Numero deus impare gaudet . The god has pleasure in the odd number. Some people – the ones bloated in the pair standstill – might not like it, but that, not the ease in dividing without dismembering the individual unit or the two stepless legs of the inanimate tin soldier, is what living is about.

Faustulus finds the twin brothers but it is necessary for the beginning of a fine history that either dies out before long. 100 people have to sit in apparent discrepancy and do what watchword in force ask of them: half of assembly complies with its la-di-da, half of assembly jams in its own bombasticism. Together, they litter two barren miscarriages, stalemate and symmetry.

A wider half parts company from the lower one with the lewd delight in breaking unevenly the mirror law. Not an entity lasts but it breaks, but an odd number does it releasing the medial meandering of a decimal point. A

bacillus that excells in the thing bacilluses inside tame bodies are meant to excel at: to shift the existing state into the state-to-be.

Delighting in the odd number upset in company with that cheeky god is not something most couples do with a light heart: the man alone waits for the unknown event that lights his fire, and he’s more debonair and vibratile than any paired man, as well as the third man peeping at the door centuplicates the mind germinations in any slow-witted pair.

Equal shares bore eyes and brain stiff, but Occident has only taken two millennia and a half to dislike to Greco-roman yearning hendiadys of smoothness and correspondence. Nevertheless the passion of nearly every modernism for scabies and unbalance seems to stem from their unlikeness to Hitler’s love for Hellenic sublimation of complexion and breed or Tsars’ foible for the overfiligreed eggs. Soundly waspish to the core, and a good deal wiser than most of the soilers generation, Cy Twombly has come to work unsteady over a very deep well: over the dead of the western acting. Karl Evver represents him as an angler over this unbounded well of larvae, signs, forefathers and substrata.

Iterica   [ pyrography on plastic boards, each of two 46,7 centimetres in widht, 55,4 in height ]




ITERICA II                                              ITERICA I



doesn’t counteract the individual origins to the preceding ones, the down here to the further down. Polished though classical artists were, their soundness was always going to be tainted by semiawareness of the ineffectuality of human striving: unable to parse the word of the gods in spite of this ineffectuality, the kidults of the present-day art-substitute have had to run after the chaotic, tattering and padding nature for shamming in their turn sheer atoms of passage.

Evver sees America like a might to above, a powerful raising in granite and steel of the many’s will and money, and Italy like a pit of refuses, embryonic scars and germs which involve down lower and lower atavisms. The gap between the ancestral echoes an artist is gifted from birth and the costive works he’s currently littering can become a chasm broader than Atlantic Ocean Twombly waded without worries and Evver implies between the scalds of his diptych. But what are we if not a tragically wide apartness between potential matter and building destiny?

In Brooks Adams’ opinion, a certain Cagean sense of flux  distances Twombly’s work from the more purposeful and willfully heroic strokes of the Abstract Expressionists  , and we delight laxly and regretlessly in Twombly’s Cagean saying nothing because this nothing originates certainly in the cultural repletion of our time, but opens out to include everything else we come still from. Were it to lead to the ancient murder that set the brothers asunder and began the joyful domain of the single, odd king.


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