The mouth the size of a chasm, the man in these hypermediarrhoexcessive times showers words which aren’t listened anyhow to. People opposite care only to take a look at intervals between the teeth, to know whether there is one thou of parsley leaflet. You can choose whether you are amused or depressed by the roar of this silent movie, but you cannot help awaiting the day when tongue will give rise to names to an open head.
Such a standstill, not only due to the enormous conglomerate of names, notions and stratified events compressed in our minds but also the desenchantment they concur in incorporating in any single deed of our days, broadens the dialogues out of all proportion and simultaneously clouds the raw, natural countenance of the fellows. Since talking is compulsion to cloud oneself, the words have the compulsion to strike an apparent settlement as long as their echo doesn’t extend the chit-chat past the salivary fervour.
Twombly escapes the Kennedian rumble and the feminine chirruping at the Leo Castelli’s vernissages liking more the backward, slovenly, skeptical, Roman tittle-tattle. Unmoved by the running time to the point of not denying anyone any momentary vent, any theatrical outburst, Rome deters him from the twopenny mysticism of Motherwell, heals him of Kline’s manliness-marks: Cy is pronounced as the Italian Sì , the monosyllable for consenting, for accepting, for yelding.
Look out! The Italians say Sì and this Sì comes then to nothing. They promise you their alliance, and it hasn’t root in their feeling. Italian is a language that comes from a written culture. One learns it by reading stiff poems in hundreds, by writing essays which humour the sensitive point of the pasteboard king on duty. An American boy learns a language that comes from an aural culture. He learns by listening to the lilt of the streets, to the invisible, sleepless speaking of the radios, to the cues of Hollywoodian stars, whose lips never have white doughy froth at the corners.
Karl Evver’s Bilingue III [ Bilingual III, pyrography on wood, 26,1 centimetres in width, 34 in height, 0,6 in thickness ] jests about an American young man in Rome who figured if he meekly enough, the wrong
tenses wouldn’t have shape to be heard. The ill-babbled wah-wah of a nasal word is generated: it goes, is lost. How in this room did that happen? Whom was sound looking for? In advance of the deadline of the absolute stillness the word however shifts the air in the room. It refuses to let the man wholly hide behind his cranium.
Twombly’s hand takes things in an aural, straight faded away direction people must be inclined to let go.
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