Human mind tends to find human faces in dripped canvases, non-representational gaudy paintings, salpetre islands in the walls and persists in making out figures, shrimps, horses, profiles even in the face of evidence that there just a surface of fortuitous evidence lies, exists, turns very slowly pale under sun and time, frowns under the effect of mysterious oxidizations.
This bending nature’s indefinite infinity into our small world of recurrences, signs and recognizabilities robs our aesthetical experiences of probative authoritativeness: any blot will ever quite fit inside the explanation of an unraveller, a smaller cardboard tube on top of a bigger one will ever seem to be a column to someone sodden with classical residues. Nicolas Poussin shrinks from the ashes of Phocion – that would be in their intrinsic state picture-free in earnest – and gives the eyes the reassurance of a landscape oozing sophisticated ratio among recognizable entities in a leisurely stillness: in our age, much more visually-led and pauperism-haunted than stowed with Plutarch’s exempla and heroism-addicted, an artist acquires very quickly – if he early gets sick of self-help imperatives and mantras about upgrading - the easy, risky skills at liking better the ashes than the countenance, the sand than the carved stone that so often instead of reaching the core grate it away.
Karl Evver turns down another layer of clothing on the core. He admires the textile engineers’ mastery in clothing bodies and motions, but the bare core of being beyond the poor warp of life upsets and melts him more. His thread harks back to turning and turning aside of early men intent on making veil between themselves and the void beyond them, on pulling something and binding it around their forearm.
Vita di Teseo II [ Life of Theseus II, ropes, yarn and steel wire around frame, 69,8 centimetres in height, 59 in width, private collection , Piacenza , Italy ]
tells us that civilization is a veil which doesn’t keep the wind back, which doesn’t censor completely the nothing little further beyond our carnal temporariness. Evver has ever been intrigued by that filtering of truth through the sparseness of our strains, and has lived and ill-woven very close by.
Even though sparse, this warp doesn’t bestow flesh-flashing bits on those who shrink from that nothing as from something that should not be immediately there. Granite doesn’t result in nothing: it turns into sand. Sand is inert, but men can give it stiff speed and abate with it crests, blemishes, coarsenesses. Things can be sanded to shape, but shapes – even the polished and the extolled ones – pall before long.
Whatever potency an artist might bring on the market will not rend the entrenched limitations of the thrust he comes from. Andrew Graham-Dixon uncloaks wittily in the senile Twombly the puerility of Abstract Expressionism way of painting, by seeing its language pushed inside his enormous, overrated, vapid canvases farther towards the style of chocolate-box decoration than might have been thought possible . Because the thought of the individual being can’t much in the midst of great, rising parades, because the sight of the individual being is so lonely it finds faces in the variegations of a tile, so cunning yet it notices on a box of chocolates the low outcome of ancient infringement conceits.
What is a thread for? For joining? Theseus pursues among other things the synoikismos , the drawing of scattered people close to more polite living, but any nation so achieved remains anyway a thin weft. The ear listens to the wireless with no particular direction, and is unaware of singers’ names and titles. The mouth grinds the chocolates and the hands throw their box out, even if illustrated with shooting parties, the four seasons , lakes at sunset or queens sticking out of lace mountains. Older painters felt like younger artists were messing things up and this might have wound the thread of history with knots and entanglements, but thread defies void, leaping frame corners and persisting in straining itself with an obsessive life of its own.
Myth is thread, and if you mean by thread of prone to knife or to tear, Theseus would state that species’ continuity has never ceased, that thread is due to unwind itself until there’ll be men acting on earth. Men who as soon as bask in the glow of having finally spun one tissue of sense see the other’s hand loosening it. Men who loathe mankind to the greatest extent and at one and the same time see pretences of human shape in every granular flooring, on every slip crossed by spilt ink, in the smallpox of the moon.
In retreating from myth, the book religions abandon the thread to the slackness which doesn’t tie voice with voice into an unitary nation. So Western societies cherish feignedly a distinction between the death of those who have read that blessed book and the death of those who have artlessly pulled their life so much that it has fulfilled the fate warp. Theseus isn’t a prophet who raves. He’s not an unemployed thirtysomething who enraptures simpletons with his parables. Running side by side, yet with many overcrossings and abrupt veerings, Evver’s thread doesn’t refer to some pattern: it reels an under-way will off. Original, unripe, anterior to any ornament, warped not to over-excite, silently triumphant that acting has to a certain extent hidden the previous void, the blind, unpopulated light in there.
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