| The Grand Palais, empty of cars, is filled with paintings, almost all hung, sculptures, still aligned.
Silhouettes, still rare, wander in the cold darkness.
Critics began to work yesterday: Louis Vauxcelles, René-Jean, Fritsch-Estrangin, Raymond Cogniat, form the avant-garde of the artistic press.
But the artists are already more numerous: Henry de Waroquier, peaceful, says that he is going more and more to the figure, Carlos Reymond, bundled up like an Eskimo, André Planson in a hurry, roam the rooms.
Jean Marchand, Maurice Savreux, Alfred Halou, Pierre Girieud, Roland Oudot, Legueult, chat in groups; (....) |