Kids interview Chaval
by Charactorium · Chaval (1914 — 1968) · Visual Arts · Culture · 5 min read
Two 12-year-old students visit the studio of an old cartoonist, with pens and ink bottles everywhere on the drawing board. A gentle-eyed man welcomes them with a smile. It's Chaval, and he agrees to answer all their questions.
—Is it true that Chaval isn't your real name? What was your name?
You guessed right, my child. My real name is Yvan Le Louarn, and I was born in Bordeaux, a big city in the southwest, near the ocean. When I started signing my drawings, I found my name a bit long, a bit complicated. So I chose 'Chaval'. It was the name of a small family hamlet, a place we all knew. You see, a hamlet is just a little countryside spot with a name. I liked that word: short, sonorous, easy to remember. A cartoonist must sign quickly and clearly, like his line.
A cartoonist must sign quickly and clearly, like his line.
—Which newspapers did you draw for? Were they famous?
Oh yes, they were fine newspapers! I drew for Paris Match, for Le Figaro, and even for an English magazine called Punch. Imagine: every week, thousands of people opened their magazine and came across one of my drawings. In my day, we called that press cartoons — a funny drawing published in a newspaper to make people laugh or think. And I wasn't alone! There was Bosc, Sempé, Mose. We were a whole gang of cartoonist friends. People said it was the golden age of cartoons. We laughed, we looked for the good idea, and we filled the pages.
—What was a workday like for you?
In the morning, my child, I sat at my drawing board, that large slanted support where you put the paper. And there, I looked for the idea. The hardest part, you know, isn't drawing: it's finding the punchline, the little phrase that makes you laugh at the end. In the afternoon, I took my pen and my India ink, that very black ink, and I traced my clean lines. I filled certain areas all in black — we call that a 'fill', a surface of a single color, without shading. Then I sent my drawings to the editorial offices, the offices where the newspaper is prepared.
The hardest part isn't drawing: it's finding the punchline.
—And in the evening, what did you do? Were you all alone?
No, my child, in the evening I met up with my friends. The world of cartoonists and journalists gathered in the cafés and brasseries of Paris. Imagine a room full of soft smoke, wooden tables, and people laughing loudly as they shared ideas for drawings. We cracked jokes, we gently made fun of the world. That was my life: drawing by day, exchanging by night. And sometimes, returning to my studio, where drawings and materials piled up, I thought back to my films. Because yes, I wanted to make my drawings move, to bring them to life on screen.
—I've been told your drawings were sad. Is that true? Why?
Sad? Let's say... a bit serious beneath the laughter. In my drawings, I often put little gray men, resigned, crushed by enormous stupid machines or by people's stupidity. It made people laugh, but it also made them think. We call that black humor: laughing at sad things, at misfortune, to better bear them. It became my trademark. People even said 'Chaval-style humor'! You see, my child, the world is sometimes harsh and absurd — that is, without logic. So we might as well laugh a little. Laughter helps you stand tall.
The world is sometimes absurd. So we might as well laugh a little.
—Wasn't it hard to make people laugh while thinking about sad things?
Good question, my child. You know, making people laugh isn't lying. One of my albums was called Les gros chiens: big calm animals, and completely overwhelmed humans next to them. People laughed at recognizing themselves a bit in it! I looked at the world as it is, with its useless machines and tired people. And instead of crying, I drew. A good humorous drawing is like a little mirror: you see yourself, you laugh, and you understand something. The line looked simple, almost clumsy. But behind it was my whole outlook on life.
A good drawing is a mirror: you see yourself, you laugh, and you understand.
—There's a film about birds — did you make it?
Yes, that's me! In 1965, I made a little film called Les oiseaux sont des cons. It was a short film — a very short movie, you see. I made it from my drawings, in black and white. And I had a funny idea: to make it look like a real scientific documentary! You know, those serious films with a deep voice explaining nature. Except I talked nonsense about birds, very seriously, to mock human stupidity a bit. People loved that deadpan tone. It's one of my works I'm most proud of.
—How do you make a film with just drawings? What camera did you use?
Ah, that takes patience, my child! I used a 16 mm camera, a device that filmed on a reel, a long strip where images are recorded. To animate my drawings — that is, make them move — you have to draw many, slightly different each time, then film them one after another. When it plays quickly, you get the impression it's alive! On top, I added a voice that commented on everything in a very learned tone. Imagine: drawn birds, explained like a very serious lesson, but which makes you laugh. That was my absurdity, even in cinema.
—What was it like being a cartoonist in France back then?
It was a great time for us, my child. The war had been over since 1945, and illustrated newspapers — those with lots of pictures — were springing up everywhere. People wanted to laugh again. We called those years the Trente Glorieuses, thirty years when France was rebuilding and getting better. Imagine streets coming back to life, kiosks full of brand-new magazines. We cartoonists were the entertainers of that world. Every week, we delivered our boards, those sheets of drawings, to the editorial offices. And the next day, the whole country could laugh at one of our little sketches.
—What did you eat and how did you dress in your everyday life?
Like everyone in my time, my child, nothing extraordinary! I ate the ordinary meals of post-war Parisians, often in the cafés and brasseries where press people gathered. We'd have a dish, a coffee, and above all we'd talk for hours. As for clothes, I wore the usual attire of artists and journalists back then: a sober suit, a shirt, a tie. Nothing fancy! Funny, isn't it: a simply dressed man, serious in appearance, but who spent his days inventing absurd worlds on paper. The real show was in my drawings, not in my clothes.
The real show was in my drawings, not in my clothes.
—Do people still remember you today?
You touch me deeply by asking that, my child. You know, we collected my best drawings in albums, books you could find in bookstores. Thanks to them, my humor traveled far beyond the newspapers, from house to house. And that little expression, 'Chaval-style humor,' people still say it sometimes. It means that my outlook, a bit sad and a bit funny, left a trace. A cartoonist doesn't build castles. He just leaves lines on paper. But if, years later, two children like you come to ask me questions... then I've succeeded.
A cartoonist just leaves lines on paper — and sometimes, that's enough.
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This imaginary interview was generated by artificial intelligence from sources documented in Chaval'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.