Humans are condemned to relive generation by generation, endlessly, the same undissolvable obsessions. Agreeably condemned. Undissolvable, those clots of recurring idling thouhgt, by any sophistical solvent, all the pedagogical pressures, every astounding opium derivative discovered to mollify the communities.
Obsessions are asked from reasoning and refuse to go: the sage enjoys the half-vacuous moment then leaves it behind, the fixation slackens this atomic flowing and softens the individual mind up in an utterly efficacious exercise in amplification of elements and human relations to them, to their insecure arrangeing. He who’s doped by opium, he who overrates the sleep delight mistakes the earth for a pallet: κοίτη δὲ πᾶσα γῆ a Scythian wrote with the elbow ascending and scattering by coils of verbal self-satisfaction, but to lie here dormant they are the dead only.
Rooted in the puerility that there’s an only maternal earth and that all the different discernings and rulers of brothers and half-brothers are to be scorned, this rough Asian Cynic forgot guiltily the upright pugnacity of a few heroes and the night compensatory lethargy of labourers and defeateds, they who furrow the plain to sever a free expanse in two nations and those who jump that parting to give their single, raised nation more locks for the history wind. He had after all ears, the Scythian, for auscultating the ground and its varied roars. If he did not realise, he should have done not to write metic sillinesses.
Il nemico che viene [ The arriving enemy, ballpoint pen, pastels and kajal on plank, 68,7 centimetres in widht, 36,5 in height, 0,9 in thickness ]
shows us a man who doesn’t just sit on his ass in the universal ad-mass stoppage of the natural war amongst entities, but rather flattens himself with graceless effort to hearing the warlike music of the earth.
In a peace-drenched age, where entities rot whitout trying their strenght or their brittleness against opposed shapes, the art of Karl Evver is still about human thrustment in truth and detachment from it. Not anesthetic at all, his hand shoves our head down on the ground and rives the retroussé nose of the darling, overly stylized Lady Goodwill.
Earth is not a bed, Anacharsis. It’s a scree-track. It’s the light in your eyes that misfires, and a man who’s merely similar to a further one seems to it identical. Even those few heroes raise just dust. They don’t impair verily the earth, whatever the ecologists may say. They don’t improve the earth. Cy Twombly appears to see the Shades of Eternal Night in the shape of cloud of motes: this MCMLXXVIII thent of his Fifty Days at Iliam identifies fairly these other-worldy restlessnesses, belies with privileged disregard for the repose metaphysics the dream of assuaged souls and ended times.
Twombly’s papers will fade, Evver’s planks will become pale, and earth pains will continue into perpetuity.
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