Yayo Makes Us Smile

Yayo, also known as Diego Herrera, is a Colombian-born cartoonist and humor illustrator, residing in Montreal. His work is published in magazines, newspapers, and children’s books in Canada and the U.S. This year marks the twentieth anniversary of “Le Monde de Yayo,” Yayo’s cartoon spot that appears on the last page of every issue of L’actualité. On this occasion, Yayo will be having a solo exhibition at the Maison de la culture Plateau Mont-Royal, in Montreal, from October 4 to November 2, 2008. Yayo’s latest book, Homoro Sapiens, will be launched during the vernissage, on October 9 at 5:00 p.m.

I met Yayo on a crisp September evening in his home, where every square inch of wall space is covered with artwork. We sat at the dining room table, with a pot of organic goji berry green tea steaming between us.

Talleen Hacikyan: What is a cartoon?

Yayo: An image that makes us laugh or smile and that is also beautiful. There are many kinds of cartoons but the ones I prefer are the ones that make you smile and that also have some kind of beauty and power of evocation. Those are the ones I like to do. The borders between cartooning, humor illustration, and fine art are becoming more fluid.

TH: When did you realize that you wanted to become a professional cartoonist?

Y: When I was 15 or 16, toward the end of high school, I wanted to do editorial cartoons for the newspapers in Bogota, and to be published.

TH: Why?

Y: It was a way to communicate, to exist in some way, to affirm myself in a pleasant way. When I finished studying commercial art and advertising I had the confidence that I’d be able to make my living by becoming a cartoonist or humor illustrator. It felt natural. I didn’t know how but I knew I’d find a way to accomplish that goal.

TH: As a young child what were your interests?

Y: I was very drawn to images, anything with funny lines, illustration, advertising. I also liked comics: Donald Duck, Mickey Mouse, cowboy comics. I was passionate about this and I liked to draw. I dreamed of having hundreds of comics to read. I only had a few because they were expensive. I had to rent them. In Bogota there weren’t libraries where you could borrow comics. There were stores where you had to pay to read comics. There was a wall with rows of clotheslines from which the comic magazines were hanging and there were long benches where kids were sitting and reading quietly, like in a church or synagogue. They also sold candy, gum and turrones. You could also exchange comics but you still had to pay a small fee. The owner had piles of comics, organized according to their condition. He or she always chose a slightly older one than the one you wanted to trade in, so after a few exchanges you ended up with a pretty ragged comic. They also had pinball machines so some of these places were considered rough and many parents didn’t like these establishments.

When I was eight years old I broke my ankle and we went to the hospital to get a cast. I was hoping I’d get to spend a night in the hospital and that my mother would buy me tons of comics, but as it turned out I was released the same day and on top of it all we had to take the bus home.

As a child, drawing was my other passion. I drew buses and planes. We didn’t have a TV until I was 13 so my father would take me to the airport to watch the planes from the observation deck outdoors. We’d look at the company names and try to guess where the planes were headed. I guess I spent most of my time dreaming and drawing. I didn’t take a plane until I was 21 and my father was 65 when he first flew! I still like to watch planes but too bad that these days if you watch planes for too long you become a security suspect.

TH: How did you train to become a cartoonist?

Y: From a very young age I was attracted to humorous illustrations and comics. That was a type of training. In high school I drew posters for the school. This was good practice. I went on to study commercial art at college, at night. During the day I went to university to study advertising and marketing. I thought that advertising was a good place to do creative and humoristic drawings. Then I went to university to study fine arts, where I did a semester. That summer I participated in a national editorial cartoon contest, which I won. Then I started working for a newspaper and a magazine. From then on I studied on my own. Cartooning is like writing; you can study techniques but for the content you have to practice yourself by studying models, by doing research.

TH: What kind of research did you do?

Y: At the end of that summer I saved enough money by working to take a trip around Latin America. I visited some of the great cartoonists that I admired. They weren’t necessarily editorial or political cartoonists so they opened my eyes to other types of cartoons.

TH: Who did you visit?

