When she walks through art galleries, people recognize her by the black hat that crowns her white curls. But it's also her gaze that people remember, one she has maintained for several decades. "An art critic who enters a gallery must not show their emotions until they leave. This way, the artist is forced to wait until the review is published to know what they think," says Aline Llareus-Dinier as she guides visitors through her home in Montlaur, near Toulouse.

Some fear her, or rather they fear her words – words that can reflect the qualities of an artwork or simply describe an absence of talent. Her writing is clear and incisive, but fair, in a universe where art always has the last word. The internationally renowned art critic has spent decades in the field, accumulating countless stories and unusual encounters that have shaped her extraordinary career.

Every room, every wall, every square meter of her house is intimately connected to her personal and professional history. When the art critic guides visitors through what amounts to a genuine cabinet of curiosities, it's as if she's taking them by the hand to reveal her life – or at least part of it, since a day wouldn't be enough to tell it all. Paintings, sculptures, souvenirs from artists who have marked her journey, anecdotes here and there, amazing stories, gifts that hold special meaning for her, and even a notebook titled "Art is Everywhere" placed in her bathroom by artist Ben. "All of this is me, it's my life," she says with a peaceful smile.

Llareus-Dinier passed her baccalaureate in Modern Letters with a focus on visual arts at Gabriel Fauré High School in Foix and obtained a Master's degree in literary criticism and poetic creation in 1970. Two years later, she joined the newspaper La Dépêche du Midi to write her own column, "Artistic Itinerary," until 1989. After studying in the workshops of Christian Schmidt (painting) and Antonio Alos (sculpture), she later contributed to several art magazines.

During her "younger years," she created a presentation to celebrate the death of artist Salvador Dalí, now installed on her ceiling. "I wanted to create a completely delirious presentation, in the manner of Dalí. I didn't realize I was trapping myself!" she recalls. Upon obtaining her art criticism diploma, she had sworn never to exhibit paintings, so as not to be "judge and jury at the same time." This tribute was written to Dalí's tempo, adding a Catalan flag – also recalling her own origins – all taken in a spiral with a drawing at its center. Without realizing it, the representation had become an artwork, which earned her a temporary suspension from artistic writing. That day, anger drove her to paint all sorts of objects in her house.

Her first contacts with art came through her godmother who raised her. The godmother worked in a factory whose director had taken in the widow of a Russian resistance fighter. "She never stopped drawing portraits. And in Foix, my neighbor was an actor and son of a woman who had won a grand prize from the Academy of Fine Arts. I always lived in this artistic environment. I met Dalí and Picasso thanks to my paternal grandparents, and I spent my summers sitting under Gilbert Bécaud's piano."

Living among singers, dancers, and jugglers, it was a logical continuation to remain in the art world. At school, she wanted to be a pianist, dancer, "behind the easel but also on the stage," she now laughs about it. But going to study at the School of Fine Arts was not accepted by her family.

"The art critic is a bridge between the artist and the person who looks. They know how the object was created, so they can say if the author succeeded, if they went all the way or if they stayed at the doorstep," defines the woman who once went down into a Sidobre quarry to examine granite blocks. When asked why this retired professor of Modern Letters and comparative literature hasn't hung up her hat, she doesn't hesitate: "The salons allow me to stay in contact with the whole world. I don't want to leave art. When I manage to present an artist, I'm happy: they don't dare or don't know they have talent. Moreover, the more talented they are, the more modest they are."

She will soon be the jury president for the upcoming Grand International Competition and Salon of Visual Arts in Peyrolles-en-Provence. Having lived in Toulouse for a time, she has now established her headquarters in Montlaur. "My husband was a project manager and he was bothered because every two days, artists came to see me with portfolios under their arms. Montlaur was a much quieter village."

It's hardly surprising that she cherishes her independence: "I have always been free and exercised my profession independently. I talk about a work if I like it, otherwise I don't talk about it, especially since today we are in a current of superficiality. For me, it's the truth face to face," which has always earned her the support of her "close guard," her family.

It was in her final year of study at the University of Toulouse that Llareus-Dinier met a great master, and not just once. "You are going to receive a visit from a great master, Salvador Dalí. You are asked to go to the Capitole and you will do what you are told. You are spectators and have no right to speak," she recounts her professor's words from that time.

Dalí sat on a swivel chair that he had expressly requested, while students sat cross-legged on the floor, forming a semicircle around him. The editor-in-chief of Le Monde newspaper, Michel Droit, was invited to interview him. "During this meeting, Dalí gave little taps with his cane that made him turn slowly. The journalist was forced to turn around him to always face him," Llareus-Dinier recalls. "I counted – he made seven turns. I told myself there must be a reason. On the seventh turn, Dalí announced with a strong Catalan accent: 'The interview, it is finished.'"

These words caused Michel Droit's astonishment. Salvador Dalí retorted: "God took seven days to create the world and you're not capable of doing an interview in seven questions? Who do you think you are?" He then addressed the students: "You have seen how to make a journalist go around in circles. Remember this well: a journalist, even if he interviews a great master, must always have the last word, just like the art critic who must never let themselves be walked on."

The story doesn't end there. Llareus-Dinier would cross paths with him a second time, when the master presented his work "The Divine Comedy" in a Toulouse gallery and requested that a qualified art critic be present. She recounts: "I arrived at the gallery early. He was already installed in his armchair with Gala (his wife) sitting like a mermaid at his feet. He looked me up and down and said: 'An art critic, a critic in skirts, but a critic. And 'con' (fool) starts with the same letter, we are in Toulouse, fool.'"

"My blood had drained. I looked at him steadily and said, copying his accent: 'Master, a critic and a Catalan also start with a 'c' and I am also Catalan.' I then felt myself lifted by the security guards who wanted to throw me out. The master asked them what they were doing. They replied 'she insulted you.' Dalí then concluded: 'No, she understood the lesson. A critic must never be made a fool of.'"

This is how she had the privilege of being invited for three days to Salvador Dalí's home in Portlligat, Spain. "There, I saw the gentleman. I understood that all this extravagance was to feed the coffers of Catalonia's social security, for the families of fishermen who had no financial aid," she reveals. It was a stay from which Llareus-Dinier returned amazed, having witnessed snail races and cups thrown into tar as works of art – experiences that would forever shape her understanding of art and its deeper purposes.