Twombly didnít listen to the prophecy Romam si tendis, periisti . He confined himself to never bringing out any detail from matter use. A dead continent came his way, an already dead artist came into a by then dead sea of signs and movements.
Slow in trading his life for faded shots at the enormous time of Rome, Twombly loved the view he got of Western pleasure by forsaking the further West, the one of vertical fad in building, of digi-real mortal deities, of froths commissioned and paid for by froths emissaries of foundations. None of his fingers coul do what Roman hands had already done, but he enjoyed the very long latency course from random wrist springs to onset of deserving shapes, and instead of humouring himself by playing the painter seul au loin - like Monet amid the olive-trees Ė he understood that knowledges from life were not recommended as regards and money could be achieved by not choosing the hard path.
history battery, no reasoning has ever led to death. Sharply caught with his askance hair, his white trousers, Cy is poking his head above the travertine parapet of his own plaidoirie de vestiges . Much as the craft is missed, the spell of simply being is perennial, and Cy shares with Panziniís uncle the alchemy of value and its impellent: omnia in aurum commutanda sunt .
Look again over him: there is no need in Rome to toil over a maquette to then face bigger working. Artists were only told that by others, then stopped trusting these others, and so they could live it up, without being hollowed by learning. If Richard Prince delighted in rolling out Big Sur, he was less false than Hayez with all his braless girls palmed off as Bible ladies (look over his Tamar and Ruth). If Twombly seemed the laziest canon-shifter in dying XX century, with just such dispersed grandstanding in mind, just regarding Roman eternity as his due, heís less in need of handholds than Johns with his Catenaries and their poor maths.
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