SHE LOOKS A BIT GREEN
Carnal beings die. Fancy beings on acetate pictures die by vinegar syndrome. Poster boys of one art-momentum get old and die, while the poster yellows and is let out from thumbtack to die in pulping plant with old papers. Laughs around Pat Cooperís wisecracks at Bay Ridge died, rotations of the disco ball over the raven-black mane of Tony M., still at Bay Ridge, died, the mane has died underneath a detachable hair.
Twombly has lost his hair through his Roman years, but hasnít replaced it. His theories havenít died, as he hadnít theories. If Cťzanne maintained that nature for us men is more depth than surface ,Twombly has fatally lacked the cockiness of probing depht Ė this awkward heteronym for sinkhole Ė and gone yet on letting his grammarless punctuation and his wrist amusements flow down surfaces.
Sure, thickness can hold roots, but hair roots die, fathers and sons are estranged by different feelings notwithstanding the common roots, human beings are only worth the air they can get for their lungs and straight away throw out. We see Twombly as ξεῖνον ἐπὶ ξείνης , foreigner on a foreign land. The ἐπὶ Meleager of Gadara uses doesnít show us a man rooted in a land, but rather laid merely on an infinitesimal share of the earth.
All of us lay merely and temporarily on this huge and appalling ball. We can go, move, halt, before we die. We can go into the Kunstmuseum in Basel and halt before the Niniís painting . Twombly hasnít drawn from memory his friendís wife. He hasnít matched a dead woman against some further appearance of hers. If he had given her a very succeeded one, it would be rougher and unfitter than the childís drawing in the portrait of the ginger son by Giovanni Francesco Caroto.
Neither simplified paraphs nor dark portals into an inner significance nor disingenuous threnody encumber the painting. Without its ever being pathetic or funereal, there is a frank, silent affirmation of what a few of hazy marks can waft to be the still image of the few spoors a dead person leaves in our mind. Sue Hubbard finds in Twomblyís powerlessness a great compulsion to find a means of expression, but an awareness of the near impossibility of doing so , but no one has ever found a well-grounded antecedence to our tribulation.
Not even death gives the more insight into our vainly inquiring minds, no woman, although pert, is lamented after her death through more than a quarter. Karl Evver uncouth-handedly invented with his Venuses climatericae the dismantling of the ancient, lenient pact between life model and painter as release of the death from concealment in future. In holding a sitting, sensual pose or an amazon standing pose, a model is anyway a thousand-of-a-kind woman in front of the painterís anxiety about being later thought more steadfast than genetic stream, sighted beyond every frock, able to steal at least the nice, rosy casing from death.
Evverís overriped Venuses get irksome pains where a shoulder meets the neck, donít earn any more complimentary sorriquets from the poetsí fraudy mouth, donít mind yet what people left thinking of them either. Theyíve lost the navel in the cliffs of the overblown waist, so we canít know where they come from. Evver doesnít portray them: his long, long living in wretchedness has wiped out any attention upon faces, upon the foolish singleness of each face at home and out of doors. He has taken two decades to reach his unposing and unamorous Venuses: at the beginning he depicted a vain spectacle of entirety like La menade acquietata [ Maenad at peace, oil on splitted and retained batten, 42,5 centimetres in height, 26 in width ], a work which is an incentive to yield to the pleasure of iconoclasty, not not to yield.
Evverís portraying deteriorated profitably and stiffly with age, the colour becoming more and more unmomentous, the identity less and less honoured, almost unwillingly undertaken by the posing person itself, no look once ill-painted soliciting an ascribing of importance from the observer. But here weíre looking in dismay at a painter powerless in
putting his abhorrence for a maenad into suppression of her fury, muddled in his energy, content with the little sop of depicting her old and seated, a dull woman who doses herself with a daily rank of painkillers inside an eventless house.
The mechanical, miserablist realism in Freudís depicting is not at all the lowest despondency of our eyes painting can come down: the skull flattened into a long-playing record falling from an off-stage upper rack Holbein places between his Ambassadors must be unhesitatingly bracketed with the most ridiculous intoxication by horror vacui in the history of picture refilling [ not to mention the pitiful symmetry between the grand, bearded, infured, broad De Dinterville and the Jesuitical, bearded, dressing-gowned ( to our eyes ), great-coated ( to their eyes ) De Salve ] .
