Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 523 The Seventh Art! (Bonus Chapter 2 for every 1000 votes)

The initial reaction of Parisian newspapers to the “series picture book” version of Pirates of the Caribbean was one of both astonishment and conservatism.

After all, they are both disseminators and observers who are the first to need to determine "what this is".

At first, there was a cautious silence, with only a few vague comments posted in a corner of the culture section.

A commentator for Le Figaro described it in four lines as "a peculiar attempt at visual storytelling," saying it was "between illustration and story."

The Debate newspaper was more reserved, calling it "a print experiment that tells stories to the eyes."

They all avoided using the term "series picture book" because using this term implies admission, and admission implies the possibility of making a mistake.

For major Parisian newspapers, silence or ambiguity is the safest approach when faced with something unclear.

But the silence was quickly broken by the booklet's popularity on the streets!
On the third day after the release of "Pirates of the Caribbean," people kept asking, "Is there more? When will the next issue be released?" Some even bought more than one copy.

The newsstand owners were initially puzzled, but later pieced together the reason from fragmented conversations among some regular customers:

Some people cut out the illustrations and pasted them on the wall of the workshop break room, where their coworkers would gather around to look at them; others took them home, and their children would pester them to "see" the stories again and again.

In the café, two young men could argue for a quarter of an hour over a few cut-out pictures—whether Captain Jacques and the blacksmith could actually rescue Elizabeth.
Sales figures don't lie!
When "Charpentier's Bookshelf" was reprinted again and again, and new editions included a large number of advertisements, other newspaper editors could no longer pretend not to see it.

Thus, the reporting on "series picture books" entered its second phase.

Not only has the tone changed and the length increased, but the position has also been moved from a corner to a more prominent place.

The focus of the discussion is no longer "what is this", but "what it caused".

The tabloid used a simple headline: "Silent Storybooks Appear in Paris, Understandable Whether You Can Read or Not!"

The French Messenger attempts to analyze:

This is a completely new perceptual rhythm that eliminates the time spent reading aloud, allowing the eyes to directly grasp the actions and plot.

This is the first time in Paris that a long story can be "read" without needing to be read aloud!

Thus, this entirely new form of painting officially became a "phenomenon"!
A phenomenon implies replicability, which in turn implies a business opportunity.

In less than a week, the media entered the third stage: competition and imitation.

Some newspapers have begun to urgently discuss whether to launch a similar "picture story" column, and those that acted quickly have already found inexpensive illustrators to collaborate with, trying to imitate the style of the original.

However, the result was rough and ridiculous. Not only were the images stiff and the characters rigid, but the logic between the grids was broken, making it impossible for the reader to understand what was happening.

While the editors were furious about these failed imitations, they turned around and wrote letters or sent telegrams to familiar, more famous illustrators, their words urgent:

"Can you draw a series of story illustrations similar to those in 'Pirates of the Caribbean 1'? The fee is negotiable."

Because the editors of every newspaper were asking the same questions, the pressure quickly spread to the Parisian artist community.

The first to be impacted were professional painters who made a living by painting, especially illustrators and satirical artists.

They almost instinctively understood the concept behind the "Pirates of the Caribbean" series as a "series of picture books," which wasn't profound, especially since they were colleagues.

Satire painters are particularly perceptive; they often use single images to condense events and express viewpoints, possessing an innate intuition for the narrative potential of images.

Many commercial illustrators share the same sentiment; they are fed up with endlessly drawing beautiful women for perfume commercials and creating the same old romantic scenes for novels.

The words are the master, and the writers are merely servants, transforming the master's vague descriptions into concrete images, while also being careful not to steal the spotlight.

But Pirates of the Caribbean shows another possibility: the visuals themselves can become the master and the driving force of the story.

Some young illustrators have begun to publicly express their appreciation, calling this form "the painting of the future" and "a visual symphony for the masses."

However, the real upheaval occurred within a solid wall—the French Academy of Fine Arts and the academic painting it represented.

Initially, their attitude was one of contempt and indifference.

In the college classrooms and in the salon discussions, almost no one formally mentioned the "thing" in that "booklet".

If we absolutely must mention it, we'll use a well-established set of rhetoric to denigrate it—

"Popular entertainment." A master of historical subjects didn't even lift his eyelids, mixing colors with his brush as he casually said to his students.

“Something to amuse children and lower-class readers,” added another professor who specializes in mythological scenes.

His tone even carried a sense of taken-for-granted tolerance: "It's quite interesting, but it's the same as those puppet shows in the market."

The most common and definitive conclusion they reached was: "This has nothing to do with painting!"

When masters say this, they often stare at a fold of clothing or a spot of light and shadow on the canvas, carefully considering whether it meets the requirements of classical aesthetics.

