He came to life, on the night when the Taurus died and the Gemini was born, thus on the 20th and a half on the banks of the Garonne to later live on those of the Adour.
Today, he arrives at the mouth of the river accompanied by Luis Marcel, Art in Motion, Don Quixote in his sack, the Santa Claus of mid-August. He came to fill the four corners of the cloister of the Monastery of Urdax (there are so many mills here) four Don Quixote that will never be sent to the corner, no punishment for emotions. An art so raw gushing out from such a sensitive soul!
He makes masks, not anonymous ones which, far from hiding us but revealing us, like mirrors of the soul, the derision from everything which should not be lost. He appropriates, avoids, inverses, reverses giving a sweet and tender ecstasy. His masks are neither African nor Venetian! But damn are they Pyrenean.
The man educates, teaches, paints, makes poetry, creates, sculpts, a pipe sticking out from his nicotine colored beard. Claude Brugeilles, is slowly running art slaying with his spears our pink stone hearts recuperating all sorts of things. Does he just want to oblige us to reflect?
“Ni coti, ni coton, trois moutons et puis s’en vont”