| Some time ago it was announced
in the newspapers that he was leaving for Marseilles, his native town, where he was to carry out an official order given to him. He left. In the dust of the sun which floats on the Cannebière, during the aperitif hours, he must walk his jovial face where
the eternal smile of the ardent mouth and the childish eyes, in spite of the torments of a bumpy life, persists.
simple and cordial with the groups he knows, humble and ignored with the groups he does not know.
It's been twenty years since he
came from Marseille to Paris to impose
this simple and luminous art, a little mystical where, in an eternal landscape of Provence, decorated with pines, live allegorically primitive, calm and beautiful beings.
The paintings of Mr. Pierre Girieud are
almost purely decorative. They
do not pretend to copy the na-
ture. They don't even pretend
to interpret it. They want the patterns that make them up to be balanced in noble proportions skilfully balanced and where the colours, true or false, are only spots where the eye can have fun or rest. They are like large wall pictures for the pleasure of a few grown-up children, And life, as if freed from its heavy elements, mixes in them only supple and harmonious elements.
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