| I scandalized the old servant who used to watch the Rosenberg Gallery door, introducing me to it with my bicycle. This friend who avoids me so much hassle with drivers without ..., is too expensive in all respects for me to leave it on the sidewalk to the care of passersby; but when I pretended to send him along the threshold of the aristocratic gallery, the doorkeeper's lower lip lengthened in a very disturbing manner. He walked on the tire before a finger and then he sniffed so that I shuddered. Luckily, it was not so, and I was able to go alone this time, to the first floor where Girieud's latest works are visible.
In the great wave of Cézanne, which covers modern productions, those of Girieud are worthy of particular scrutiny. It seems that there is in them better than a pastiche, but that certain conformations of origin, probable parities of vision have brought it to its present form.
In the dry and warm light of Provence, the plans are cut in such a way, the colors have a concentrated ardor without shimmer that Girieud felt very well. His nudes, of which the ocher and the shadows at first surprise, are, for good, dressed in their tan; they offer a biblical grandeur which Girieud, clever enough, did not fail to titrate away.
The suite of charcoals he made, representing the ladies of the Bible and the Fable, is a patient and beautiful work.
Some, however, remain a bit on the road. They do not give enough or give too much. It may be necessary to opt for the manner of M. Ingres or that of Rodin. But this is a poor quarrel and the whole remains one of the best of the year. |