La tristesse de Pierre is the latest graphic novel by Henri Crabières.

The book was released in bookstores on November 7. The book was created during Henri’s residency at Studio Fidèle, between September 2024 and July 2025.

In this 264-page narrative, he tells the story of Pierre, a young man struggling with anxiety and depression, and of his sister Clémence, his pillar, bound together by a shared tragedy.

La tristesse de Pierre, your latest book, will be published by Fidèle this coming November. As the story unfolds, grief appears to be one of its central themes. The book opens with the characters settling into a new apartment, without any explanation of their initial situation. Why did you make this choice?

At the beginning of the story, I don’t mention the trauma that causes Pierre’s “sadness.” I describe its consequences on the characters, rather than the event itself. We understand that a rupture has occurred: Pierre and Clémence, brother and sister, now have to live together. Pierre is in his early twenties—he is much closer to childhood than adulthood. Clémence, on the other hand, is in her thirties and represents both the financial and psychological support of the family.

Pierre experiences severe anxiety attacks, which become a central element of the story. Was this intentional?

Pierre is a traumatized character, and the marks left by this trauma prevent him from maintaining control over his daily life. At night, a devil appears—at first briefly, then more and more insistently. Anxiety attacks, and the way they manifest, allow me to create both narrative and visual ruptures in the storytelling. These crisis states become pretexts for exploring new ways of drawing, experimenting while always serving the narrative.

Another theme emerges: madness. The main character gradually slips into a form of schizophrenia, marked by the appearance of an imaginary character. This state of confusion recurs in your work. Can you tell us more about it?

I like to find ways of talking about everyday life while moving away from it. The literary movement of magical realism deeply resonates with me—representing the magical aspects of banality. I feel this concept fits particularly well with comics. Drawing, which becomes a language in itself, is able both to evoke intimacy and to open up to dreamlike dimensions. Anxiety lends itself to distortions of reality, and therefore naturally aligns with my desire for drawing and storytelling.

The word “madness” is highly charged, generalizing and stigmatizing. We rather speak of mental disorders today. In your case, this theme is closely linked to your drawing style: distorted architectures, unstable environments, almost as if the character were under the influence of drugs. Was this an intention from the start?

I prefer to talk about moments of “crisis,” when anxiety becomes so intense that it takes control of Pierre, turning him into a victim of his visions. It’s clear that Pierre suffers from a disorder, but I myself don’t know exactly which one. I wanted to materialize these moments of deep distress through drawing, using forms I want to be pleasant and entertaining, in order to address a much darker subject. Since the act of drawing is so closely tied to inner life for me, it feels like an ideal medium to represent these emotions.

The relationships in the story structure the narrative: his sister Clémence and his friend Sylvain. What roles do they play?

Clémence is Pierre’s older sister. She is very lucid about the stakes of their lives. She works in the restaurant industry and worries constantly about Pierre. With her, Pierre fully indulges in his sadness and becomes self-centered. Sylvain, his friend, is also a source of support, but much more distantly. Their friendship existed before the trauma and now unfolds differently. Pierre finds less meaning in it, as he can no longer feel the lightness he once knew. These roles allow me to explore how different people relate to trauma. Clémence, in particular, forgets herself in order to devote herself entirely to Pierre’s well-being. Their lives—financially and emotionally—form a very vertical structure, with Pierre at the center of everything. In some scenes, Clémence appears isolated, revealing her own fragilities.

How did you build Clémence’s character?

Clémence experiences the trauma differently from Pierre, without really having a choice. She is the sole support guaranteeing him a form of stability. To me, she embodies protection and guidance, but also the ingratitude of family hierarchy and the difficulty often assigned to the role of the eldest child. I also wanted to show her helplessness in the face of her desire to save her brother. The period of life she is going through is particularly intense, and as readers, we wish she could rest.

Let’s talk about the “demon,” the figure that appears during Pierre’s crises. How should it be interpreted?

