No one, if we want to be in good faith, can say that he really knows Charles Floutard. No more the man than the painter. Like all sentient beings, he has an affectionate and discreet approach. His physical mass moves smoothly, good man, avoiding crushing, literally and figuratively, anyone's feet. Placid, he usually accepts to make a lot of concessions, when discussing, but it is not long before we notice that he never gives in for the most part. A phrase often comes to his lips: "Did I make myself understood?" It perfectly reflects the concern not to compromise on a few key ideas. He is believed to be malleable and all it takes is a word, an idea that clashes with his inner ethics, and here is the easy-going guy who takes the fly; the verb swells, the gesture sweeps away the argument.


The fine conversationalist becomes a tribune, he gets up, thunders, shakes the audience, and vehemently proclaims his passion. Stunned, the audience undergoes the eloquent flood, surprise, almost shocked. However, when the tumult subsides, there are more than one who regret not having noted the diatribe. Thus, at the limit of excess, men of profound sincerity are freed. Their conviction is an act of faith and, therefore, is expressed in flamethrowers. With Floutard, the man of culture, if the argument, on what is really important, is often explosive, it is nonetheless enriching for those who collect it.


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