In the individual living the illusion of giving rise to it is coming farther and farther apart with shorter and shorter durations. If the beds arenít made the women canít think hopefully, sham a household harmony, turn away the severing death: the non-comforting art summons on an unmade bed all its fingers and, blackguard, ultimately does very little with them. Where there is order, there is well-being  asserted Le Corbusier, but he mistook his dearth of glance and philosophy for an obedient course of components.

More truthful, Rome teachs Cy Twombly that the man dies far from finished, bitter-sweety conscious that he hasnít reached even his lower potential. The hills are merely seven, and overburdened by silent gods, any figure stone is quite a force to be reckoned with, democracy has lamed the public living, and if it happens to one leg, one day nearby itíll happen to the other, precisely the one sustaining the style of the individual. In this teeming and polyuterine city a foreigner has walking pleasure crises just by his eye corner brushing against hundred generations simultaneously open to a postponement of the trial, of the Apocalypse, of the faults weighing.

Lame and filthy, the Italian Republic was propped on its pedestal by a repulsive burst. It was the twenty-third day of March MCMXLIV, eight minutes to four. The sound of that slaying grows louder at every Republicís birthday: the hussy is lame and made of incompatible joints, the boy slain by the explosion was thirteen, and his name was Pietro Zuccheretti.

The communists have placed the explosive, the communists have shorn Pietro in half, the communists have scattered mush not very far from Piazza del Tritone with the main foul object of terrifying the Romans, of welding together the misshapen joints of the dawning, sapless Republic.

Made out of chitterlings of a boy downed in two stumps and of bits of democratic tall stories, the Republic would stand on her odd feet thanks to two panders in feigned disagreement, facing each other in a spoiling stalemate: the masochist Christian and the brutish commy. Twombly belongs neither to one nor the other sect: a faultless boy was vanishing without notice or care in a soulless republic, and a Virginian with short future in the hair came to dip shyly the fingers in that mush.

Letís watch Achilles mourning the death of Patroclus , painted in MCMLXII: Twombly uses the crimson with severe thriftiness, without depreciating the mourning with a trite, spielbergian blood deluge. It would be senility to get him to squander the reds on his canvas, as when he would sing the most perilous, unreasonable Bacchus: the Mainomenos, the god who rends the tiger heís sitting astride.

The most miserable moment in the soldierís dusk is when he looks up tiringly to see the foeís smile past overhead. But commies arenít soldiers: they are ontologically slayers. Their dogmas inhibit the folk memory to adhere to the true grain of the past, of the occurrences, of the shady separate psyches. An artist who agrees to their intentional blindness withdraws from the core of occurrences: Karl Evver goes instead with his olive face into the core of metamorphosis of Pietro Zuccheretti from unripe man to bleeding mush all over the street. The insight into that mush has been such a huge, unpopular part of his life, a recurring, daring foray of his art inside the theratological labour of the Republic.

Pietro Zuccheretti XI  [ pyrography on inlaid lath, 37,3 centimetres in



KARL EVVER'S Pietro Zuccheretti XI 



width, 54,2 in height, 0,38 in thickness ] distorts the very rotten support into the moment in wich the body turns into multitude, the ego ceases arrogating a coming self, Rome wastes her pureness.


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