Visually, I wanted to find a strange form without making it overtly monstrous. It’s a kind of shadow, with a long beak and large yellow eyes. Its intentions remain unclear, partly because its appearance is deliberately vague. It’s a creature that seems magical and tells Pierre it has the power to free him from his sadness. This character embodies Pierre’s loss of control. Perhaps it really exists—and is not a hallucination.

A key scene is the one in which Pierre, after a romantic encounter, is manipulated by the devil. Can you tell us about it?

I wanted to explore the link between depression and the search for comfort. Pierre believes love can save him, but the devil intervenes and plunges him into his deepest crisis, during which he ends up hurting someone he loves. It was also a way of showing that the demon grants Pierre no respite, even during one of the rare moments of relief in the story. It marks a turning point, where Pierre abandons all rationality and fully embraces his visions.

The ending feels more like a breath than a resolution.

Exactly. It’s not a healing. It’s a breath, but nothing is truly resolved. I wanted a positive opening while remaining consistent with the situation I had set up. Mental health struggles remain, as do Pierre and Clémence’s financial issues—but in that moment, both characters feel soothed.

In terms of production, the book continues your exploration of material forms. After Loser Magnifique (a handmade risograph fanzine), Chausse-trappe (offset printing), or Misma (Swiss binding), what choices did you make for this book?

For La tristesse de Pierre, we wanted a more accessible book, with a colorful and seemingly joyful cover that contrasts with the content. We shaped a book that is appealing and decorative, but above all a support for the story.

Color plays a central role compared to your previous books. What were the stages of creation?

I usually work in bichromy. Here, I chose a broader, more vivid palette to make the story more accessible. Color makes the reading experience immersive and fluid. The drawings are made by hand, with nib and Indian ink, then digitally colored. 
Drawing matters most to me, because it becomes a language when it serves a story. I feel that virtuosity in comics lies mainly in the ability to embody movement, emotion, characters, and to stage all of this. When I draw my stories, I first think in terms of character design—because characters drive the narrative, but also because I want to enjoy drawing them and imagining myself embodying them. That’s what’s magical about drawing: its power of immersion. With a very simple line, one can truly convey synesthetic experiences, if the line is right. I also like feeling that a printed book comes from a simple and accessible gesture: a pen, ink, paper.

What are your influences?

One of my greatest shocks in comics was Alma by Claire Braud. Her drawing feels perfect for that story—both spontaneous and elegant, never complacent or gratuitous. Olivier Schrauwen also deeply influenced me, especially Parallel Lives and his contemporary, surprising approach to science fiction. His drawing is incredible. Later, during my degree at the École des Arts Décoratifs in Paris, I discovered manga, which completely transformed my way of working. My favorite author is probably Shigeru Mizuki, with NonNonBa. This book embodies everything I love in comics. Mizuki has a unique language, with such a strange and virtuosic drawing style, while speaking about grief, family, and childhood with great softness and mystery.
In literature, I loved The Ogre (Le Roi des Aulnes) by Michel Tournier, an incredible philosophical tale and, to me, an icon of magical realism. More recently, I discovered the photographer Maurice Tabard, whose work deeply moved me.

Your book was created during a residency. Can you explain the context and your relationship with your publisher?

It was the first time I wrote a book in a studio that wasn’t my former school. It was an ideal way to work. I was directly in the space where my publisher and the graphic designer of the publishing house work. Exchanges were very regular, and everyone knew their role. It was a perfect alchemy. Even though comics are a very solitary practice, they can also be collective and joyful. I wrote this very intimate story with the support of Vincent Longhi, my publisher, who always pushed me to go as far as possible in my intentions, while questioning them—never allowing hesitation or gratuitousness. Jean-Philippe Bretin, the graphic designer of Fidèle’s books, designed both the chapter pages and the cover, which I love. It was a pleasure to work collaboratively on images with people I trust, for their taste and skills—qualities I don’t necessarily possess myself.