Le clair que tu hais vient du noir qui te manque.

Jean-Pierre Velly

Relief engraving is a practice that consists of removing material, whether from the softness of linoleum or the hardness of wood. But in reality, the result it aims for is the very opposite: a drawing out, through the highlighting of its contours, of an image seemingly suspended, as if taken unawares in the act of becoming, in the fragile interplay between solids and voids. “As a xylographer,” said Lorenzo Viani, “I use a scalpel to remove the excess wood that covers the image.” But that wasn’t really quite how it worked, and even less so for a sculptor like Henri Beaufour, whose awareness of the images he unveils runs deep and clear.

Indeed, for Henri, even this form of engraving remains an extension of his passion for drawing: another way of leaving a mark, different from the velvety lines of the pencil or the brilliant lines of the pen, but also different from those employed in etching, incised using a point and softened with acid. And so, what is immediately striking is the clarity of the flatness of the space, punctuated in perfunctory fashion by the simple, visually compact and almost geometric profiles of the bodies, despite the articulated development of the lines. It is also the contrast between the metaphysical blackness of the backgrounds and the frenzied lines in the foreground, but what impresses above all is the monumental structure of the subjects, giving the pose of the images a dialectal solemnity, alien to any aestheticism, and lending them an earthy physicality of surly faces, hard stares, strong hands, and bare feet.

His figures, each in their own bizarre way and at odds with the world, are embedded in the linoleum paste with unforgettable energy — a sea of austere faces and angular characters. So many slender and stylised subjects, delivered with sparse white lines cut into the black background of the paper; pallid faces emerging from a sea of ink; men and women, old and young, with looks at once suggesting their readiness to grab life with both hands, yet betraying the resignation of too many defeats; whatever the case, a collection of images revealed by next to nothing, and wherein the scarcity of the line is functional to the eloquence of the expression.

And then there are portraits with more character, those of almost physiognomic suggestion, in which an interest in expression prevails, whether grotesque or pathetic; where, through a simple, rigorous, and almost detached form, Henri records the variety of the human face with rationalist vigour and humorous exploration, grappling not so much with changes of mood as with the influences of deeper psychological and sentimental states. Sometimes, the line appears more narrative — denser and more fiery — almost ready to bring out the depth of a space that is actually printed on the surface. Either way, the architectural structure of the figures always retains its essential geometry, the body of its volumes, its balance in space. His cut-out narration, punctuated just as much by small cuts in the outlines as by breaks in the lines, succeeds in remaining malleable and fluid, even in places where it must emphasise a void. The effect thus achieved is one of great homogeneity and of regularity of strokes, even where the work is denser and more articulated, supported by the ability to propagate and extend across its surface a continuous and restless vibration, capable of involving the observer body and soul.

And he does this without forcing the issue, even when wrestling with certain geometric constraints, such as one head that is square like a cardboard box, or another that is faceted like a primitive mask with hints of cubism: These, Henri resolves in a lively decomposition of the planes, without ever impeding on the volumes or flattening the spaces. In this respect, we would like to underscore the way in which Henri Beaufour does his utmost to eliminate the risk of two-dimensionality, as much in the extreme synthesis of bi-chromatism as in the space of large flat areas, the better to restore to the image its three dimensions, the thickness of the figures, and the depth of the space. And so it is that the fluid development of the lines organising space and defining volumes with a bare minimum of detailed strokes is superimposed on the flat darkness of the backgrounds, those spaces that are almost absolute, empty, and unreal — as if punctuating the small variations in light, marking out shadows but avoiding any decorative excess.

The contrast between light and shadow is established through rapid and sudden incisions that are reduced in size, with no need for highlights or blurred breakthroughs. This leaves the physical force of the cut intact and gives the hollowing out of the material a vertiginous depth, with sinuous, continuous lines that sculpt the shapes and planes, focusing any residual light on the faces and hands.

Sometimes, of course, it can happen that Henri allows himself to be overtaken by a certain expressive ardour. Then, and only then, do his outlines become extremely marked, the lines shortening and breaking, preparing the image for a synthetic rigidity approaching that of certain Expressionist xylographs — those of one Kirchner, for example — but always far less cold and, above all, less measured than his. His figures are always synthesised and fixed in a gesture, a grimace, a characteristic sign, with the simplicity of the white chalk that drew our childhood impressions on the blackboard.

The furrow of the engraving conveys a strong expressive charge but also more fragile emotional suggestions. Of course, the taste for synthesis and the speed of the gesture admittedly sometimes give way to distortions that exasperate the details, touching and deforming a boxer’s nose, spilling over into a dancer’s physique, or making a mockery of animal forms and drooping cellulite. But afterwards, everything comes into its own in the gaze of a sad clown, in the serene innocence of a gorilla, and even in the frenetic vibrations of a bee’s wings.

Because whatever the case, these subjects are always possessed of a monumental austerity, a seriousness that brooks neither vulgarity nor laughter. The proud and untamed appearance they maintain, their noble attitude, stems above all else from Henri Beaufour’s profound respect for his work, which in his case means respect for mankind and for nature.