came back a changed man. What did the uniform do to you?
It made me hate the uniform, that's what it did. I was a little guy who drew; they stuck a gun in my hand and sent me there, in the middle of war. I won't tell you the details; you can guess them. But I came back an anti-militarist to the marrow, and I've stayed that way. All my satire against the army, against the brass, against the barracks mentality, comes from those two years. The army thinks it makes men; it mainly makes obedient fools. Later, when I drew the sergeant, the grunt, the warmonger, I was settling an old score. You see, you don't become a satirist from books. You become one by seeing organized stupidity up close.
The army thinks it makes men; it mainly makes obedient fools.
—You brought that anti-militarist rage to us at Hara-Kiri. It fit the stupid and nasty we were going for. Did you feel at home right away?
At home? I was like a fish in water, and you're well placed to know, since you and Professor Choron ran the show. Hara-Kiri was the only place where you could say anything, draw anything, without an editor whining. Stupid and nasty wasn't stupidity; it was total freedom, a way to refuse hypocritical politeness. I came with my hatred of barracks and the self-righteous, and you let me hit. We were banned, we were reborn under other names, we started again. That's where my line became a weapon for good. Without that band of joyful anarchists, I might have stayed a nice cartoonist for Pilote.
—In 1978, you created the Beauf. A word from brother-in-law, and suddenly everyone is using it. How did that guy come to you?
The Beauf was all around me; you just had to listen at the bar. The average Frenchman, self-satisfied, racist without even knowing it, reactionary out of comfort, giving his opinion on everything between two pastis. I called him Beauf because he's the brother-in-law you endure at family meals, the one who holds forth. The opposite of culture, the opposite of generosity, the opposite of tolerance — that's what he is. What amuses me is that the word entered the dictionary: I gave the French language an insult! But careful, the Beauf isn't just someone else; there's a bit of Beauf in each of us, and that's what stings.
There's a bit of Beauf in each of us, and that's what stings.
—Some people criticize you for looking down on the common people with this Beauf. You who love dances and bistros so much, what do you say to them?
I tell them they haven't understood anything. The Beauf isn't the poor person, the worker; it's the narrow-minded spirit, and the narrow-minded spirit has no social class — there are plenty among the rich, the powerful. I love the people, I love musette dances, jazz clubs, simple folks who laugh. What I hate is self-importance, vulgarity of the soul, not of manners. The Beauf is the one who looks down on the other, the foreigner, the different. By caricaturing him, I'm not spitting on the guy at the counter; I'm holding up a mirror to those who think they're tolerant. You who come from the same streets as me, you know I don't deny where I come from.
—Meanwhile, you were on TV, on Récré A2, drawing in front of kids. The satirist from Hara-Kiri with children — did that double life amuse you?
It delighted me! From 1978 to 1988, every week I drew live in front of the kids, on my slate, and the drawing appeared before their eyes, like a magic trick. I sketched Le Dodu, I sketched the hosts, all freehand, without a net. For a cartoonist, there's no better exercise: you don't have the right to an eraser; you have to find the right line on the first try. And children are the most honest audience in the world: if it's bad, they get bored and it shows immediately. There's no contradiction: in the morning I could draw a fierce Beauf, in the afternoon a funny duck for the little ones. It's the same pencil, the same joy of making a face appear.
Children are the most honest audience in the world.
—You keep saying that drawing is a weapon, that you fight with pencils and not flowers. You who hate war so much, doesn't that word "weapon" bother you?
Not at all, because it's the only weapon that kills no one. You don't fight with flowers, you fight with pencils — my pencil only spills ink. It's a weapon of peace, if you will, but a weapon nonetheless, because it aims true and hurts the powerful, the bigots, the tyrants. A good drawing says in one image what ten editorials fail to say. Laughter disarms fear; it undresses the important. I who came back from Algeria hating real guns, I chose this one. And I'd rather hurt an ego a thousand times than a body. That's my whole fight, and it fits in a pencil case.
It's the only weapon that kills no one: my pencil only spills ink.
—In 2006, your front page of Muhammad in tears, "It's hard to be loved by jerks," sparked a storm. Did you expect that uproar, old friend?
Honestly, no. I was drawing a poor prophet crying, overwhelmed by the fanatics who claim him — it was a defense of tolerance, not an insult! The drawing says exactly what it shows: it's hard to be loved by jerks. And then they drag us to court for blasphemy, like in the Middle Ages. But we held firm, and in 2007 the courts acquitted us in the name of freedom of expression. For me, it's simple: in this country, we have the right to laugh at all religions, all powers, otherwise it's no longer a republic. Blasphemy is not a crime; it's a right. The day we can no longer draw a god, we will no longer be able to draw anyone.
Blasphemy is not a crime; it's a right.
—After so many years of shared struggle, from stupid and nasty to the trials, what still keeps you at the drawing table every morning?
Current events, quite simply. I get up early, I read all the newspapers, I look for the stupidity of the day, the one that deserves a drawing. And there's always one! As long as there are powerful people who take themselves seriously, fanatics who want to silence us, Beaufs who spit on those weaker than themselves, I'll have work. What keeps me going is anger, but a joyful anger, never sad. And then there's you, the gang, the editorial team, the arguments at deadline, the pleasure of making friends laugh before the readers. You and I started this as insolent kids and we never grew up. The day I put down the pencil, it will be because they silenced me — and I won't let them.
What keeps me going is anger, but a joyful anger, never sad.
This imaginary interview was generated by artificial intelligence from sources documented in Cabu'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.