SHOUT, MARY, SHOUT

If a soul loses its spring panting, it’s almost always due to having gotten never close to even one human, cultured warmth, and nobody knows sharply if what it doesn’t do in such an awful wilderness – city wilderness into the bargain – is worth recording. Dubuffet thought painting could restituer tout à la fois, les fugitives phases du regard inattentif  included, and yet even to Insania pingens  the lonesome spirit is in not many instances apparent.

Like flesh, spirit appearance often outlandishly changes tone, and painting range is however wretchedly one of glances long past their damp, unstopped moment. The people on the Boulevard   Gabriel de Saint-Aubin sketched before the huge havoc – those who were served and those who served – are for ages out of dust, glance and sweat: the lone human figures have less endurance than the rhythmic patterns a street is made of, and as far as a painter can, a man gets in the drawing until that pattern leaps otherwise, a hand catches men on the drawing until tendonitis resolves otherwise.

It is not just a few passers-by of the street that escape our glance but the entire pattern: never lured either by daylight or social traffic, Twombly lightens any restorer-to-come from the forbearance at releasing entities trapped in the dirt. He doesn’t know whereof his dirt rumbles. When he did – as in his Dubuffetesque Myo  - he made poor painting, as comedians trip over things for giving us laugh while he trips there over a pattern just for seeming masculine and visually stressed.

We forgive him this sogginess, we understand such redundance of spunk – what a lot of spunk that will become never offspring, in the spring of our life! – but we can have pleasure in him later, when he deserts the land of Modernism – the Kikes’ America – and goes even where Dagos are ashamed of coming from.

Dulled by its own unbounded legacy, that Rome doesn’t charm Twombly with its marbles. Civilization is a stratified meaning which gives way and still way  , Schaukal heard without beguiling himself in some lasting building, and once Cy has left back the Kikes’ perpetual speaking out about that progress or the other one, at long last far from the this-time-and-time-again said of that zeal, his sign loses that stress and gains the mild dirt of an outdoor plaster.

Mind should be out of the revenge cage to scatter free itself alongside some subsiding of history. Don’t expect yet Evver to join in with such a relaxing: the missed shout in some ancient figures is really worth for him a further look just to give it again echo. It may be crude, but it is somehow depictable. It would be far from accurate to ascribe meaning fullness to each of his reviving shouts: there are, in art, many more ways of coming to nothing than coming into the core.

Women who charmed everyone they could with neck-chasmholes and down-to-reveal have never moved Evver’s pencils: he celebrates rather the women struck down with the common creed, whose power yet outlives and outgrows the glue of that creed. Io non ascolterò ciò che voi ascolterete  [ I shan’t listen to what you’ll listen to, crayons, plumbago, cajal and pyrography on paper, 34,7 centimetres in height, 33,7 in width: tenth paper of The Surratt Album  ] hurls a quick-tempered young lady out

 

 

 

  

of a church. Evver doesn’t single out here the roughest woman to glorify: that would be pointless in an art so intimately unmoved by the illusion of individualization.

This wooden temple may be filled with blood hungry listeners to one lopped-off, gelded, caffein-free truth, but what better place for fleing from. We all can too carry out a riddance job in one dash: built up by generations of verbose shammers in layers of what appears to a sound eye to be a depressingly mere word. It’s ever worth searching for the real gods, since wir haben vielleicht nicht viel Vorteil bei unserer neurömischen Dreigötterei, oder gar bei unserem jüdischen Eingötzentum  [ we get not much advantage out of our Neo-Roman trideity as well as of our Judaic one-idolatry ].

Christianity and Hebraism glare operaticly at each other across the quarrell about a son. One detects ever a hesitation in Heinrich Heine in front of the weft of that curtain, whereas Evver tears apart that weft with both hands and doesn’t cloud the lowestness of both poseurs. Crude though all this seems, it has get him out of the vicious-circle shape of the Guggenheim tabernacle – those intellectualization circles with their polite cementing monotheism and atheism in the same worship of big money – and thrust him after the flapping frock of Mary Surratt, outside the scene of concurring, into her apocopated shout.

Therein lie unequal, elated truths. It’s got wicked, untold and godlike flashes in that dash, and Evver crushes one of them on the paper without having had it on his retina before. Even old and forced to paint à demi couché   , Matisse gets nude women to lift their arms up for sketching the usual upright tits: Cedric Morris didn’t teach unfortunately Freud to shun the supple women and get worked over the fact that there’s a lot going on that painting won’t to scan among: Evver is coaxingly certain the Roman Catholic Surratt found her own eagerness way outside what Catholics said she should have tried, in a Roman scorn for the bad king.

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