The Story c. 1950s

Harold Persico Paris made this intaglio print, called "The Story," using stark black ink on a pale ground. Looking at the image, I’m thinking about the actual physical labor that went into it, the scraping and digging into the plate, the inky density of the blacks, the way the chairs appear to lean in, as if they're listening or maybe collapsing. I can imagine Paris in his studio, wrestling with the plate, trying to coax out the story hidden within. What was he thinking as he carved those chairs into the plate? Did he see them as witnesses, symbols of domesticity gone awry, or maybe just as shapes to play with in the composition? There's an energy here, a kind of raw immediacy that grabs you. "The Story" feels less like a statement and more like a question, an invitation to join Paris in his exploration. And that’s what art is all about, isn’t it?