Y: I visited cartoonists mainly in Mexico and Argentina. It was a very important trip in terms of my art but also because I bought many books. It was also formative on a personal level. I went through most of South America, Mexico and visited New York. Everyday I feel that I am learning and studying. I am extremely allergic to the idea that we have nothing to learn. The more time passes, the greater my pleasure in learning and discovering on all levels, not just art.

TH: You have had a cartoon spot in L’actualité magazine for twenty years. What does this space mean to you?

Y: It is a space I appreciate very much because it is the only one for this kind of humor in a Canadian magazine with such a large distribution. In this space I can explore absurdity, and there is place for my imagination. I try to do something that respects the intelligence of the readers, by raising the bar a bit.

TH: Have you had any unusual reactions to your cartoons?

Y: More than unusual, some people absolutely want to get the message or understand the joke. The message is whatever the reader gets from the image. I don’t think that humor is only laughing. Humor is a way to perceive the world. Laughing is not the only way to experience humor; you can also smile, or have a sensation.

TH: How do people react when they first meet Yayo, the artist behind the cartoons?

Y: When I was in my twenties, when people first met me they’d say, “Oh, I thought you were older!” They thought I would be an old man doing editorial cartoons. I was flattered. Now days when people meet me they say, “Oh, I thought you were younger!” This also flatters me.

TH: You also write. How do you experience writing in comparison with cartooning?

Y: To draw a single drawing or an illustration is like writing a poem or a verse. When you write a children’s picture book or a comic, it’s another way to narrate. It’s like going on a long trip. I used to draw thoughts and feelings, now I’m also writing them. You have to use other tools to express feelings and thoughts in words. The sources of inspiration and the use of creativity remain the same. The more I write the more I respect writers’ work.

TH: How do you balance both creative activities?

Y: When I write, very often I draw. I like images so much that I have to draw. I write my first drafts by hand. I also draw between paragraphs. When I am writing I write images. There is no conflict.

TH: If you could do something else for a year besides drawing and writing what would you do?

Y: Be a nomad.

TH: You have a young son. How do you think he experiences the fact that his father is a well-known cartoonist and illustrator?

Y: I guess that for him it’s something natural. This is what he knows. A couple of times I went to his school to give a presentation of my work and then he realized that there is something a bit different between my profession and that of other parents. I feel he has some pride in what I do.

TH: What are your future projects?

Y: I’m going to do more cartoons, and children’s books, and comics. I’m going to express them in other mediums. I never want to retire. I’m happy to discover more and more interesting things in life and work. I’m not tired. I don’t detest my work. On the contrary I enjoy it more and more.

TH: Do you have anything else to add?

Y: You never asked me the definition of humor.

TH: What is the definition of humor?

Y: Humor is a mixture of many things and also for me it is a bit of a mystery, as many other things, such as death. Like life, humor is full of contradictions and paradoxes. It’s not a way to avoid reality. It’s a way to confront it.

Interview conducted on September 19, 2008 by Talleen Hacikyan

Illustrations by Yayo

L’actualité‘s slide show of Yayo’s work

Yayo’s exhibition
October 4 -- November 2, 2008
Vernissage: Thursday October 9, 5:00 p.m.

Maison de la culture du Plateau Mont-Royal
465 avenue du Mont-Royal Est
Montréal
[phone]
Metro Mont Royal (just across)

Blog Bandwagon

As I write these lines, the counter on this blog is gradually clicking its way to 1000. One thousand visitors since I embarked on this writing adventure in May 2008. Granted this number looks small when compared to the 6, 717, 659 views of Michael Jackson’s, You Rock My World. But to me 1000 is a big number and it rocks my world just fine!

I started this blog not out of a deep irrepressible desire to jump on the blog bandwagon. I did it because my friend told me to! Now there’s a classic excuse. It’s true, my dear friend Johanne, my supportive, encouraging amie, designer of my website, Johanne Weilbrenner, said, “You write, you have to have a blog.” Before I had time to contemplate this, she had already logged onto unblog.fr and I found myself deciding on a password. Sometimes its good to jump into things without thinking too much, even if it’s a bandwagon you’re hopping onto.

