CAUDA MUNDI

 

To Leibovitz’ opinion, man has to go into things with some preconceived ideas in order to get anything done , but if you embrace what you’ve got, the two circles overlap and one of the two is lost to the look.If you go ever gently on your skin, you won’t know that there’s an inner blood-sea in your calm. As far as one can see and tell, the world is anyhow further on and broader than the employed words. Twombly goes to Rome to draw name-check a few old gods on paper then sold dearly to a good few agnostic. He widens his gestural dearth quite over the use and the wont of Lexington, guessing the coming art-market should have looked like it disdained any inborn fragrance, any inheritance boundary, any fit in people. Longanesi had defined the Fascist Revolution popolare, essendo il popolo strettamente legato al suo passato, nemico delle riforme e di tutto quello che non dal suo seno nasce   [ popular, being the people tightly tied to its past, adverse to reformations and to all that doesn’t grow out of its womb ], but the common individual isn’t given the chance to poke at the abstract womb the fetishes of the international art-market spring from. Too fond of praising the rootlessness of post-war resetting, the overcome Rome has interned its popular gists in the moving screen and affectedc full and idle assent to enemy’s aesthetics alongside the static art-imagery, and frail, learned artists, caught in a time of gelded meanings, can be as renouncer as any. Yet, buried alive under the reason debris, duly sprayed in blood, the Muse was breathing. Few were listening, but she was renewing her acquaintance with old movements afoot and buds to come. Buds that were not given broad room to breathe in democracy: that sucked a cache of their Italic leaves back from tabooed ordo romanum . It doesn’t serve art purpose to make these buds untimely grand and outstanding. Pan was given upfor died, yet Evver doesn’t give us him alive by running round punching and snatching the wayfarers: Ensor, the Belgian who redeemed Belgium from Baudelaire’s tirade, gave the painter a skull as head, an eyed skull yet, and Evver has spannered on nothing else but the apparent corpse of many gods for all his twentysomething-year underdoing in painting. When he wants to know what’s next, he asks the one the others say it’s died, dumb and forbidden. No art can provide exact ratios of truth, so he disregards proportion and features and tries to reach for scraps of deeds that have been blown inside the mythical preliminaries of what we are. Whether acted out or left in brain sombreness, they affect our doing: the rut / made thousands of years ago by one of the first / wheels  Ashbery is in need of, is the synapse through which one neuron sends off one change of the being to another neuron. He who yelled out Pan has died!  tried to take the sting out of human thrust and make man easy for a demiurge to wield, and still Evver’s sign are leaning on that unpredictable god. Pan è vivo!  [ Pan is alive! pyrography, mordant, crayons and plumbago on batten, 47,4 centimetres in height, 40,8 in width, 0,4 in thickness ] fades the useful lie and narrates the young

 

 KARL EVVER'S Pan è vivo!

 

man on his knee who realizes that the God has not died, and points to the man with the vernicle so that he may understand it being of no use. Drawing in times not at all avid to watch gods’ doings doesn’t levy an artist the pomp of the shared faith: it would be futile for an onlooker to fathom quite how a god is unlike men, and none of our categories is however borne out by true edges between beings. In the Fifties, Lastex corseting wiles in swimsuits fashioned unactual women – there was in the room much less going on than might on the beach meet the eye – Van Gogh had surrounded the contours with black streaks to honour the then in vogue rouge-noir  angst, clumsily, Dominique Abraham parts crosswise and wisely sea and foreshore, without really wanting to render the mystical match of silicon and water all along Donnant beach. The kneeling man hasn’t a clue what the god will get in doing, and Evver doesn’t seem to either. Closer in his subdued tone to a not summoned witness than to an announcer of portents, he’s a not very might painter, but has a bottomless endurance. Renato Serra had as much: Il mare, i monti, il teatro della storia non si muta: l’Italia ha tempo. Non c’è niente mai di fallito o di perduto in un popolo che ha la vitalità e la vivacità di questo  [ The sea, the mountains, the history theater don’t alter; Italy has the time. There is never anything failed or missed in a race that has the vitality and the sprightliness this one has ]. Twombly comes to this Italy, and the C-shaped columns out front of St. Peter’s basilica don’t draw him into the Christian, linear, crazily young time. The Ave Maria Grotto in Cullman, Alaska, would not draw him into itself more mightly. Christian blunder on things is recent, and no recent position about living can leave significant signs on human mind. Unifying faiths can stay put over a people decades or centuries, but ancient truth is still funnily fierce in removing them. Those columns still stand as haughtily  perpendicular as they did in the Bernini’s days, but the rites within are cleared out, without even the sudorific recollection of some share of mankind. Twombly likes better the erased past that shoves into us a more even soul arrears. If simmetry – a halved exertion in setting up room – underpins the most soothing outlines, none of them he can be bothered by to adjust what echoes down the ages in front of human eyes. Much like everything in our unstructured-socialism-clad world, bleaker is better, and giving up meaning has become the main acting in painting: feigned release of the inner man has levied a disharmony not there when art was not still throttled by an overpowering resentment against boundaries of the meaning and features of our onenesses during the short passage of existing, as well as feigned getting over death and his sway has bred idiots who skim along death keeping nitrous oxide between. Museum profile is nowadays dependent on painting wayward, but no practice in squalor earns out the huge speech of the lame theory behind. Words act as a shield for many, yet when art se raccroche jusqu’au bout à  the critics to exist, artists restrain themselves, guiltily glorying within a speech that endeavours to pick one thing by being the lofty one. That Untitled  Twombly creates in MMIV and unnamedness nuisance calls in brackets Gaeta   gives us running paint and some corkscrew spiral: Piero Chiara has taught us that both the beautiful and the ugliness are the fruit of an equal creative exertion, and attained properties also, the background wholeness being kept untriable by its own superiority above any single property. Twombly has gone to great lengths to extinguish any dilemma of ours, engendering mild bad paintings where history is for pale show, not for figurative real, each sign of it revealing just how little effort has gone into contenting the onlooker, proving his own worth by knotting himself to some ancient path in western aesthetics. Straight lines are not a better gesture than any crooked sign the pencil could ever let on, and if there’s close to nothing that gets over the pointless stippling around of anomie in Twombly’s freedom, setting the bar for meaning chasmly low, if we draw our eyes near to Dall’Atrio di S. Pietro , drawn in MCMXLII by Dandolo Bellini, we perceive that any art casual-professing in both its means and
 

