Kids interview Jean Effel
by Charactorium · Jean Effel (1908 — 1982) · Visual Arts · Society · 5 min read
Two sixth-graders, on a school trip, push open the door of a workshop full of ink and paper. A smiling old gentleman, pen in hand, invites them to sit near his drawing board. 'Come closer, my little ones,' he says, chuckling softly.
—Why are you called Jean Effel? That's a funny name!
You're right, my child, it's a bit of a prankster name! Actually, my real name is François Lejeune. Look at my two initials: F and L. When you say them out loud, it sounds like 'eff… el.' So I had a very simple idea: I Gallicized that little sound, and put 'Jean' in front. And voilà, it became Jean Effel! Short, easy to remember, perfect for signing a drawing in the corner of a newspaper. You see, a cartoonist needs a name that people recognize right away, like a little label. Mine, I made it with two letters, like making a toy out of three sticks.
My name, I made it with two letters, like a toy.
—What was your day like when you were drawing?
In the morning, I always started by reading the newspapers. All the news, the foolishness of the powerful, world events: it filled my head with ideas. Then I would sit at my drawing board, a large slanted surface, and sketch my first ideas. In the afternoon came the real work: I would trace my lines with pen and India ink, that thick black ink that makes clean contours. Then I added color with watercolor, very soft. But I had to be quick! The newspapers were waiting. Imagine being told: 'Your drawing must be finished tonight, or the paper goes out without it.' That gives you wings, believe me.
In the morning I read the world, in the afternoon I drew it.
—Is it true you drew God creating the world?
Yes, my child, and it's my most famous work! I called it La Création du monde, in 1951. But my God isn't stern at all. Picture a smiling old bearded man, leaning over his workbench like a craftsman in his workshop. He makes the world with his hands, calmly, the way you would make a nice model. Around him, little mischievous angels watch and give their opinion, and a little devil plays tricks in a corner. I wanted to show that making the world could be a joyful adventure, full of tenderness. Not something scary.
My good God makes the world like a craftsman in his workshop.
—And after the world, you drew how people are made?
Exactly! In 1955, I made La Création de l'homme. There, my good God shapes Adam, then Eve, with lots of mischief and tenderness. It's as if he's molding little dough figures, thinking about every detail. What touched me a lot is that my drawings were even turned into a film. Artists made real little puppets to bring my characters to life on screen. Can you imagine? My gardener God and my mischievous angels moving for real! A cartoonist always dreams of his creatures coming to life. I had that luck.
A cartoonist always dreams of his little creatures coming to life.
—I heard you hid a flower in your drawings. Is that a secret?
Ah, you have a sharp eye! Yes, it's my little secret. In almost every drawing, I discreetly slipped in a daisy, a simple little flower, hidden somewhere in the scenery. Nobody had to see it. But I knew it was there. It was like a second signature, more discreet than my name. You see, a painter signs his painting in the corner; I had two ways of signing: my name Jean Effel, and my hidden flower. It's a game, really. Next time you look at one of my drawings, look closely: you might find my little daisy peeking out.
My hidden daisy was my secret signature in the scenery.
—Your drawings are very gentle, but they say they were mean to the powerful. How so?
Good question, my child! Look at my line: it's round, smiling, almost childlike. They look like funny drawings, all nice. But underneath, I said very serious things. I worked for newspapers like Le Canard enchaîné, a satirical newspaper — meaning a newspaper that makes fun of the powerful to criticize them. With my gentle pencil, I defended peace among peoples and pricked those who abused their power. And you know what? A very gentle line that speaks a stinging truth is even more effective! People smile first, then they think. That was my secret weapon.
A gentle line that speaks a stinging truth is formidable.
—You won a prize, right? For what?
Yes! In 1968, I received the Lenin Peace Prize. It was a great award, given over there, in the East, in the Soviet Union. I got it because all my life I was a pacifist — meaning someone who refuses war and defends peace. I lived through two terrible wars, my child. As a child, I experienced the first; as an adult, the second. So my drawings cried out, in their gentle way: 'Stop fighting!' Receiving this prize showed me that my little paper characters had traveled far, even to countries I didn't know. A drawing crosses borders without a passport.
A drawing crosses borders without a passport.
—You said your drawings went to Prague. Wasn't that far?
Oh yes, very far from my native Paris! Prague is the capital of Czechoslovakia, over in Eastern Europe. That's where, in 1958, artists made the animated film of La Création de l'homme. The director was Eduard Hofman. Imagine: my characters, my gardener God, my prankster angels, all those little beings born on my Parisian drawing board, and now they came to life in a distant city I only saw in dreams! It proved that my universe appealed to people in the East. That's what's beautiful about drawing: you do it in your studio, all alone, and it goes around the world without you.
I draw all alone in my studio, and my drawings go around the world.
—In the evening, after work, what did you do?
In the evening, I didn't stay alone! I loved meeting up with the artistic circles of Paris. I went to the city's cafés and brasseries, those grand places where you eat and talk for hours. There, I would meet writers, journalists, friends who, like me, dreamed of peace. We would remake the world in conversation, a bit like my good God remade it in my drawings! You see, in my time, a café was much more than a place to drink: it was the salon of ideas, the workshop of conversations. You'd leave with your head full of projects. And the next day, hop, it all ended up at the tip of my pen.
In my time, a café was the salon of ideas.
—If children like us look at your drawings today, what would you like them to feel?
Ah, my child, what a lovely question to end with. First, I would like you to smile, simply. My good-natured God, my mischievous angels, my little devil: they're there for that, for tenderness and laughter. But I would also like you to understand something. You can say serious things — peace, justice, respect for others — with gentleness and humor. You don't need to shout to be heard. A smile opens hearts better than a clenched fist. So if you look for my little daisy and find it, tell yourselves that I'm winking at you, across time. That's my finest gift.
A smile opens hearts better than a clenched fist.
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This imaginary interview was generated by artificial intelligence from sources documented in Jean Effel'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.