Regality lies on a dark ground most of the Jews can’t even think calmly over. The acclamations to a bodily one man are echoing around their brain emptied by abstract worship until they feel like they’ve been shut in a pit of indignity and infection.

No bodily vertex can seem as ungendered as the verbal one they look to. If Gentiles’ gods finish themselves off all over any gorge of mortal being, if their goddesses are pervious to heroes’ manliness and universal craze for begetting, Jews’ one god hasn’t ancestors, parents, spouse, amorosa: as with any pillage of the tactile trial, his authority was borne from word urge.

It is entertaining to see how ruthless such a topmost reechoing can be in building himself up and tearing any other summit down. Aren’t the kings the most visible summits of human scenery, aren’t? Aren’t their foreheads summounted by a crown undue ascents of the human body to the enjoyment of the superlative degree? Crowns and other social glitterings get besides a great look-in with the women, which doesn’t raise the good-will towards princedom in those who take already no pleasure in the spoilable matter.

When word does the unitedness of universe, while body does everything else – policy, accumulation of properties, fornication – the bodies become wicked against the body hightened by throne, and words get mashed in magnifications as far as not-showing. When Cy Twombly in MCMLXIV stresses his very gaunt Discourses on Commodus  in the biggest Jewish city in the world, the chill in the Jewish ears attests to the scale of their being struck with the very name of an unpious emperor.

Twombly endured nonchalantly such a frost, hard-wearing in his Augustinean certainty that among mankind plus tamen signum valere quam verbum  [ sign is worth yet more than word ], forbearing in getting the wife and her optimal race membership to reach the unnational elitism core. Three splits not of a woman cowed Isherwood in Berlin and diverted him from making out the ancient truths of Germany: Twombly didn’t go to war with the auricular wall of Pop America, semi-acquainted with the atonement of a Po-M0 America which could bundle a range of amateurishnesses and a broader scenery of desultory incompetence in acting than ever.

It was slight going, at ease with the Italians’ heart unfathomableness towards any princedom. That’s how Petrolini and Bovio hold the prince par excellence, Hamlet, up to a mellow and savoury mockery: Compro le scarpe/ mi vanno strette./ Se qualche volta in festa io ballo/ la mia compagna mi pesta un callo./ Monto in vettura/ muore il cavallo. [ I buy the shoes/ they fit badly the feet./ If sometimes I dance at a party/ my partner treads on my corn./ I get on a coach/ the horse dies down. ] Go-slower mods in Sixties’ Rome passed on to Cy this derisory way to get substantial yet aerial saving throughout history and creeds: with their catching glimpses of a deferred substance of the exploits until the wee hours, with their sliding away from tough choices, with their missini ’s   joy in shunning the clunking fist of new bigotry, occupying almost the entire width of the democracy sky.

Political endless forks may be the price we have had to pay for being blessed with overpowering, twofold-in-acting brains, but Twombly, self-effacing in his exertion of not meaning on vacant matter of modernity, has been able to fare richly among the critics’ idolatries, unmoved by competition like a horse stuffed with ketamine. The Jews forgave Solomon for his mind open to varying truth of idols as he had written MV poems, David for his goo so often squandered inside another’s women as he was able to exterminate other breed’s folks.

Twombly’s indulging in not meaning and past greatnesses – Commodus, and then the gigantic crash of religious hemispheres at Lepanto, and then Sesostris – was going full force through ever more amorphous Hebrew enclaves of income amassing in an ever more impersonal and vacant world, even if he was by no means a lamden , even if he was not tough enough to be called up to exterminate Palestinians.

He’s not skilful enough to plot a crown, quattrocento sharp lines become in his hands dubious leakings, but he doesn’t call on at least, unlike Schorr, nonentities like the Easter Bunny: he registers at least in this toiling over near-total vagueness really great names, wheter or not they give rise to new greatness is not in the gift of his feeble might.There’s no such thing as a magnitude you get called to take and lift up so that the throngs may have a pattern to rise within.