Here, painting is sacred, a sublime art that pursues eternal and universal values!

It concerns beauty, truth, how to inherit classical heritage, and how to elevate the human spirit.

Those frame-by-frame prints depicting pirate adventures are nothing more than a pastime, a craft, or even a degeneration of the art! But in the corners of the studio where no one can see, many students secretly flip through the "series picture book" version of "Pirates of the Caribbean".

They read very quickly, even to the point that it made them uneasy, and they understood:
I understood the layout of each panel, why the characters ran there, why the knife was swung down that way, how the suspense was created, and how it was released on the next page.

This effortless "understanding" began to shake the beliefs of many of them.

Because in the academic system, "understanding" the "narrative" within a painting requires rigorous training.

You need to understand mythological allusions, historical backgrounds, and symbolic representations; you need to know the rules of composition, color theory, and perspective; you need to know what "noble simplicity and serene grandeur" means...

A successful academic painting should be like a temple, requiring viewers to approach it with reverence, spend time, and slowly observe it to grasp its profound meaning.

Its value lies in part in this "difficulty of interpretation" and "the solemnity of eternal stillness".

However, this kind of "series of picture books" completely bypasses this system. It does not require the audience to have any classical education, nor does it put on any historical or mythological cloak.

Its composition is not for eternal balance, but to guide the eye to the next frame, to create dynamism and anticipation.

Its characters can wear their hats askew and make faces, fall to the ground in a panic, or reveal a less "noble" greed or fear.

It does not seek entry into salons for review, nor does it crave gold medals or national orders.

It was printed directly on cheap paper, flooded the streets, and was held in the hands of people who had never even stepped through the doors of an art academy.

Moreover, those people "understood" too quickly and too easily.

This suggests a chilling equality: an art academy professor may not be much faster than a dockworker in understanding this visual narrative.

Then wouldn't their entire set of criteria for judging subject matter, composition, and meaning—which they were proficient in and relied on to maintain their authority—be instantly wiped out?

The foundation of academic aesthetics is crumbling!

The key point is that, unlike the satirical cartoons in newspapers and magazines or the illustrations in novels, "serialized picture books" are clearly an independent art form.

Although the current "Pirates of the Caribbean 1" is adapted from the novel of the same name, everyone knows that once you master this method, the artist can create their own stories!

The dividing line between painting and literature is quietly disappearing. How many painters will abandon grand and magnificent oil paintings in the future and turn to the creation of "series picture books"?

Therefore, the academics treat contempt as armor and denial as a moat, just as they did when facing the Impressionists.

The masters at the French Academy of Fine Arts had to repeatedly emphasize to their students, the public, and themselves: "This has nothing to do with painting."

It was as if repeating it a few more times would make the unsettling ghost disappear on its own.

However, the controversy did not subside with the academy's silence; instead, it reached a new boiling point due to the intervention of another influential figure.

Émile Zola, in an interview with Le Temps, made the following assertion:
"In my opinion, this is not just a story, nor just a picture; it is something entirely new."

If we consider architecture, sculpture, painting, music, literature, and drama as the six arts that humankind has already created—

So this new thing is the seventh art!

This concise, powerful, and glorious name has stirred up public opinion once again.

Supporters were overjoyed—look, even a great writer like Zola has recognized its independent status! "The Seventh Art," what a resounding name!
This completely washes away the suspicions of it being a "children's book" or "low-level entertainment," elevating it to a level comparable to poetry, music, and painting.

Opponents, especially academics and their supporters, felt anger and absurdity—"Overstepping authority!" "Blasphemy!"

They accused Zola of sensationalism, accusing him of elevating cheap visual gimmicks to the sacred temple of art.

Heated debates erupted in newspaper columns, cafes, and salons.

Proponents say this is the democratization of visual expression and an inevitable trend of the times; opponents, on the other hand, believe it is a decline in taste and a collapse of artistic standards.

The entire cultural scene in Paris is debating this "seventh art"—its definition, its boundaries, its future...

At the center of the storm, Lionel Sorel refused all interviews and disappeared from public view.

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Lionel certainly didn't really disappear; he had a "big" thing to do, and it required the collective effort of many people to accomplish.

The living room of the apartment at 117 Boulevard Saint-Germain is now filled with elites from all walks of life and of different backgrounds.

Musician Achille-Claude Debussy, architect Charles Garnier, engineer Nikola Tesla, director of the Comédie-Française Émile Perrin… these are all old acquaintances.

In addition, there was a new friend, a good friend of Charles Garnier, Gustave Eiffel, an engineer and architect.

They sat together, each holding a "Pirates of the Caribbean" picture book.

Lionel stood in the center of the living room and said to everyone, "The total investment for this project is expected to reach 200 million francs..."

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(End of this chapter)