IS TRASH OUR ROOT?
Art used its wealth of shades, optical frauds, glitterings and euphemismes to turn nonentities in Venuses, she-nobodies in sumptuous bodies. “Because woman is really a viper: if you don’t touch her and she’s quite gorged, she shams not to see you, and perhaps she doesn’t see you in earnest.” well saw in the human wood Mario Puccini, and spreading orange peel legs apart a guy finds just a shady, Courbetian stagnation, never a getaway from mortality, matter and nonsense.
The feminine body doesn’t have a bad angle for prying into, portraying, going mad, photographing, what has given rise to an inflation of mammary trunks all over frescoes, lockets, canvases, bills, almanacs, celluloid, plaster of Paris, cathode fizzes, placards, the submissive gold, the compliant coated paper and anything else susceptible to a copying sign. Avant-gardes have decimated wenches lying on a brass bed, swan neck ladies, gipsy dancers rolling to the walls of gentility, buttocks of naiads, dairy legs of courtesans flung over the companions on idle sofas, and we’ve moved in time with their graceless, shoddy, detrimental boots towards a harsher, more secluded, unsightly-oriented imagery.
Chivalry in depicting suffers from then on because it failed to recognise the bitchism straight behind the Olympian faint smiles, the sebum in the silk of the voile, the mere cellular teeming beyond the provisional oneness. It repeated – to sum up – the dignified misfire, in which all the griefs of the women about their soulless receptacle are expelled from the sighting.
The essence of an object has something to do with the way it turns into trash Roland Barthes writes with some coyness, which gets him to use something in place of nearly quite . Mario Cutajar is the man who well has looked into the Twombly’s exploitation of the civil, western, historical trash: The peculiar genius of this artist for harvesting new fruit from the age-gnarled tree of European culture even as others declare it to be dead and good only for firewood .
Slackening of things and beings towards decay is the natural, timely, clearing, if somewhat aching, method the world stays eternally young with. If archetypes crowded this world with everything that you see on it immutable and never subdued by light, time and foes, there wouldn’t be for mankind the deepest joy of contest, of dismembering, of making the others cry, of pitying themselves: rust, death and rotting poke gentle fun at wares and simulacra we amass everywhere and allow our children to be with ease unmindful of us, our grandchildren to leave our children at the rotten back of their own present.
This world of transient shapes is a fine place to spend time and senses, quite for we skim through rose-without-trace, volatile, deceptive duplicates of great things we just shall realize the hint of, till our last darkening day. Venetians enclosed the oldano grains, so pleasing to their nostrils, inside small globes of silver filigree, so that the brittle resin might keep a longer time, but behind such goldsmith’s craft there was the customary helpless huff of the Passionate Pilgrim and his Age, I do abhor thee .
Nouns hold out at more lenght than things they fit, names longer than men who wear them. We see smeared names often on Twombly’s canvases, but can’t smell any more the stench from emperors’ and galley oarsmen’ armpits: it has evaporated at the proper time.
There’s something child-like in Twombly’s getting livelier to the sound of some old names – septuagenarian Twombly’s even. In his Three studies from the Temeraire , Turner’s virtuosities in light and subsiding reality are glossed over in favour of a bustle by a preterite, heroic battleship name: art seeps yet in the work from his philosophy facing up the downfall which waits for the most heroic craft even to reach its Last Berth .
This unrigging truth, quite at odds with any easy daubing, clanklessly engages with the viewer, who can’t see the true Temeraire , as it was broken up, but can get a chance to step mentally back to when there still were oars straight to the vault or scanting into the sea. Some of us may be thinking that Twombly hasn’t hatched such and such a nautical item, and that he really should have, but the more detailed, the more teeming and the more eye-catching a painting is, the sourer it is for our innermost feeling to perceive the dispelling of that day, of those rowers, of that keel, of those circumstances.
The most anyone knows of them by peering into these three pictorial hints is that those men – it took so many arms to shift so much caulked skeleton – haven’t left recollection of their face, of their individuality: it is since the last century that we guess a swift daubing is as good a corresponding amount for the human temporariness as giving up the representation. By peering into Principis sanguis recurrit in ovo nationis , what do we guess?
Karl Evver takes here grander cue from slaughter necessity than from classical juxtaposition. The openly vertical painting [ The blood of the chief goes back into the nation egg, pyrography, crayons, plumbago, lipliners, kajal, ballpoint pen, water-colours on plank, 101 centimetres in height, 60,5 in width, 1,6 in thickness ] refuses the highest of the nationals the tasteless honour of going gentle into that good night the earth embezzles our sight with: Evver hasn’t whittled away from his wood irregularities and rudenesses with a chisel, he hasn’t sissyfied the surface by sanding or polishing before laying his allegory down. He likes the racked wood, le laisser brut , to spare it a concealing paint on its scarred geography, as this he feels to be the most cathartic foundation whatever the acumen or the expectation of eye.
Evver doesn’t look trivially through that window into what might have been, had Fortuna Publica , the veiled goddess, turned out differently for the Duce in particular and Italian nation in general. Nothing so obstinate as Evver’s painting could be fomented by the amorphous, faintest, theoretic amusement of hypothetical sentences: it feeds on tragic entanglements of men, instincts, straddled energies, without romances thrown in.
Every man has only one body, only one death. Hanging by the feet, dead Mussolini loses all his blood, which in part ends up in the gullet of a madhound – the mobile mob, the one thing we’re taught about from the earliest stare is that it is obtuse and fierce – and in part trickles into the grudgeous embryo of recurrences to come.
If he hadn’t come to stare at this dog’s witless eyes since he was guy, he wouldn’t have grown chief and wouldn’t have been able to get this beast to bark against so many sundry fiends through two decades. No Evver’s view is yet a stop-off for anyone stirred by the butcher show: he doesn’t handle the blepharostat and the huckster imperatives – unlike expressionists and sanguinary foreground lovers – his art would seem to hunt for being taught about that beast rather than experiencing its copiousness of fangs.
The present lies on remainders not its own, and can dig into or flatten them with its own self-love-step. Modernist creed has it that legs of rude innovator can spring and kick, but forbears’ – decayed, earthy and shoveless – do not: this lonely march matches an apparent result Twombly isn’t looking for and Evver abhor in so far as dance without echoes. Earthenwares make a hill, victims spread ideas to come, a borer is a spiral staircase into the past, no jump would give pleasure without its thud on the pressed powerlessness of the former world.
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