|It would be absurd to think of assigning any classification to our artists today. There are those who are jostled by a force, talent or genius (go and separate them clearly) and those who are sweating and sweaty, strive with comic pain, to express an obstinate inner silence as much as they do. (....) First of all, we must pay tribute to the wonderful flair of our mysterious collaborator Pinturicchio. (...) it was he who, with rare certainty, told us that Girieud was a great master; (...)
Pierre Girieud was born in Riez, in the Basses Alpes. Land of wind and sun, where the trees are small and the steep hills; (....)
Pierre Girieud grew up in this atmosphere and felt attached to her by a bond of soul; and that explains so much! It is quite naturally that he liked to retrace on paper, then on canvas, the scenic modalities of this whole region. (....) He left the Midi very early where art, at that time, was rather poor. (....)
Girieud arrived in Paris, and immediately knew this inevitable entity, the misery of the beginnings. But then, she was much happier than today! (...) However, Girieud, poor and happy - how almost all of them were! - worked constantly, under the direction of his friend Launay. (...) And he was violently enthusiastic about these two big buggers who were called Gauguin, Van Gogh ...
He entered the slightly more real era of exhibitions. The first was that of the College of Modern Aesthetics, advocated, precious, Saint-Georges de Bouhélier and Eugène Montfort.
In 1908 he exhibited at Kahnweiler; then at Berthe Weill's, with her friends Launay, Maillol and Durrio.
And he exhibited at the Independants, going from 1910 to the honors of the Salon d'Automne.
In 1914, he had an exhibition at Rosenberg, and war came; he went on the line of fire; but without ceasing the work which he resumed with joy immediately demobilized, and which he continues always.
There is much to say about the art of Pierre Girieud; that concerns Pinturicchio. I will endeavor, however, to give some impression of it. For a few years now, the painter, abandoning all experiences, all trial and error, all influences, has finally revealed himself fully, in a splendid development of qualities.
Above all, I love landscaping Girieud. A landscape of Girieud is a slow poem. How he managed to make certain aspects of this astonishing Midi, which conceals his tumultuous attributes thanks to a pure atmosphere, that is his secret. He composes with small touches of reality, an interior country which exceeds reality, imposes itself in its place. Girieud has resuscitated the ruins of Saint-Rémy, the willows of Riez, the skies that were thought to be obliterated. And I do not know what sour smell of antiquity permeates its landscapes. Idylls, small paintings, the Gods are not dead, they have barely changed their expression. An Antiquity which goes beyond Pompeii to join a Theocritus still alive through the centuries.
And the portraits of Girieud, so lively and so engaging. And her nudes where you feel the flesh firm, ready. And always, through all his work, Multiple life, tenacious, as the Idea feels it vibrate in a transcendent reality. This is what makes Pierre Girieud what he is, a great sensitive and truthful painter.|