The metal’ščik loathes the ice-queen allure as much as the king does, but the metal’ščik gets the foul load off his chest by pulping with a bomb people who have got nothing to do with his worry, the king by getting his hangman to string these obtuse terrorists.
The queens bore as the maid-servants: Ero soggiogato fisicamente ma la mia osservazione per la sua anima piccola, grossa,volgaruccia era sempre presente a farmi domandare il perché del mio desiderio. [ Physically I was subdued, but my examination of her petty, coarse, unrefined soul never subsided, never stifled my wondering the way of my desire] writes Umberto Boccioni in his MCMVII Note-book , and anyone can alleviate the sorrow of living by getting to bed alone and as far from gynaeceum as possible.
Species was because a male and a woman had be kissing and cuddling in a spinney, but art was when a man made something disembodied by trying to go back to his wild truth, to throw off mouth the false words of charming. The kind of discourtesy that leads to this ancestral pit is not one that has ever appealed to those who want to form welcome sentences and carry usual meaning for not startling the women: tits and thighs are given away from the trouble spots where the self abrades itself against the envelope of its pettiness.
There’s rumbling pressure in a metal’ščik in the boundless middle of the social heap to lacerate this envelope between himself and those at the top of the heap with a stiff burst: his still more stupid sons in power will slay million kulaks by charging them with being unfit for residence in Utopia; a sharp artist, colour-blind as well, wholly blind as well, never engaged in an old-fashioned and profitable apprenticeship as well, pierces the close raw cotton round those at the top, survives their empty talks to tell the very succinct tale of an astronomical figure gently gavelled by the auctioneer.
Modern art concerns almost entirely Wernicke’s and Broca’s Areas rather than eyes. The lexicon is metaphysical, the herd guilty to having not a clue about, no certainty that ensures that the masterpiece won’t sink into oblivion while the reviewer’s tongue is still whirling universes, whose only beauty guarantee is “Hitler shouldn’t have been fond of them…”
It’s equally true that the ancient,gifted, voluptuous painters have filled the world with heaps of Venuses and so much female flesh-white that restlessness of men never slowed down enough for their eyes to enjoy painting instead of theme. That their idolatry of female body has made women even more unnatural, venal and revolting than they were before the man learnt how to reproduce things and beings.
Divine Ingres paints still a Vénus Anadyomène besieged by puttos who reach her thighs and already should like to clamber her whole carnal glimmer. Cy Twombly spares us lubricous children and fertile hips, trollops sublimated in Madonnas, boobed abstractions on the sofa: his MCMLXXV Venus is an ill-traced red writing under which Anadyomen is not a milky, promising matron, but rather a still more awkward faint scrawl at the top of other school nominal left-overs.
A work like this isn’t a vision that lingers in your emotions minutes afters you’ve taken a look at its listless superficiality. It has been made – and purchased, and treasured, and published – just because the western education burst under the coercion of the blinkered liberal establishment of arts and media, fiercely compulsive to distastefulness, inversion, infantilism, communication freeze, regular mannered scandal, depressing dearth of reasoning.
Too savvy to be the victim of these short-lived political disdains, accomodation contents, shoutings into a garish windbag, Twombly discloses without haughtiness the proof of his waning powers over the matter while tamely amusing himself by suggesting a dilettante approach to the times and keeping under his hat his disparaging such a ferrous Age. Karl Evver doesn’t wear hat, and unkempt and going bald wonders “Where is this scaling of last rust leading our sight to? To a residual core where the market histerically keeps its act of mass hypnosis going?” Down to the last chip they’ll dress it up with words such “counter-culture” and other self-satisfied wrenchings of truth, they’ll suck shameless the public milk to put up shows which will be seen only by the prosperous: but Evver listens already the bursts on the unsewn yarns of that superb dress.
His I fuggitivi [ The runaways, pastel crayons on thin pasteboard, 48,3 centimetres in width, 68,4 in height ] doesn’t penetrate the aerial mess of
deflagration which stems from it: Teseo Tesei’s self-immolation in the Maltese waters fed his belief in a chaos painting since he was a young paper scraper, the sad grand finale by TNT and lethal communist outlook of Pietro Zuccheretti’s life would inspire many sour studies into the cruellest fire of becoming, but here in I fuggitivi the dread is beyond the architecture.
We watch yet some people running away from a rift in the town. It is quite wrong in painting to try to hoodwink the spectator into thinking that the artifice required to halt the dashing men is the same as compensating them for what they lose by leaving it back. This trick, though, is unknown to Karl Evver and foreign to his immodesty in witnessing the perishability of every shape, the quick rising of any face to the ash that doesn’t ogle and isn’t ogled.
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