To dispute modern art would cause useless laryngitis. What a mad idea to depict things that never were!  the Siberian girl is shocked in front of the Drunken Silenus by Luca Giordano: what does look unseemly to her catching eyes are the goatish feet, and as a matter of fact gods and vividness have come alive most fully in classical painting, whereas modernisms are let down by their gouged-out shapes, by the throttling necklace of a nihilism still boorly rummaging through the inevitable monotheism.

Art can yet use what little essence remained underneath the western involution to skirt what is the man. The Reinette  had no old master in her collection. She found sufficient pleasure in her Boucher, grateful for his not representing the bouquet fané , the woman withering, the close-ups of a bloodletting through leeches. Some contemporaries censured Giordano’s impertinence in anatomy and offhand depending on colours: Tacciavanlo, che non avea egli verun fondamento nell’intelligenza di un ben corretto disegno  [ no ground in the understanding of well seemly drawing ], perocchè non intendendo la notomia, le sue figure uopo era, che fosser mancanti di parti; al che aggiugnevano, che quella sua maniera era fantastica, e ideata  [ that manner of his own, done with fancies and schemes ], giaccè col vago de’ soli colori toglieva la forza  [ he got the might ], dove più facea mestiere, come chiaramente il naturale stesso l’addita .

Never uncertain in sticking with a painting sunk back into the holy antinomies within man – neither flattened nor assuaged ever by any equalitarian roller – Karl Evver never falls prey to the blind satisfactions of rationalism, with its tetragonal, inquiryless guise about whether another’s supremacy can be good, and even propitious to one’s architectural becoming.

Don’t let’s fool by his drawing for art upon belated motives, sparse shoves into working, technical non-fulfilments: when Dalí writes that laurel counts for more than head, he looks over the upper architecture of society, where Evver doesn’t look into. There are lost deeds to make up to manufactured signs and very much time for restraining the fondness for the laurels’ rustle, in Evver’s seclusion.

Others’ heroism is a sight artists can watch or ignore as it suits their capacity to te re-echoing of the exception. Evver is fond both of the speechless road-walker  and of Marinetti speechfully marching through the Dore Gallery. Winner’s relish is beyond reach even for a most skilful drawing, but a draftsman doesn’t need to get him when win blazes up in his face, and anyhow that relish can not be kept a live a lot longer than in this blaze.

Paradoxically, in his Dordoni vince l’aria, la terra, la propria carne e i propri competitori  [ Dordoni overcomes air, earth, his own flesh and his own competitors, pyrography and iron oxide on poplar wood, 143 centimetres in width, 143 in heigth, 1 in thickness, Hall of The General Post Office, Piacenza ] Evver disregards the long exhaustion of the march – a








contest which takes the broadest hour and involves countless non-Euclidean rotations of knees and elbows – and the short pleasure in winning as well. You don’t get to hear a man panting as he walks: the commanding screech of modernisms – Do less of it!  – has never cowed Evver as far as drawing in any meander of the western viscus, nevertheless it has let him out from ornamental tasks and completeness duty.

The act of marching, it’s shortly all getting a lot samey, and Evver’s signs can not go on by bodies’ rules. One-off body-bovanderings are straight away forgotten about both from the running subject and from the objectifying painting, so one could argue – and many have – that we ought not to pay attention to the items rent asunder by representation. Evver doesn’t try to keep the signs about Dordoni as a winning person: his path to depicting does not lie in moving up the unrepeatable, short-lived complications of oneness, but in leaving them out of account for concentrating on the lemniscus only.

A crown is a head’s extension which requires the crowd keeps up with the crowned one. Laurels are a rustling way to get the winner to avoid making eye contact. A lemniscus is a sliplet around a laureate brow, and neither onlookers nor walker can know how such a ludicrous material is going to turn away the coming yard. It is not a strip just funnily being moved around by the passive wind of the march. It is not two faint lives carved into polished Parian marble which will outlast the hero either.

The died dog politics as Robbe-Grillet father saw it in democracies – belly upwards, and course and speed left to the river – is anyway adverse to laurel, pre-eminence through bold-faced personality, persistence in running. If such a dog were alive, it would snarl against any muse bearing a laurel wreath to crown a walker never yielding to his spleen.


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