Karl Evver doesn’t give his own I  tramlines top and bottom. He doesn’t regard himself as a column. A plinth could be the more formidable among our achievements, but no individual has ever reached a certain ground on this earth. Comenius sees mankind staggering here and there in an unaccountable manner  in that ryňk  , that open space where each borning man pops in innocently for just one shake from maternal sea and falls into an ineffectual bustle that will last for lifetime.

A capital could be too a smart conclusion to our erect situation, but no man is able to substain the least lintel of any conceptual definiteness. How can one get any lofty blossoming to the far end of his provisional verticality? Meant to shake up surreptitiously public opinion, modernisms got often a riňk  laughably put out of the vivid bustle Comenius visionally thought men were and ever would be lapping at: Composition 10 in black and white  , painted by Mondrian in MCMXV, reduces the square to an equalitarian graveyard, whereas Christiana Soulou imbibes Shakespearean perpetuity of motion, and her Puck and Bottom  remind us what a lot of dance there’s on the square of our distress.

Céline maintained visceral nexuses with dance all the way through his wilderness travel by the western hubbub. He was more interested in getting raptures over the aerial bodies than he was in keeping convictions above these bodies. Des chants et des dances… Je ne me soucie de raison… Qu’ai-je à faire d’intelligence, de pertinence? de dessein? n’en ai point! l’Univers non plus…  In post-WWII general flattering of nations under democracy it went the way of so free, heathen existences, knocked down to make broad and unsensual way for more utilitarian separate livings of purchasers.

Valets of this universal market pay lip service to present rights to move, to talk foully, to out rulers, to disclose the pubes, but know full well that all that costs the unprojection of anybody into this huge peakless horizon, where there can’t be lively scenes in stone, but rather abstruse graffiti on stone only. Had had such a view around himself, even Howard Roark would have give up the beloved verticality and desert architecture for mere unsociable masturbation.

The upper crust of such a horizon is not the unevennes-top, the standings out which indented the species’ outline before the great flattering, but, more trivially, where fortunes scale by their own boosting. Just hurling sprays at public stones to catch the shiver of the mock daring, the most clotic youths are content if they’ll live to be 80, pensioners, never recruited but by the spirit of the times, never trying their strenght not on  but in  stone.

The few in the upper crust don’t give their mansions’ walls to these youths. Twombly’s messes on canvas are to be fuond in these mansions. What they take from him, most of all, is that any individual verticality has been castrated by democracy and replaced by flat strings of the filling-out capital. If we look into the first part of the Return from Parnassus , we understand Twombly has never scaled it and frankly sketches a triangle out, up in the right, to state that each Muse is above his might, out of reach for any artist welcomed by upper crust’s newyawkas and loyal to their unsightliness canon.

Unwilling to own up to high, exacting beauty, many of these artists of the random stroke recede in the most-tightly-knit circle of the rich’s contempt of the poor through rewarding the non-craftsmanship, a circle hermetically sealed against the whole classical bequest. Twombly doesn’t. He knows that that bequest may not impregnate his hand, but he keeps the nominal, adolescent faith that it will outlive the American age. An age which won’t be everlasting, since fugge l’età come un baleno,/ e non si può tener, che non ha freno  [ flees age like lightning, and can’t one hold it, ‘cause it has no bit ]. There are not strong suction cups to fasten an event on one explaination, an eagerness within a non-degrading heat.

Knee-deep in the fall-out of this unceasing falling in and all the resulting inability of hands, theories, snaps, many people expect science to give them mastery, enlightenments and eternity, but once you get used to its ricocheting from one wonder proclamation to another, you lose deference for its disguises, and Dottor Balanzon in Malipiero’s keen La morte delle maschere  occurs to your dispassionate mind: Io sono la scienza  he states, and stumbles at once.

There are many still representations to live by, but none can endure within the same value halo, Matteo Maria Boiardo was right about the tipsy lack of curb as man finds himself down the time. We foresee men to come who’ll see these topicless paintings and that the thought will come in their heads that they just want to follows where fruitful mind leads: into discernible fruits.

Should the barren paintings in the museums piously devoted to modernisms be preserved as rests with the canvas used as the basis for new pictures, or merely done away with,as it came about to many prepuces of Christ? Pietro Aretino added a colascione  - a long-long-necked lute – to the arms of a badly portrayed Maddalena, in a juvenile, pardonable over-reliance on the sort of fullness painting needs high-handedness to reach, but Twobly’s low-handed amateurisme  doesn’t stir up so rough strikes.

