Western art has held as long as it could, then the hands of its men have begun to cum their black lot without goaling any perfection. That ended up by grossing every import out of the square footage given up to canvases and cummed papers, by giving Twombly the pleasure and the slothfulness of his greyish rifferamas, of his stunted writing Virgil  often in MCMLXIII, ever giving his contemporaries nothing but names.

If D’Ors grandiloquent said L’argile est la vie, le plâtre est la mort, le bronze la résurrection, Twombly doesn’t trust in revival, his fingers can not sport tight structures, clay is for him mire, not moulding. Life regains its injurious essence in his make-shifting, whereas Evver’s making, even his swifter sketches, are lacking in Twomblyan long languid slow rolling of means and signs, in Twomblyan stately collapsing.

Let’s look over this Untitled  [felt-tip on paper from a spiral-bound note-book, 17 centimetres in width and 23,8 in height]: mind is holding





  implement tightly enough to give onlookers inside and outside, geographic embryo and demarcation, the gush and its subitaneous getting area, and in a few seconds hand gets out of felt one layout beyond a transcended fashion.

Left for decades à lécher les vitrines, Evver has not belief both in longing for and in things: being beyond a plate glass doesn’t get in the way of things’ claim to be true. The sold here and the hankered after over there are both, for him, thoughts not to ponder  as the whole approaches and moulds what you touched and what you fancied.

If tout peintre un tant soit peu expérimenté  can depict things, Twombly knows how to make the life, dully intent on consisting and ripening of existence, as Solmi makes out, and Evver oversteps the lived life – something he hasn’t seen much of – and shows no interest in matching artistic means with life goals.


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