Another person who has been giving me orders in the writing department is my father. “Now it’s time, you have to write a novel,” he’ll say, several times a week. We could be talking on the phone and he’ll say, “O.K., now when you hang up, go and start your novel.” I want to be a good girl and listen to him, I really do, not just because he’s my father but because he’s a writer and his vote of confidence means a lot to me. Besides, it’s something I want to do. Perhaps writing a novel is another one of those things I have to throw myself into, without thinking too much.

When I started my blog, my dear friend Karin, my first roommate, with whom I go to funky literary evenings around town, emailed me: “How often do you plan to post your blogs? The danger is if it takes away time from ‘real’ writing.” Yes, there is a time factor involved here but I do my blog writing in the off hours, late at night. It is a relaxing pastime. Some people knit; I blog. I even do it on the sofa, where I would knit if I knitted. The truth is that the exercise of writing a new blog post every week keeps my writing brain in shape, lets me explore a new form of writing, and lets me combine text with image.

By far the biggest thrill for me has been the response from readers. Traditional publishing is so painstakingly slow. Case in point: last November I submitted work to a Canadian literary magazine and I’m still waiting for my response. I wrote to them in June to ask about the status of my submission. Lo and behold they answered! Apparently the volume of submissions is exceptionally high and their current response time is eight to twelve months! They also said I could withdraw my submission, that they would understand! Tell me, is it fair to forbid writers from making multiple simultaneous submissions?

With this blog I get instant feedback, either in the comments file, by email, or in person. It is so gratifying to know that people are reading and appreciating my words. For the first time I feel as if I am writing for an audience. What I am finding out is that each person will hang onto a different detail of my story. One writer told me that the “Nostalgic Grocery List,” conjured many buried memories of her childhood. With traditional publishing it can be years before you feel as if you have touched anyone, in any way. Because of this immediate response, writing for my blog feels very real and concrete; writing and submitting for traditional publication is like pitching a bottle out to sea and waiting for someone to find it. But I love the sea and anything to do with it, including throwing bottles into it.

Recently I have been getting comments from friends, suggesting that I write a blog on them. Francisco, long-time friend, second-hand book dealer, the king of book fairs, recently participated in the Grande Bibliothèque’s first outdoor bouquiniste event. When I visited him there, I told him, “You must take photos of your stand.” He said, “Yeah, and you can post them on your blog!” I didn’t have my camera on me, so I’ll get him next time. At my studio, during one of our lunches, where every artist grabs a spot around the kitchen table, when the subject of my blog came up, Manuel, forever full of inspiring ideas, said “Write about us!”

I’m going to take my friends up on their suggestion to write about them, just like I listened to Johanne. I’m starting a series of blogs on artists, writers, and people in related fields. There’s only so much I can write about my own exciting life. Log on next week for my exclusive interview with a world-famous artist. When I accomplish that mission, I’ll get to work on that novel. That’s a promise, Dad! Either that or I’ll take up knitting.

Talleen Hacikyan

Thanks to all my readers et merci à mes lecteurs francophones!

Illustrations by Talleen Hacikyan

Nostalgic Shopping List

I’ve been thinking about food advertising mascots, the ones I associate with my childhood.

Whenever I peel a sticker off of a Chiquita banana, I remember the TV commercial that aired in the sixties, you know the one: the banana peel curls down, section by section, revealing a girl who wiggles her hips and sings, « I’m Chiquita Banana and I’m here to say… » Forty years later and she’s still here doing the salsa in my head.

When I think of the Chicken of the Sea mermaid, I remember my bedroom where I’d watch the commercial in between segments of The Secret Storm, my mother’s favorite soap opera. I remember my red carpet, my crib, and the Sylvania TV with its translucent, white frame that lit up when you turned on the tube. I must have been very young because I when I sang along with the mermaid, I didn’t chant, as she did, « Chicken of the Sea. » I preferred, or could only manage, « Limbadagazee. »

In case you’re wondering how this brand of canned tuna got its name, we have to go back to 1914. At the time, when the company was known under another name, they were the first to market « light » tuna--a mild flavored white fish, which tasted a bit like chicken. They marketed the new product as « Chicken of the Sea. » It was such a success that the company eventually adopted the name. For me, this brand-name conjures the image a scuba diving chicken.