He came to paint just after the very backbone of the western building was torn down, and it was proper pick to establish soon afterwards a studio in Gaeta: the place takes its name from Caieta, Aeneas’ wet-nurse. She died there, and Twombly’s paintings keep actually on sucking the milkless, sapless tit of western imagery, taking a still trip in the far-out abdicating of the sign.

To dread this overshadowed age would be obtuse: without the Night, the nature of the Man wouldn’t receive the might, and the Day wouldn’t have an aim  Rumi recalls us that our white conscience is the perfect foil for the sludge-hued geometrics of the past savageness, and like anything bearing this inner darkness, the ersatz art, the sapless, milkless one, will be the sludge which will give the coming art the shade for its many-sided geometrics.

Keep your daemons inner and times’ demons inmost, in order that your deed may keep its innumerable true-to-species shades. Any unformed being is already filthy with black perspirations, way before his own bringing speed through mankind, into one messy lifetime, for this reason Evver doesn’t expect men to fulfil into an ethical shine, and neither makes he use of bombastic neon-paint serpents against a murky background for scaring the lower highbrows.

However foul they jam in pain, men are not sentenced by him to torture, not to metaphorical ones either. Not even as children men can be amended by the betula kinderbalsamica secuta  : when does a life pass in which we do not see the individual shape merely rot in its own power bounds? A soul may appear base from afar, but in its flesh immanence it booms without fault with nominal dichotomies, on which ethics leans its logorrhea: and the main reason so many get ethics-sick is they can’t see any more into the mere, trifling souls across their and their own word roar.

Although Evver refrains from mentioning the pattern he has inspired by, his L’inferno III  [ Hell III, pyrography and wine on board, 106,5 centimetres in width, 105,5 in hight, 0,5 in thickness ] is perspicuous in its target.






Bordering on unbalance, the painting explodes yet never off the painting wall the sanctimonies about the right to talk, the word might, the salubrity of dialectics.

A chamber is a room that needs to be shouted through, to be peopled by people that think overstrongly “Listen to me, aren’t I moral and fluent?” Evver’s De Pisis-que disparagement for substance is here instrumental in abolishing the sentence turns which s’entrechoquent et s’effleurent   into the circle – more asphyctic than vicious – of democracy.

Nothing is settled, on earth, nowhere is the answer which may soothe, but speakers in chambers reconcoct shamelessly from remaindered platitudes the umpteenth rebounds of dialectics, spiral that Evver epitomizes all about the holy hollow in the caesuraless VIRTUSINNOBISSCELUSVESTRUMMET   we could translate into  virtue is inside us, of yours sure the fault .

These speakers are not crafty into the true matter of man. They prefer to just release addresses never worthy of their sublime ascending, and the fading mantra Evver winds their shrine with – where better to give vent to these eloquences? – discloses men so poisoned by their own speech as to forget that men, poor inches apart from each other in thrashing about after the slipping meaning of their lifetime, have severely lacklustre capabilities of viewing few feet away from their nasal, central I .

These speakers ignore cheekely the bitterness within each one’s pining away. Science’s root is bitter   Nikolai Leskov ascertains with his grand thriftiness in words, without needing the tortuous intersections of skin-deep destinies to feel this sourness just after our lively faces.

Sourness of truth is where every painter should enbitter his palette first: if he’s serious about his trade, he’ll know that properly give this science signs requires skills antithetic to those of a speaker with his bombastic dichotomies at his own convenience. Evver’s art weighs in at hefty end of western prestidigitation in chambers, media and equality commandments, but he has learnt by Twomblyan sloth how to keep the painting scarcely marking the thing out. When Antonio da San Gallo the Younger planned in MDXIV the Palazzo Farnese in Rome, he envisaged a broad seat which joined building to soil, he didn’t know Twombly would be the thickiest artist to truly indulge his bum in what would be to become the habit of playing dead under the marvellous, reproducible sight of each day.

If the daily rerun of the sun is enough for the academic habit to depict and redepict men, animals and things within an eternal cenozoic sphere, Twombly liked better that seat and gave up even the early, slight slope of Parnassus. Had his renouncing been mystical in earnest, his works would have been grander still in frustrating spectators’ eyes, but he looked no further than the western pleasure in right angles, frames, museum investiture, going on in history of the names that grew tall over the wider world around themselves.


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