Person goes left when crowd goes right by quivering with unbroken rumble. But there’s such a wide range of sublime silence that many a man may be misinterpreting their own dull oneness.

Failing to disguise the misunderstanding origins, lots of art care beyond measure for that silent self they’ve spent so many years gazing on by wax in ears, mirrors, floods of books, earphones between the self and the crowd, complaisant how-to’s philosophies, twelve-hand ethics and a big dread of the public beast. Several people have been discouraged from coming anywhere near it since they were teenagers: discouraged by improving readings, by the overvalued thickness of their room walls, by some bloody upheaval of the beast.

Person dies and species pursues, and both are in thrall to an earth that may or may not be delusional. Person is made of flesh and words - there was that Victorian game of describing oneself by drawing nouns, pictures and names of one’s private universe: it was more art than game, a crammed, hybrid art, infinitely more truthful than any Rothko’s filled-and-still-empty square – species is made of persons and craze of them for copulating.

Person is something worthless not only to our naked eyes but also no matter how it is magnified by rethoric, optical media, religion or friends’ talk. Species can’t nevertheless say itself, and it’s person’s job to be its mouthpiece. The most varied philosophies incorporate the incommensurability of real things and mind patterns into their world miniature without once diminishing the real world, never touched by these fakes on a small scale.

Doing deeds is good fad of mankind because, never mind being able to shift his fellow beings or pull them to something, even when a man has fulfilled an useless idea the species can become tale instead of staying inexpressed totality.

Many a man are sure the demons are floating around their purposes in order to hamper them. Some nations struggle to bring their foes into focus and don’t let world’s désordre savant  go its own braided way. It’s taken a way for Romans to become so strong, but they’ve made it. When they dreaded the descent of the African armies from the north – Hannibal was so mighty he lifted Africa above Italy – they set up their early settlements on the Po, Piacenza and Cremona, on the right bank and on the left one respectively.

Velleius informs us about it: sub adventum in Italiam Hannibalis Cremona atque Placentia   [deductae sunt  ]. In spite of these outposts Romans were swept off in the Hamitical flood that were Hannibal’s armies, but they didn’t sit long time in a muse. Contracting into small politics was among them nearly unheard of, they were able to live throughout the worst days to see the big day of the propitious gods. Hannibal was personally never trounced in Italy but his African vehemence died out in losing the victory: Piacenza and Cremona are still on the Po – also set up in 218 before V.E..

Young Twombly pried into Hamitical underlayer of northern Africa. For the Fifties were years of imperial prosperity and stability in America: for the Fifties was a time of effusive expectations – actually translated in great fertility – a time of judicious upbringing in America, but youthful Cy preferred his eyes to go far to slide on sights with many more beds underneath.

He was not a genius. The very a few works of that time we can look into are painted unripenessly with an easy, Kline-esque fury, not the convincing bewilderment of a realization descended into the Hamitical, latent indolence of a town where Arabic is spoken without uprooting the heathen truth inside those who have shelluhe words to tell the world. In comparison with ad where the numberless conjugations of life infect any water, a painting like this is destined to seem poor pen of signs which won’t germinate.

Dan Colen is good at reproducing the perpetual shitting of pigeons and ring-doves on our roofings. The quarters of beef Soutine depicts on hooks could draw blowflies in their grooves. Twombly fails to see what African flies are hauntingly driving at. Flies and hamitically cryptic gazes of women in Tiznit mocked savagely the traveller, nothing offering him in the way of easy transcription in pictorial gestures. Twombly in MCMLIII soaked the brush – it might almost be said – already unmindful of the shape it ought to have served.

Is he shy when it comes to reaching for the ancestral teeming before our motorized travelling, under our rubber walking, just after our immaculate plasters, lit by tamed, rotationless lights? Canvases are best strained amid the hidden obtruding of rival truths, and just a few strokes of the brush to get going are not a revealed warp of Morocco. It will be Rome to give him the dichotomies indispensable to the right stress in canvas, with the result being that the ancient, false Latin fatherhood the Founder Fathers chucked into mottos, political lexicon and fable patterns will move closer to the current Rome, humbled by Christianity and communism, overburdened with cars, chipped on her edges by democracy, pustules-ridden by television skeletons upon each roof. If you found yourself in this Rome you knew your western star datums were relentlessly fading.