As a child I loved La vache qui rit-- the cheese, and the image of the red laughing cow. When my husband and I traveled through Morocco thirteen years ago, we were still in our backpacking phase, otherwise known as roughing it. This meant two weeks of low-budget accommodations, where the only luxury was sleeping on rooftops, along with other hot (as in very, extremely, utterly warm!) guests. This also meant that apart from the occasional restaurant meals of grilled sardines or tagine we improvised our meals with store bought food. We ate a lot of La vache qui rit (Al-Baqara Al-Dahika, in Arabic,) not because we were addicted to it; it was safe to eat and it did the job. Since it contains no animal rennet or resin it is considered Halaal by Muslim standards, which explains why it was so readily available everywhere, from Tangier to Tafraout.

When I was in elementary school I cherished the mini boxes of Sun-Maid raisins that my mother would occasionally slip into my metal lunch box. They were a rare treat; Mom usually bought sultana raisins in bulk. I liked the image of the earthy Sun-Maid girl as much as the sweet taste of the raisins. At the time I had no idea that the original Sun-Maid girl was a real, live lady. On a sunny May day in 1915, Collett Petersen was discovered drying her dark curls in her parents’ backyard, in Fresno, California, upon which she was asked to pose for a photo, holding a tray of grapes.

Aunt Jemima, Uncle Ben, the Quaker Oats man, and the Cream of Wheat chef also belong to the of the hall of fame cast of advertising mascots that are embedded deep into my psyche. I remember telling my mother that Aunt Jemima and Uncle Ben were married. I thought these were fictive characters. Now I know that they too represent real people.

In her book, Aunt Jemima, Uncle Ben and Rastus: Blacks in Advertising, Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow, Marilyn Kern-Foxworth writes about the women who have portrayed Aunt Jemima. Nancy Green, born a slave in 1834, was the first Aunt Jemima. She was featured at the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago, where she cooked pancakes, sang songs, and told stories of the Old South.

Cream of Wheat was and still is my favorite food item from this nostalgic grocery list. I remember the TV ad for this hot cereal: a little boy gets up from the table after finishing his Cream of Wheat and goes out, in cold weather, presumably to school, and is followed by a ghost-like bowl of steaming Cream of Wheat, keeping him warm and strong all day long. There’s nothing like a bowl of Cream of Wheat for a bedtime snack, especially with a dollop of vanilla yogurt.

Frank L. White, a master chef in Chicago, was the model for the original image of Rastus featured on boxes of Cream of Wheat. He was reportedly paid five dollars to pose in a chef’s hat and jacket.

It has been argued that the use of African American figures such as Aunt Jemima, Uncle Ben, and Rastus is racist and offensive. Their roles as benevolent cooks and servants conjure the era of slavery in the United States. I understand this point of view. However, because the images of these mascots are so deeply associated with childhood feelings of comfort and security, because their faces are so familiar, and in the case of Cream of Wheat, because I like the food they are advertising, I can’t help but feeling attached to them, to my idea of who they are.

I imagine hosting a supper party for these beloved food icons. I’d seat Chiquita Banana next to the Chicken of the Sea Mermaid. I’d pull the dining room table to the hammock in the living room so that the mermaid could recline on it comfortably. The Quaker Oats man, being the oldest, would sit at the head of the table. I’d serve them a traditional Armenian meal, with borek, dolma, pilaf with lamb… When we’d toast I’d tell them, « Thank you for feeding me and my imagination all these years, now it’s my turn to feed you. »

It’s almost midnight. All this talk about food has made me hungry. I’m going to prepare a bowl of Cream of Wheat and toss in some Sun-Maid raisins. Then I’ll sing:

What do I care for snow or sleet
My tummy is full of Cream o’ Wheat*

Talleen Hacikyan

*This rhyme appeared in the February 1913 issue of McClure’s Magazine.

