| (...) Well no! I don't like the detestable portrait by Waroquier, whose strong compositions I used to appreciate, nor the farm painted by Zingg, as ineffective as a cardboard Christmas crib, nor the canvases brought back from Morocco by Mainssieux, nor the sending of Pierre Girieud, neither that of Charlot, nor the painting of Calendar signed Jean Marchand I The eternal bathers of Favory lost the intense life that they had ten years ago, Kvapil and Gluckmann do more than complacent and sweet art, André Lhote has become (or has remained) so formal, so hollow (....) |