Interviewer: There’s something you talked about in Cahiers
du cinéma – about films not being eternal. Celluloid deteriorates; so, since the film itself might be gone 100 years from now, what’s the relevance of this art? We don’t
know.
Jean Renoir: Of course. But can you tell me what’s
the importance, for example, of Homer? Because nobody has read Homer. Suppose
there were 6,000 persons in this courtyard and we asked the question, “Has
anyone here ever read Homer?” If people are honest, they’ll say no.
Nevertheless, Homer is very important.
There’s something rather strange about a work of art. It’s
that the work of art outlasts its existence. I don’t know why, but it’s a fact.
It’s an indirect influence.
Let’s be honest. Take any great work of art. Take the
greatest paintings of the Louvre. How many Frenchmen have seen them? An
infinitesimal proportion. Maybe one percent. Maybe one-thousandth. I don’t
know. Nevertheless, their influence is obvious. . . .
For example, take something we see every day: Great
architecture. Here in Paris, we have a few amazing houses. There are several
old houses in the Marais district. We see a door with sculptures and columns on
each side, and we’re very happy; we’re transported. But very few among us are
transported. Most people don’t even know –
I think that a work of art acts in a hidden way. I strongly
believe in radar in life, the human radar. There’s a kind of radar that causes
the work of art to end up influencing people. But it’s not a direct influence. . . .
Interviewer: In the end, a work of art is not meant
to be looked at; it’s meant to somehow impregnate passers-by . . .
Renoir: That’s it. To “impregnate.” Your choice of word is excellent.