Women use vaseline as glue before passing across the glitter, but vaseline slides soon off in the heated night, and women, who live by prurience induced by overpainting and whose body works every miracle, bar the exemption from the illnesses, start revealing their insane interior, the decay latent in their glazed half-witness, the awful principle of return to mud in their words blended with halitosis.
To soften this would be evidently unfair, to Evverís mind. The dominant of his Maenad is the green, thatís true, but the woman has crossed her legs and doesnít succumb. It is not as if her unpleasantness has not been fastened by Evver, and it is not as if he has spared the means of synthesizing the sheer grief inside our species split in two genera: ; and yet his exertion remains less potent than the impregnable obtuseness of an ex-Fury at pensionís door.
Quite something more than that achieves Guido Mazzoni by fastening in terracotta the early youth of Henry VIII-to-be. Art overwhelms here even a serial slayer without resorting to the stale dodge of a single one hair out of place. Some think artistís eye may be due for a time-out in front of youth: that before beard, frenzy of ejaculation and political parting. Mazzoni doesnít adopt this cardboard paradise with respective choir of forgetful adults who sing catchy and paregorically the good, old days before early spurts: the terracotta boy frees his temper to the air, not cretinous enough to belong to the Christians and not unleashed enough to prolong the list of the ancient, heathen tyrants. Heíll actually found the most baseless model of Christianity, sprinkling it with the blood of women whose head heíll deprive of the base as deceived by their womb.
Evver never tries to hook you into his works, we could therefore pass in front of his Maenad without gazing into these crossings of greenish poultice. Some people brave disgust to watch infinitesimal life in a corpse, but Evver hasnít pryed the thighs of a dead Fury, hasnít pryed into a cunt at long last without contractions and unreasoning spurs: he has made one of them sit down and demeaned himself to paint her as if her were inoffensive to the human company and as if his giving up representing her in the middle of the smash and of the possession werenít offensive to art.
Dimoetes Ė Parthenius of Nicaea relates it swift and unmorbid Ė had carnal knowledge of a woman pushed back dead from the sea: ὡς δὲ ἤδη ἐνεδίδου τὸ σῶμα διὰ μῆκος χρόνου, as ( her ) body as time went by putrefyed , he eventually erected a tomb for the corpse. This knowledge Ė the one with a breathing woman too Ė was and has remained out of Evverís reach, and this ignorance here at the outset of his artistic calling is made all the more vile by the fact that itís bistred with the worst, restrained expressionism.
Derivative and inward-peering, his art will found its own way by heading to more disquietingly faded extractions of our toiling on earth, by leaving bad painters the Dionysian fiction and the Apollonian photoshopping.
Once youíre born, there isnít much you can do besides wait it out. Till in, youíre a changing guise among changing guises, each shifted by other, each other shifting without any diluting its oneness in a whole feeling. A principalle Paynter in Ordinary to their Majesties was on to a ticklish thing with the engagement to remove a none-too-bright sixteen-year-old boy from the common truth of acne, to straighten lumbaginous goities within sparkling cuirasses, to tailor reality to suit the crŤme Ďs purpose: a rŰleness painter of our age Ė where any love for specific, race-rooted truths is reason enough to get sued, where dead philosophies become trashion the fatherless thought wears, where crowds are drawn to nihilistic simulacra without quite knowing why Ė is completely bereft of royal recognition and all but deprived of spurs to the best, to a running order, to gain the othersí gaze.
An artist barges however into his calling even inside the flattest landscape, like he might in the giltest age, and Hazlitt held Turner quite properly in esteem even if saw him painting pictures of nothing, and very like . Some consciences keep nagging their hosts that indulging in the nothing of a warmed-over abstract or non-figurative art is not a slaking acting, but after western institutional structures have gone into free fall consciences have got away from individual jars, as speculations did from Einsteinís brain once laid in a mason jar by Thomas Harvey.
Evver isnít noted for being interested in spirited-off matter: he lets his eyes dwell upon men until they reach the lividness of the not-chilled fish, of those who take leave of us, then lets them go off the sight.
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