THE INTRODUCTION OF HUMOUR INTO ADVERTISING ANDRE IEGARD There is no reason why humour in advertising should not be con sidered one day a form of ex pression equal in interest to any of the recognised literary or artistic types. The wit of the young French artist Grimault approaches that of the finest humorists. HAVE YOU EVER RECOGNIZED THE PATHOS THAT LIES in the bands of men who seek their small destinies in the streets of the great cities They pass between their stone walls, unsettled and futile, without even the nonchalant grace of a caravan of camels, or the solid majesty of a troop of elephants for whom it is pleasure enough to trample their native soil. A herd of animals on the marchwild animals especi allydoes present a picture of unity of a sort. Its thoughts turn in the same direction; towards the river for drinking, the field to be stripped, or to enjoy the blood of its victims. The man who walks so solitarily in the town is reduced to his simplest elementshis body covered with hang ing garments to which he clings because they do at least hide from sight his small personal traitsand each man lives in a circle of illusions which make his own par ticular world. The only thread which binds him to his fellows is this community of illusions whose nature is constantly changing. This man forms an evil impression from the leg of a woman whom he has just passed, which he saw through a slit in her dress. He hastens to transfigure that leg, which, by the morrow, appears through a slit in some other dress. He must destroy the impression, by means of wordsduty, spiritual love, intellectual passion. He flies from the too-dazzling day. He engrosses him self in his work. Pictures unroll before him. Kipik Sauce, such a tasty condiment; the cow which laughs; Napoleon and his laxative; the Gueriton shoe; the 227 "smeldur," andreappearing endlessly with the telegraph posts along the railway lines"Du Bo, Du Bon, Du Bonnet." These pictures pass by with the speed of thought, followed by imperious reminders. It seems to me that if a man was conscious all the time of his interior appetites he would experience just such a vertigo as this. Therefore man, unhappy animal, needs to be distracted from his own sensations. Far away there are trees, clouds, stars. But between them and himself there are walls. So he looks at the walls. Stockezfor health! Go! Two young men, leaning forward in their eagerness, are running towards their week-end by the shore. He frowns. He mumbles over the bitter words "Go!" He knows he will never go. His life is enclosed in a continuous cycle of 365 days, not one of them very different from another. With what a disillusioned eye does he not therefore contemplate these posters which tempt him away from his daily job, and which they only serve to make more distasteful! He dives into his newspapersupreme refuge of miserable humanity during the years 1936 and onwards. If there is a page illustrated with photographs he goes straight for it; still more eagerly if that page also carries some humorous drawings. It is the beginning of his cure. An attraction of which publicity men ought to make a profit. Let them watch, in the Underground, the traveller who has just bought his "literary" daily paper. After a hasty glance over all its pages he settles down first to

Industrial Arts en | 1936 | | page 67