Either the steep ascent or the masks. Either ascending and sweating or a winking woman’s ass. The demigod looks at neither. Scratchi provides him with a dreadful stick he could either put down a woman or mount the steepest mount with, but our society of senescent youth and universal parity is sadly subject to a frenzy of leg jam where choice necessity or funnel choking are involved.

Twombly to hasn’t made a choice. The stick in Scratchi’s Ercole al bivio   [ Hercules at the fork ] hasn’t planly appalled him: he has come in Bassano in Teverina, with its warren of narrow lanes which all seem to glide to the private pleasures of the singles, hiddenly heathen houses, but he often has come back to the American smithy of the mercantile repute.American myth of the skilless artist is where he has made his stamp, but he has early known that the utmost sense of the human acting would be always to be found around an Italian half-buried mossy pillar, also become loo for dogs.

Seeds can fail to germinate, but everyone comes from a seed. Roots have been upset in a wholly ungentlemanly manner by such a lot of experimental art, but if there is one spare, beneficial rule in painting it is that the amount of strenght an artist has shown putting awareness off the descent is always in direct, morbid ratio to the amount of myth outpouring the onlooker will catch flancing at that cacography, that disembowelled filling, that havoc among heraldry.

Some 20,000 people a day go to view the eyebrowless Mona Lisa, a dead, disunited, historically unmarked woman – supposing Leonardo understood the genera it seems our species has been bisected in – while a girl just a teensy bit over-long-sighted towards future and on maths knows that she’ll be loved twice in lifetime and left behind long before the change.

Do Japaneses look for their roots in the Leonardo’s zest in shadiness, for some seed in that landscape farer and more oneiric than a vivarium on the moon? An Old Master knew how to handle palette, symbol science, subtleties of optics to emulate on canvas the effects of any day hour, of any feeling among men, spirits, gods: the same mayn’t be said of modernists and their grand-nephews with any imagery defaulting off their improvised grounds.

Freedom is an egotistic machine that ejaculates repeat images onto canvas. Twombly had no wish to mount the Old Masters’ height even as a lad: he has left birds the pleasure and the lavishness of mounting. He has never been like Giovanni da Udine, who went birdwatching and birddrawing at the bressane  - the Venetian nets for fowling – and whose Libro degli uccelli  has got lost. It’s not that he doesn’t seize the bulk of the show, it’s just that here in a Western world saturated with images, duplications, art movements, schools and analytical hypertrophy he stands: he can do no other, he has no virtues to give signs of.

His signs are instead what we could see on the apron of the Virtue One, precisely sordida veste induta  on there to deter Hercules from the gauzes around the sluts’ arses. Because the Roman Art-Lite of movie studios, literary awards and TV undergrowth doesn’t linger in Twombly’s mind, doesn’t infect his canvases and papers with its inflation of tarts, curvaceous anatomies for hire, Fellinian wet-nursesickness. The Ferragosto V   by Twombly is an apron not bleached for over six weeks, not a foreshortening of tanned hiatuses between bathing suits, as in the Tom Wesselmann’s flat, perpetual, hefneresque mid-August bank limbo.

Human thoughts are only fully consistent in the few brain ramifications where geometric, algebraic and mathematical brightnesses re-echo and never find refutation. The rest of human thinking and acting is an inconsistent hotchpotch of generalisations, dislikes, memories of never occurred conversations, philosophical miscarriages, day-dreams. Art sprouts excited and radiant, ripens onto sharp depiction of the inner wonder of the world pageantry, degenerates in clichés and perfunctory resumés, comes back to the dark, latent, seminal plenties in the ground.

Karl Evver hankers sometimes to have lived in that radiant, forechristian age as an axe-bearer of one demigod. To have pried into the sprouting ramification of the human cleverness in collating, inferring, abstracting from mere, short-lived and illusory flesh of the moment. If you’re looking to decipher where Evver’s sign rarefaction is coming from, have a look at his Euclide traccia in terra un’orbita  [ Euclid lays out an orbit on the






 ground, pyrography, crayons and graphite on masonite sheet, 34,5 centimetres in width, 27,3 in hight roughly ].

The mathematician is separating the orbit from its own celestial mechanics in order to give it a much more manageable outline – manageable for the narrow, ephemeral human mind. The painter in his turn holds him in succession – Euclide traccia in terra un’orbita VII  






[ Euclid lays out an orbit on the ground VII, pyrography, crayons, graphite and lipstick on twelve-ply wood, 19,5 centimetres in diameter, 2 in thickness ] in the serendipity of a small circle. If Euclid makes the most of human lowiness by using the soil like a brownboard, Evver’s gloomy glamour is in part due to his late arrival at fabricating, when consistence illusions were even thinner on the ground than in his onanistic years.

Princess Margaret had to pose 33 times for Annigoni, and the woman we see is an entity whose only truth is the want of modern fitments. Does the lack of whatever button come into such an untemporal highmindedness? Do buttons and zips give a painting an increasingly derogatory lexicon? Can improving figuration do any better than this provisional reality that sun has got in under its light?

Every day some figures crumble to nothing without it divesting the world of its redundance of shapes. Princesses and bitches pass, never to return. If we watch them it’s a moving feeling, quite for they’re brief onenesses inside a huge people that’s renewed without its single atoms being ever thoroughly scrutinised. Annigoni clothes a princess with an absoluteness where there’s no perspiration, no rumpled running, no impending dissolution of the scope into a different paging of its constituents. His high-flown, instantly accessible cleverness moves the suspicion of the community among the fates away from our sight – through telve second at least.

Evver divests a mathematician of his ptolemaic, fine tunics and lays him on all fours to sweat and to scribble on the soil. Uneasy with craft and over-worn out, his painting is impolitely unhelpful to those who swiftly walk up to art rather than into constitutive inadequacy of art. By treating the unknown, the vastly far-off, the gloomily innate as figures, he ensures – coarsely and yet evocatively – that those become ones.

Twombly was crafted from below, from the lowest undertow of Vulgar Era to paint in a manner any one could quite equal. Crafted just before New Deal, the largest inner-nation zeroing of onenesses in American history. The western world had a feast – following the post-war affluence – for the ages – ours included – and the daemon of this feast insisted and exacts the artist’s hand be given independence from head, aim, allegiance into beauty. If Evver seems to a certain extent in agreement with the prison philosophy of Albertine Sarrazin – All I know about men, I shall use it against them  - Twombly has more loosely used what he knew about this wringing animal to achieve a senile stardom over it.

When he chooses, man can be bewitched by what he didn’t deign to look till yesterday at, and Twombly has waited without stupid crazes for that twist of the public beast which would get it to admire unmastery in line and color and untopographical views. If Alexander Mackay had told Americans their society couldn’t enjoy a Corinthian capital at its top, Twombly has come in Italy to show them through exogenous and indolent namings of peppered canvases how to dodge the hard appenticeship of carving a close flora in the stone. To instruct them to accept stained daywear for togas, and, most of all, the blind, twisted alley in the universal market’s guts for that ὄδος μέγαν εἰς Ὄλυμπον, that great road to Olympus Sappho was able to scour and our art isn’t.

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