P.S. Check out Mike Davidson’s blog post on Cream of Wheat-- fun and thought-provoking, with an interesting and mind-boggling assortment of comments.

Postcards From Paris

Turbulent flight. The double feature was cheesier than the frozen pizza.

Great apartment. Everything comes from Ikea: sofa-bed, gas range, ironing table, lettuce drier, the neighbor’s cat. Nothing Swedish about the argument from the flat below, definitely très français.

We’re a can-can kick away from Buttes Chaumont park. Hard to imagine the gallows where they executed criminals before the nineteenth century. Now there’s free Wi-Fi internet access, and miniature fenced-in yards with poles in the middle for the peeing pleasure of Parisian poodles.

The Pyrenées metro is our stop. No mountains there, just tunnels covered with white ceramic tiles, made with beveled edges to reflect light. There’s also a clochard, perpetually asleep, face hidden under a parka hood, at the Belleville street exit for odd numbers.

At Trocadero African men sell Eiffel Tower key chains, two for one Euro. With a little bargaining you can get three for the same price, or four for a Euro when it starts to rain, which is the worst time to bargain with the umbrella vendors.

Outside the walls of Père Lachaise cemetery, where Oscar Wilde, Edith Piaf, and Marcel Proust rest in peace, Pablo finds real live mice scrambling under bushes.

Paris is a big city with little tables.

We go on a bateaux Mouches tour at night. It rains, it’s cold. It’s beautiful. Just as we navigate past the glittering Eiffel Tower I ask a Japanese fellow to photograph us. He gets on his knees until he gets the angle just right. Even the drizzle has a certain je ne sais quoi, like a spritz of Evian facial mist.

At Notre Dame Pablo looks for and finds mice darting beneath shrubs. He tries to photograph them but can’t capture them in zoom mode. He has better luck with the gargoyles on the tower. He says the gargoyles play twenty questions after midnight.

I visit Isoline. Eat ratatouille. She shows me a street sign she stole: “Rue du Chat qui pêche.” She makes puppets and x-rated animated films. Has a poster with a man running with a box of cereal tucked under his arm. Caption reads: “Cereal Killer.”

On the Champs Elysées we attend a marketing blitz at Toyota. In the showroom we discover the Toyota iQ concept, an ultra-compact vehicle created in the South of France. The white car is covered with doodles. A woman dressed in a navy-blue suit hands out markers so that we can draw on the car. Diego, in front of a crowd of admirers, churns out a cartoon of an Arc-de-Triomphe-car on the hood. I start to write the lyrics to « Champs-Elysées » on the passenger door: À midi ou à minuit il y a tout c’que vous voulez aux Champs-Elysées…A tall, black man armed with Windex approaches me, “C’est interdit d’écrire sur la voiture.” With two sprays and a wipe he erases the music off the iQ concept.

On the first floor of the Eiffel Tower, across from the Jules Vernes restaurant, there is a patch of Astroturf. You can lie down, close your eyes, and pretend you’re on a football field.

On rue St. Paul in Le Marais, in a wooden wicket downstairs in the Académie de Magie, a man dressed in a shabby black suit sells tickets. He explains that there is a magic show and an exhibition of automates. If you ask him what an automate is he will mime an automated person with such skill it makes you wonder why he isn’t performing on a street in an Italian village accompanied by a bear or a pretty girl.

At Charles de Gaulle airport, en route to Montreal, Pablo finds a roll of posters in a cart—impressionistic renditions of the major Parisian monuments. The lost and found lady tells him to keep them. He will put them on his bedroom wall, next to his favorite rap singers. Maybe then we’ll wake up in the middle of one night and hear Lil Wayne:

Da city kinda twirly
Da city big on curvy
Gonna ride a fly boat
In da Paris night
Slide down da river
City sparkle crazy
Cracker champagne hazy
Diamonds for ma finger
On da famous tower
Chic ladies cryin
Paree is très all right.

Talleen Hacikyan

“Postcards From Paris” was inspired by a trip to Paris, taken in summer 2007.
Thank you, Pablo, for the following photos: pigeon, gargoyle, Eiffel Tower line up.