It didn’t get much better than being a walker along the Grecian headlands before the wilting of this long Vulgar Era. He could come across a god and then laugh about cheating death: can’t we all when it’s a thinier-than-fancy matter of survival? He could watch beasts and women without having to make up a wounded core in their agitation: would he have been kinder had he invented that moral ulceration?

Christianity came to embroider fig leaves over male devices unless the puttos’, but as it wasn’t possible to fix them with safety-pins, they’ve fallen: the force of gravity was and still is stronger than any fictitious lightening of the human state, and the arrogance of Gregory the Great in reducing pictures to metaphysics’ conveyances has come to die of absurdity in the viral proliferating of shooting in our image-filled universal society.

O Gregory, your ad invisibilia per visibilia   [ to what’s invisible through what we see ] has reversed in our frenzy for seeing more and more deeply: a painting is not enough for us in its immediate conspicuousness, it must undergo an infrared photograph and reveal what the painter made and then repented of, what the artist did and then coarse restorers over- and overpainted.

Image has lost its surface appeal for the sake of digital disembodying, sample moltiplication and self-indulgent concocting fake mourning with false smiles, but western man remains among images for their documenting the Being’s neglect of our appearing, the invisibilia  ‘s unmovedness to our motion. Plato maintains in his Sophist   that noun plus noun plus noun plus noun don’t make one speech. Even done, a speech doesn’t find ear to a true interest, and that gives each face the freedom to say to hell with the livings-by. Face plus face plus face plus face don’t make one folk. Once done by a founder-hero, a folk is morbidly greater than the sum of its parts.

Urban youth graze themselves on dirt and cement to construct themselves mythologically. Kodak frame plus kodak frame plus kodak frame plus Kodak frame don’t give us their troubled, down-tamped, never under-full-sun day. The god has halted at the stake of the wire-netting, the boy has stopped demarcating the broad slate with a chalk. They have seen each other for a while, then the god has gone off and the boy has felt dry in his mouth.

Cy Twombly looks into yesterday’s chalk outlines. Karl Evver looks over the boy who stands tall an lifts his head; still, he takes no drawing of his head, leaving it with its thoughts off stage. The artist seems to be not allowed to do anything but handle his scorching metal point: these guys don’t go to a war, their abdomen will get soon out of shape, but Evver depicts it now, narrow and taut.

Not even Wyeth put war where war is not: in his paintings a Dutch helmet doesn’t shield a crew-cut pate, as Anna Kuerner makes use of it – turned over and warriorless – for gathering cones, and Wyeth doesn’t adulterate Anna Kuerner’s smooth way of life.

A guy can stand on his own two feet without help from outward idealisms. The truest escapism come surely to him through those feet, and Evver, shier than any posing lad, doesn’t take drawing of such freedom implements. Juxtaposing a lad with those of his time’s customs and imperatives that have influenced him is a sifting hard to carry off, and Evver steers clear of hard job.

None of the likes and dislikes a young man oozes with his brute rush through life seems to be shared by the painter. A painter who has had to keep as much introvertedly hidden as possible beneath the burden of his wretchedness and isn’t therefore interested in the amusements of the well-to-do idlers ( erection, vicuna trousers, bracelet up and down the gesticulating, Marxist-imbibed kulchural affectation ).

Evver knows that the sad destruction of the equipoise of what used to be called the natural body has been by those who shrilly and unendingly claim to be its saving liberators. The same thinkers who have delivered women’s body to the most savage surgical rites of all times and the men’s one to a surface muscularity over the most mucilaginous uncertainty even about its genus.

Kouros  [ pyrography on polished paper, 43,9 centimetres in heigh, 30,9 in width ] is the middle of one body. The only body of a guy who maybe





dreams about just leaving it for a night and being mere soul in mid-air. Species is, by itself, overgrown with features, and therefore in no need of further identikits. As Lozi archly declares, the reason why we pass through calamities is that we have a body   : whereas nowadays some blame the escape from any human feature non-representational art impudently pursues, other people ascribes it to an upsurge in salubrity, as if the species were full to repletion of being reflected in effigies.

In fact, theories, boxing between old and the newness, individual hindrances and modish reproofs follow one upon the other, while so many potentially fine buds go unbloomed, so many latently great things fade unmade. As Updike writes, books externalise our brains, and turn our homes into thinking bodies  , neither exhaust they yet the crowd of the possible beings. Paintings turn too our walls into multiple and loose landscapes, but don’t exhaust the unending string of the physical beings.

Dynamation   - and Harryhausen’s forbearance upstream – made much of myth visible again among carnal persons, and digital animation makes nowadays the much   of the Sixties an almost all. We must say yet almost  because bad faith in democracy blunts screenwriters and scenarists, and much of the human tangle between asshole and brain remains anyhow out art’s reach. Wilde lavishes with guild spirit when he asserts The true artist is known by what he annexes, and he annexes anything  : no mind sifter has eyes broad enough to include every shape of the world, and aside from some stroke of sublime approach from some artists the gods’ action fruitfulness goes left untouched by the mortal hands.

Things, and the day they’re in, are not going to look like that forever, so it’s pardonable huff to have some pictures of those temporary bodies inside passing moments of one civilization, but it has been just as well Twombly in MCMLXIX has expelled from his Bolsena  - properly speaking one of the blackboard paintings left to a careless Untitled  - any tripper, any sail, the whole lacustrine flora, any wave animation for treasuring only one chalk parting – properly analysing one white wax crayon line on blue gray background.

What parts this line? Some could say it’s just the boy’s joy of scoring the wall with a nail while he walks skimming past it. The adult’s life is abounding in names, nouns and stores but scantier in glee than those early self’s scoring in the hard world. With that comes the inevitable suspicion that he might really be a faux-naive, putting on the trance-stuff; and what’s more, prettying it up a bit   sticks us up Tom Lubbock with regard to Twombly: though appearing freeing, randomness and infantilism are far from it, and the easiest deed often means to reduce to slavery the best latent remnants of archetypes in mind. What could come and astonish perishes in the deed turned out badly.

Obsessed to downplay the balance and the relevant labour of the classical knowledge of matter, man and maths, modernism has built its works on no better grounds than the slime of the most verbose theories, through whose layering words are not retained truth and pain. The word zettaflood about spots and stains – providing that they are brandished by auction – is not where man belongs: it is rather where he becomes hoarse and disjoined from his own hands.

Classicism too can banish man from its marbles, and Jefferson’s Italianate hermitage gives America the disrepute of a willingness of a new nation to be of first-rate stock basing itself on ill-thought-out and imaginary scion. Gods hammer recurrently on these intellectual settings with war scions, bare, wild portions of truth, inrushes which leave the mind flooded with flashes from all sides. Any painter worth seeing isn’t really eased at all because there is loudly still more motion that could be squeezed from this worl stuffed with godlinesses and fight: every god who reappears proves that world can countain meaning again, and that can yield such a great tumult that a bourgeois of sturdy Darwinian principles can fall to the ground and stammer for mercy.

Unlike many colleagues, Karl Evver answers for unseen events, not even bothering to shun the ex-votos’ low touch, to give the god godly radiantness [ Pan spaventa un cittadino , Pan scares a townsman, pyrography, crayons and plumbago on batten, 22 centimetres in height, 21,8 in width ].



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