 

KARL EVVER'S Dall'Atrio di S. Pietro

 

its titles can not overstep the gate and undestand that the columns of that appalling C are not another gate, but the feasible start of a rush to other, older gods of Rome. Being American, Twombly is soaked in many disproportion mythologies. He knows that Cecil Calvert paid for the leasing of two and a half millions of hectares two shaft points, and has gotten one painting done with one rag and one ferrule in an hour and a half being sold by Gagosian at two millions bucks. Any haven of the international huge-money is geared to uphold and perpetuate this disproportion, by virtue of which man’s thoughts and actual occurrences don’t fall together, essuring the merit fixation within the individual is repealed by the backlashes within the whole engine of history. Modernisms take minutes to fulfil their works, but the individual’s entire, hidden fate over the gate that disjoins them from beauty, meaning, concatenation through generation, takes savoury shape as decades and easiness pretences have gone by. Not until a nation is rotten, do foreign deconsecraters quarter into the hole below her tail, and if in the Sixties’ poxi and encephalonless Rome Twombly can give way au plaisir de s’occuper de soi   without bringing himself up to any skill, yet without taking the mickey in front of the past skillness either, in MCMXLII he wouldn’t have been able to give art too easy a ride with his nonsensical signs in a Rome that wasn’t yet debased by far bigger foes through her beauty’s skin, through her wisdom’s fat, through her might’s muscle and down to her eternity’s bone. Remo Cantoni wrote cogently: Quando vien meno lo stimolo della pratica, neppure il conoscere ha una materia e un fine  [ When it fails the spur of practice, not to know either has a topic, an object ]. Later modernisms’ works are unremarkable from the outside and a nothing trove within: sketched out in an obtusely broad indeterminacy that compels the less staunch minds to guess at their meaning, they get them in the narcotic mood for the international market’s era, which on the other hand hits any silhouetted thought struggling to survive in its rude unsaleableness. What root is no one from those mass chaps going down to? This would be the worst question: humans are kept at arms length from those roots by their own lives being played out upon surfaces without foundation. So, they undertake digs to reach a beginning of so much pruning, but it is never to be. Our species can not be rescued from its own bustling about upon a deep nothing by any apparent reigning of ours: any reigning within the reach of us is a nothing – Derrida tells us – qui n’est pas une chose, ni un étant, ni l’être , which arouses a dance of avoidance among those ones among us who are the most scared by treacherous boundaries, inaccurate sciences, French sophisms. The Occident is so kind of motionless, that it is baffling to assess the artistic value of its unceasing painsless labors, to endeavour to drain its cultures steeped in still-thoughts. Mario Mariani – gibbettable for his Gibboning – maintained that l’ultimo romano fu Vezio  [ it was Aetius the last Roman ], so we might do truth a wrong ever to handle purple prose for later shapes of the ancestry, so Twombly would be right to fade and slake into threadbare patches that prose: it just would go to show how far Roman breed has come since Aetius. As a rough matter of fact, Rome is bigger than Romans are, and her genius wins out even when there isn’t public good one can warm to. No idea – if such a thing may be said to exist in his canvases – brings the Roman bequest sparkingly to life  in Twombly’s never learning knack and making out at once the west’s setting. If Montgomery gave Robert Charles Joseph Edward Sabatini Guccione the foreground and some Roman royalty the background, Twombly leaves himself and long gone Roman royalties within the lumber-room of the mind, entitling himself only to play with leads and soaked torns to a spastic standard.

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