NOT ULTIMATE REALITY
Self-portrait in his capacity as date seller [Autoritratto in veste di
venditore di datteri, pyrography, crayons, plumbago, eyeliner, pencil
ombret on batten, 72,3 centimetres in height, 52,2 in width, 0,3 in thickness], displayed at Palazzo Farnese in autumn MMXII, reveals a Karl Evver ill-equipped to engage in any social or sexual struggle, to which his guts feel drawn.
The portrayed man is near dumb-show in his bid to keep up: he would want to wrestle the West peoples from the evil dyarchy of bernarde e rogiti [cunts and instruments] and give them the severe truth of humans being particulates. Must an artist act on the wishes of his own fellow-citizens? Evver thinks he doesn’t; Agnolo di Cosimo gives Battiferri a profile that doesn’t yield to any foreshortening, a neck – and a mind above – that won’t bend over any low-key supper with the maid-servants, a breast bone that doesn’t want the sun that shines upon the others; the fossilized Scythian flatters himself that geometrical entities slip from interpreting fads; with his Don’t dare do damage to mothers, the underhand Tertz runs timidly counter to what Goethe understood art should be about; Evver knows that painture is still finding its feet, and it takes every ounce of his not much strength to push truth out from inner dusk of mind and past, so he thinks embellishing portaiture is not just artists enjoying themselves.
In his childhood there were no lovable women who fér’ esmire to his hunger for looks, he thus is not fit for that midmankind happiness Bérard is quite skilled in – and his Autoportrait à l’enfant makes a luminous stand against any letting the thought run inwardly wild. Evver has not this French light over his past, his trials, his relations, but mocks himself slightly and unkeennessly about how he did come to get it so badly poor. Is it art not to be good at the tricky knack of giving man some reaching, or, if joy is to prosper, will it have to come from laying down any doing, any building, any moulding fate and things?
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