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Meeting with the voluble author who recounts her life and her flaws in grating strips, on Instagram and now in an album.
According to the autobiographical comics she publishes on Instagram for a little over two years, Salomé Lahoche has been a horrible person. Under sweaters with funny patterns, a kind of badly polished harpy, jaded by everything, steeped in flaws “not pretty-pretty” such as pride and vanity, which has already prepared its speech in anticipation of the golden beast that it will win, for sure, and which will allow it to finally take its revenge on “Grégoire Pichon who told me that I was ugly in fifth grade, so Grégoire how does it feel to take over your parents’ Midas garage in Elbeuf while I receive a fucking Nobel prize, huh?!!”. No wonder, though, for an author whose debut in comics was driven primarily by a “nice will to harm” and who, as a child, saw it as a way to inflict imaginary abuse on people she did not love – among her notable early works she cites thus Chantal from the canteen walks in dog poo or Enzo gets his dick bitten by a snake.
Eight identical bananas
Salomé Lahoche is 25 years old and the small masterpieces of black humor that are her strips, now read by more than 30,000 followers on Instagram, have just been released in book form by Exemplaire. We met the author in Angoulême, on the eve of
