Why mentioned Ben Quinn the doomed desire with regard to Twombly’s acting up to manual untidiness and the listlessness of the time?
In the first place, desire has been around unanswered so long that it’s part of the mental furniture, so that it’s tempting to believe any longing individual might have aimed a shattering getting into others for real without the release gestures of art. The various myths spanned by Twombly’s desire are identifiable only by name tags beside canvases or transverse handwriting on canvases or titles next to pictures, as in fruitless round of the western bequest: he brings no skills to bear on this bequest, yet isn’t content with strolling with just plain folk under the Pantheon’s light opening.
Giving the thought as a whole a scored, sufficient whirl of gods, beings, shapes, the circle entitles man to stay idle in, Twombly to waste time and colours with his languid queenly hauteur. Erasure of past know-hows leaves the hand barely able to stand on the signs: l’Italia impera o soggiace, ma non si eguaglia mai [Italy either rules or is subjected, but never equals], and most of Twombly’s leave to underplay is down to postwar Italy’s submission.
Thinness of meanings contents the tame ones, yet makes the strong-minded ones return for more, without minding what the truth and the beautiful – the ununstuck twins – would cost and wich earthly advantage they would hurt the most. If Borromini’s deceit into the Palazzo Spada’s courtyard fools as far as depth, Bob Dylan by Karl Evver [30 centimetres in
width, 44,8 in height, printed in two copies on torchon Hahnemühle paper ] deceives as far as its gaseous constellation and yet pleases our need of appearance. If what a professional photographer should do is to do the appearance, Evver isn’t professional, since he’s not that fussed as far as the doing: he’s cloyed by pictures done both by anyone’s mental processes and by optic works. Men fight to win positions, yet Evver doesn’t lay any foundation to man: for it being but a transient power through the air, the body can not firmly lay itself in any axis up from earth.
Here, the unsightliness of a bogus-folk singer raised/ To that bad eminence is relieved of any onlooker mischievousness, no more charged with packing its own signs in clever significations. Kinder to be – and to be reputed – a non-performer, Evver feels, and Rilke backs him with his own never welded geometry: nirgends schliesst sich der Kreis.
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