CUNTS ON STELAE
Democracy has cut the testicles to all those who ought to guard her towns. The kids left to themselves have the cash and the impunity to buy cans of spray paint and do with them what they kid themselves it should be art. Pharaoh Sesostris gave to add engraved cunts to the stones which were erected in the towns that had had the feminine mind of giving up without striving: it was his way of evincing the utmost scorn against men who didn’t resort to their force to safeguard the whole peoplew, or rather the community.
The more permissive a time is, the more it mortifies folk aesthetics and separate artists, the more it requires them to embody cynical slovenliness. Manual inability, advantageous political anger, maximum alienity to inspiring sources, they can all agree on: not an ancient strenght in medulla. The courtiers of the international art business wouldn’t entitle so much character. Enmomastered and entated, Cy Twombly mocks through Sesostris these unwarlike courtiers, deceivable by the first chance finger-mark they see on a canvas: simultaneously he discloses yet his double-nature, because the scornful pharaoh reigned over Egyptians and Ethiopians, the only one of unending dinasties, and Twombly chooses the motionless, turbid, hyperindividualistic Italian way of life and meanwhile roots his work in the incorporeal ground of that American star worship where eveything is on the grandest of scales – from dimensions of show-rooms to rating of any single painting.
To send merely even a sizeable panel from Gaeta to Venice, if not to Gagosian in New York, costs a mint of money: banned from thinking about the straitened essence of ordinary people’s life, the courtiers of the system will abhor the parallel, but whit that money gets along – would get along – a working house throughout six months – if not ten months.
Twombly would be the first to laugh if ‘plane and costly wrapping went down in the ocean: he’s the first to be aware of being a soiler of fetishes for magnates, never underpinning his idle manufacts with strict theories and nay delighted in tracing the megalomania of Sesostris, who – it’s Erodotus again to relate it – put to use the prisoners as carriers of tremendous stones.
The transfer is unwilling, staminaless, lovably marked in the least. His nods to preterite faces of history can’t be returned. Karl Evver doesn’t ovverate the premodern art either. His Allestimento
[ Setting up, pyrography on batten, 29,8 centimetres in width, 43,9 in height, 0,61 in thickness ] jeers at the today’s cult of objects confirmed by the Moma’s anointed, but he knows all the same the vanity of much bygone art. In their Contro tutti i ritorni in pittura [ Against all artistic recurrences ], Sironi, Funi e Dudreville write – well into Futurism – si cerca invece appoggio, sostegno e falso coraggio nel ritorno puro e semplice alle già troppo note costruzioni plastiche degli antichi [ there’s instead looking for fulcrum, support and wrong bravery in the mere recurrence of the almost too known plastic structures of the ancients ]
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