ENVY AT JEWS
Ageing females claim soft focus on the set. The ships on the studio sea are encircled by fog. The moguls never want to belong to a nation, whipped money doesn’t stand the borders of only one people. The feeble mind pretend that the universe be interred in its mere handful of theorems.
In his journals dictated early in the morning by phone Andy Warhol confesses that he envies Twombly his Tatiana. It would be enough to laugh, to think over that boundless motive power which is the gay lobby, over the belated ascent of Twombly to the empyrean of auctions, screechlets of idle ladies and waste of superlative degrees. Perhaps Warhol was merely exhausted by pushing his sumptuous way through throngs of German large-scale industrialists to reproduce, jet set’s farts and corroded nostrils.
Perhaps he would have confess that he envied Twombly the grafting in a Jewish sapful stock. Unlike Capote, he didn’t mention however this risky word, in which they mingle truism, boyish reverie of rising, underrating of other people’s fag at living, truth about a striking racial solidarity. Hobbes had good sight: So that in the first place, I put for a generall inclination of all mankind, a perpetuall and restlesse desire of Power after power, that ceaseth onely in Death . Sitting outside thought in the human relations and had to go in its fiendish darkness for some inoffensive comparison: worldliness licks us, but her tongue is glass-paper: yearning for the young, sparkling flesh pulls us into the night, but the holes in this flesh release daily sewage and mire from which we turn the nose out.
In the Warhol’s room the walls are silvery, but your Levi’s must have a certain number, your leather jerkin must be of a certain brand, your shabby top must accept a wig even if true skin will itch unbearably on the seventh course. Going abroad, Cy Twombly called halt to that crossed, metropolitan, unspontaneous gallivanting, pleasantly and patiently waiting in his studio at Gaeta for time bringing these affected gaieties crashing to the ground.
What’s the gust Karl Evver implies in his Bretelle [ Suspenders – plumbago, pastels, lipliner on lath,
34,8 centimetres in width, 52,8 in height, 0,31 in thickness ] Is it the Twombly’s delight from a sense that propriety is being at long last attained or is it spite against the withered masters with the crowns of the smile stuck into the Big Apple?
The good, watermarked lard of Franchettis was surely a great help to him throughout the long winter of the narrow renown, but nothing in his work titillates the Sinaitic hallucination. Its model is the palimpsest, the document in which a later text effaces the earlier catches him keenly Robert Hughes: and a palimpsest is the heathen, ephemeral, doubting antithesis of the Mosaic tables.
It would be darn tough to find all the remnants of the classic view onto man, things and world in the Twombly’s aggregations of signs: what’s immediate is to see how far they are from the disco classicism of Mapplethorpe, from the Mitoraj’s courtyard bombast. If Evver overtakes Twombly wrestling with suspenders, it is a simple and still profitable prophylaxis against the Mapplethorpe’s fad for carapace abdomina and always pole-never equinoctial waists.
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