If Pound learns from Gesell that discount rate strikes its root in human psyche, not at all in mysteries of the raw, carried materials, Twombly learns from this Rome that in a civilization at its last gasps the likes are what intimately you dislike. Otherwise said, you’ve got an yearning regret, keep it to yourself.

Let us take a look at the ancient mosque in Tiznit as Twombly could look at






in his short wandering before the long Roman settling down. Congressional oligarchy roar their rhetoric to a stuccoed dome, the seemingly monotheistic populace stoop under a cane-bristling tower: America shams individual freedom and enslaves the thought in a common language, hamitic town simulates a common prostration under one voice from a tower and frees any single, short existence towards the multiple marvels of myths and happenings. On the return leg of his African trip, Twombly knew as much as he knew in America: import and beauty had gone out of western Art, artist special status and over-confidence to keeping it warm had not. Had he had a more porous mind, he would have left off painting without object and without subject, but the force of the western mind stays even in depriving act of its source, in talking gorgeously about unfelt phenomena.

Mercilessly and uselessly bombed during WWII, Italy was left with plenty of self-doubt and compliance to any visitor, to any newcomer, to any ripper of the Roman anatomy. Whichever came to maim the classical legacy, overcome Rome put him up and let him to do as he liked. Walking among Ottoman quibbles and haggling in chaotic khans, Twombly had been just a prominenceless American in the midst of fairer and loftier Berbers: in democratic and sleepy Rome he became effortlessly one of the foremost daubers of canvases in the capital city.

Twombly couldn’t have given again Italy its nerve power, the most obvious reason being that he could never have had the artistic might it would have required: the few who have endeavoured in broad post-Mussolinian detumescence have not had the required might either. In detumescence-time a people can’t even begin to gestate great art. No goodwill, no valiant onanism can attain on their own that good times are rolling again. 360-degree Roman views from a terrace don’t disclose the lopped-off Roman roots to the dilettante’s eyes; after being left unlet to any human canon, art starves itself to death.

Hannibal didn’t defeat Rome. English and American air terrorism did. Romans sowed salt into the fields of Carthage to prevent life growing there again. Italians weak-minded by Christianity, communism and republic welcomed the American overwhelmers with more shoutings than Arkansasans their sport heroes with unisonous sooo-eee . The most peevish of the artists began stirring up controversy for their artless work by generating some press: the smoothest ones looked after their laziness without revering idiots’ hot topics: Robespierre blades, Freud pants, Brando rudeness, Sartre vomit ( without tin ), Warhol soupless soup, Castro manacles, Ginsberg no-soap, Leary no-flesh, Marilyn broad sleep, Kennedy overnothing wisps, Hesse Swindia, Frank entriless rooms, Darwin apersons, Spartacus chests and so on playing.

In this too long age of emasculation and feminine obsession, when every depicting has become overrun by the story of one pacified universe, it is almost forbidden recall how much more full of substance combat and open extermination can be. Averse folks, intent on causing havoc and helpful to, disclose to us that what at one Rome was thought to be steady and final was in fact temporary and upright on feet of frail clay.

Men can more than hold their own, and war divests them sacredly of that holding onto their walls. Roma vinta XII   [ Overcome Rome, pyrography on polished paper, 43,8 centimetres in height, 31 in width ] doesn’t deploy




capitals, pediments, porticoes and columns in murderous disorder: Karl Evver disperses might and mass out from both his craft and the white of the paper to give Italy the fleecing the artists prone to democracy don’t paint about. He’s pertly likely more to work evacuating than adding up, and, indeed, he has done so here and in the other polished sheets of this defeat cycle.

On matt surfaces colours indulge in shades and skim through our gustatory feebleness: Evver thus scalds the glossiness of the treated paper, acting on the simple idea that the dim, glossed face of peace-time can be healthily revived to truth by giving it a few scorching gashes. Renascence masters delighted in cramming paper with jottings, doodles, caricatures, buds of lay-outs, accounts about their boys: Evver has no boy in his studiolo and scars the paper so that some facts debarred by sole thought from depiction find the sour way of one picture.

Few if any of even most scornful and roughest painters wish to delve into the neglected most decayed interplay between previous, resplendent Italy and the overcome one, but they wouldn’t accept that exhaustion as final because other splendours might come along which blind the overwhelmers.


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