First it was three million people, then “3.5” – then “3.7”. The media finally just gave up trying to count.

Forty world leaders. Imams marching with rabbis, priests marching with atheists. The National Front, the homophobes, the racists were not present. But all across France people walked and chatted and sang. They did so in an homage to life and art and free expression.

In Paris nearly two million raised their signs and pens. They walked (often at a creep, with long pauses) together. Every piece of Parisian urban furniture they passed – kiosks, newstands, flagposts – said the same thing: I am Charlie.

The marchers were all ages and all races. And, when their police escorts went off duty, they were applauded…something which shocked the forces more than had the attacks. Stunned news personnel had to admit the unexpected. This was the largest manifestation in French history.

It was all for art…art as the French tool of liberty and humanity.

I am for an art that is political-erotical-mystical, that does something other than sit on its ass in a museum.
I am for an art that grows up not knowing it is art at all, an art given the chance of having a starting point of zero.
I am for an art that embroils itself with the everyday crap and still comes out on top.

I am for an art that imitates the human, that is comic, if necessary, or violent, or whatever is necessary.
I am for all art that takes its form from the lines of life itself, that twists and extends and accumulates and spits and drips, and is heavy and coarse and blunt and sweet and stupid as life itself.

I am for an artist who vanishes, turning up in a white cap painting signs or hallways.
I am for art that comes out of a chimney like black hair and scatters in the sky.
I am for art that spills out of an old man’s purse when he is bounced off a passing fender.

I am for the art out of a doggie’s mouth, falling five stories from the roof.
I am for the art that a kid licks, after peeling away the wrapper.
I am for an art that joggles like everyone’s knees, when the bus traverses an excavation.
I am for art that is smoked like a cigarette, smells like a pair of shoes.

I am for art that flaps like a flag, or helps blow noses like a handkerchief.
I am for art that is put on and taken off like pants, which develops holes like socks, which is eaten like a piece of pie, or abandoned with great contempt like a piece of shit.

I am for art covered with bandages. I am for art that limps and rolls and runs and jumps.
I am for art that comes in a can or washes up on the shore.
I am for art that coils and grunts like a wrestler. I am for art that sheds hair.

I am for art you can sit on. I am for art you can pick your nose with or stub your toes on.
I am for art from a pocket, from deep channels of the ear, from the edge of a knife, from the corners of the mouth, stuck in the eye or worn on the wrist.
I am for art under the skirts, and the art of pinching cockroaches.

I am for the art of conversation between the sidewalk and a blind man’s metal stick.
I am for the art that grows in a pot, that comes down out of the skies at night, like lightning, that hides in the clouds and growls. I am for art that is flipped on and off with a switch.

I am for art that unfolds like a map, that you can squeeze, like your sweetie’s arm, or kiss like a pet dog. Which expands and squeaks like an accordion, which you can spill your dinner on like an old tablecloth.
I am for an art that you can hammer with, stitch with, sew with, paste with, file with.
I am for an art that tells you the time of day, or where such and such a street is.
I am for an art that helps old ladies across the street.

That was the kind of art Claes Oldenburg espoused back in 1961. Some of it will live on in Charlie but all of it, yesterday, was vindicated as l’art de vivre. Ensemble.

• In the Comics Journal, I wrote my piece on the tragedy; you can read Claes Oldenburg’s full manifesto here.