Kids interview Copi
by Charactorium · Copi (1939 — 1987) · Literature · Visual Arts · Performing Arts · 6 min read
Two 12-year-old students, on a discovery trip to Paris, push open the door of a small Left Bank theater. Sitting among the empty seats, a man with a mischievous smile awaits them, a sketchbook on his lap. It's Copi, and he really wants to talk to them.
—That's a weird name, Copi. Is it your real first name?
Ah, you're sharp! No, my real name is Raúl Damonte Botana. “Copi” is what my grandmother called me when I was tiny, in Argentina. It was a tender word, a cuddly nickname, you see? Imagine a grandmother who takes you in her arms and invents a name just for you. Well, I kept that little word of love all my life. I even put it at the bottom of my drawings, like a signature. Lots of people didn't know I had another name. For them, I was just Copi. And deep down, it remained the name that suited me best.
I kept a little word of love as my signature all my life.
—Where were you born? And why did you come to live in Paris?
I was born in Buenos Aires, Argentina, in 1939. My family was famous there: my grandfather Natalio Botana had founded a major newspaper called Crítica. But you know, when you run a newspaper, you sometimes fall out with those in power. Because of politics, my family had to leave, come back, leave again. I grew up between two shores, between two languages, Spanish and French. And one day, around 1962, I settled in Paris for good. It was my adopted city. I did everything there: drawing, writing, performing. Imagine a bird that has traveled a lot and finally chooses its tree.
I grew up between two shores and two languages.
—What's that little lady sitting on a chair that you used to draw?
Ah, my Femme assise! She was my favorite little character. Every week, in a Parisian newspaper, I drew a tiny lady perched on her chair. She never moved from there, you understand? The chair was her whole world. And next to her, there was a duck. They would chat about life, death, boredom, saying completely wacky things. Imagine two neighbors chatting on a bench, except nothing they say makes sense. People loved it. They laughed without quite knowing why. Me, with a few strokes of my pen, I made laughter out of almost nothing.
With a few strokes of my pen, I made laughter out of almost nothing.
—Did it take you a lot of time to draw that every week?
You know, I was a bit of a night owl, a late sleeper. In the morning, I would sit at my drawing board, with my pen. I had to find the idea for the week, the one that would make readers smile. My line was simple, nervous, quick — no big complicated backgrounds. Just the little lady, her chair, the duck, and an absurd phrase. It was like telling a tiny funny story in three seconds. Sometimes the idea came right away, sometimes I sat staring at the blank page. But I loved that appointment. Imagine that every week, thousands of people wait for your little doodle to have a laugh. That's a nice responsibility, isn't it?
Telling a tiny funny story in three seconds.
—You wrote your plays in French even though it wasn't your language?
Yes, and that's the funny part! French wasn't my birth language, but I chose it to write. I typed my plays directly on my typewriter, in French. Since I came from elsewhere, I played with words in a funny way, a bit off-kilter, and it gave me a humor all my own. Imagine you invent jokes in a language you're still learning: sometimes you come up with things a native would never have dared. In 1971, I wrote a play with a provocative title, L'Homosexuel ou la difficulté de s'exprimer. Just the title made people jump. And me, it made me laugh.
Writing in a learned language means daring words nobody else would dare.
—Why did you want to shock people so much?
Shock, yes, but gently, to wake them up! You know, in my time, there were many things we weren't allowed to talk about. So I charged at them with laughter. In my plays, I would disguise myself, put on dresses, wigs, makeup — that's what we call cross-dressing, dressing up as someone of another gender. It surprised the audience, shook them up a bit. But I didn't want to be mean. I wanted the spectators to leave laughing and thinking, “Hey, so we can talk about it after all?” Imagine a slightly crazy party where suddenly you dare to say everything. My shows were that: joyful scandals.
I made joyful scandals so that people would finally dare to talk about it.
—Is it true that you performed alone on stage, like in Loretta Strong?
All alone, yes! Loretta Strong was a monologue — that means a single character speaks on stage for the whole play. And that character was me! A crazy science-fiction story, completely delirious, where I talked, I shouted, I flailed around in the small theaters of the Left Bank, around the Latin Quarter. Imagine a single person who has to hold the entire audience's attention, without a partner to feed them lines. It's dizzying! You need stamina, courage, a bit of madness. People came out shaken, and that performance became cult. It was exhausting, but what a joy to feel all those eyes fixed on me.
Holding an entire audience spellbound, alone, with no one to feed you your lines.
—What was it like to be on stage at night, in those small theaters?
Ah, the evening was my favorite time! In the morning I drew, in the afternoon I wrote, but at night I would run to the small theaters of the Left Bank to rehearse or perform. Those are the neighborhoods of Paris, south of the Seine, filled with artists and tiny venues. I would put on my stage costume — dress, wig, makeup — and I would become someone else. Imagine the smell of dust and greasepaint, the warm light on your face, the silence just before you speak. My heart beat fast. The stage was where I was freest, most alive. I could be funny, monstrous, tender, all at once.
The stage was where I was most alive.
—Did you fight for something important in your life?
Yes, my child. In the early 1970s, in Paris, I joined a movement called the FHAR, the Homosexual Front for Revolutionary Action. It was a group of people demanding the right to live and love freely, without hiding. In my time, you know, it was very brave to say it out loud. We had just come out of May '68, that great moment when French youth had shouted that they wanted to change things. As for me, my weapon wasn't my fists: it was derision, the art of making fun of everything with a smile. Laughing together is already a way of saying: we exist, and we are not ashamed.
Laughing together is already a way of saying: we exist.
—What is derision, and why was it so important to you?
Derision is making fun of everything, even serious things, with humor and lightness. For me, it wasn't mean-spirited, it was a strength. You see, when you laugh at something scary, it immediately becomes a little less scary. I belonged to what was called counter-culture: all those artists who challenged the tidy society of grown-ups. Imagine a class where everyone has to be serious, and suddenly a student makes a spot-on, brilliant joke: all at once, everyone breathes. That's what I aimed to do. Disarm fear and stupidity with a burst of laughter.
When you laugh at something scary, it already becomes less scary.
—Did you write until the end of your life?
Until the very end, yes. My last play is called Une visite inopportune, in 1987. It tells the story of an actor who is going to die in the hospital. And you know what? I was very ill myself when I wrote it. So I talked about my own end, but in my own way: with tenderness and a final smile, without whining. Imagine someone who, even at the most difficult moment, still chooses to make those they love laugh. That was my way of saying goodbye. I think you can look sad things straight in the face, and still put light into them. Maybe that's the greatest courage.
You can look sad things in the face and still put light into them.
This imaginary interview was generated by artificial intelligence from sources documented in Copi'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.