THE DEGRADABLE FATHER

Beauty reaches far down memory’s veining to our ancient homesickness,, our primaeval yearning for gods, and when the communist canopy besmirched Prague in MCMXLVIII, their weavers knocked down Krása  [Beauty] from the roof of the homonymous hotel and melted any type of this noun into new iron.

That the destroying had the glee of fresh metal for the smithies as an official ground doesn’t make it any cleverer: beauty is a short-lived might that trascends the huge divide between our shortage and the whole being: is our mind being rescued by beauty, or is it the other way around? Communism magnified the divide with heaps of corpses, and thus taught people to avoid paying earnest sight to the bright top of a hotel: artists made beauty specimens this far by doing them all by attuning likeness to both recognisableness and dreamshape, they reached it through defacing their corpse-to-be nature with dazzles of a recalled – but others’, but somewhere else and before – state of grace.

Opposite the bracing stone-breathing of the Maison Carrée   , in Nîmes, there is the modernity’s answer of Lord Foster: the tall, sensible days are over, and the western progressive élite, contortedly given to hyperbole, are using matters and geometry as they used what was used by surely grand and great men also – the geometry – and what industrialism, positivism and atheism have cubbed – such a clear glass, such a pure steel, as they were therefore the fathers of beautility.

That in itself can start a four rock-solid self-esteem, everything one wants right there on his creed’s door-mat. In that dreary MCMXLVIII, at the Conference of Wroclaw, Picasso presented the slayers with his dove motif: they so owned the meek bird and rode it as sake propagandists as meek as doves, but the Soviet concept of art didn’t refer to Picasso’s non aligned eyes: it referred to the Karelian Sculptor , i. e. to the B-4 howitzer which had so properly smashed the Finnish patriots.

Communists were said for decades to be keen to get rid of penury among the whole mankind, but in the carnal truth of history all they could do with their abridged minds has been corruscate the merit in others’ wealth, the beauty in individuals’ restlessness, the sacred in anyone’s unfitness. The West took a stand on lifting hooded eyes and stretching frown lines on the faces of no-Venuses given out to be timeless Venuses, the East debased fisiki  and liriki   on crippling truth in the words and faking the set-up of the world: no sort of Venus casts her shadow on the paper Cy Twombly expends his objectless obstinacy on, and he knows nothing about the mechanics of depicting.

His impudentness to focus on far fewer signs, to never give flesh outliving on canvases or papers concerns the saturation of man’s legacy: it does not stand for scorn. He came to Italy as the regio tam praesentibus plena est numinibus, ut facilius possis deum quam hominem invenire  , and if his Venus  - scrawled and rescrawled in MCMLXXV – is partly vain in scope, we don’t upbraid him with these scribbled attributes, as stuck as we are in a thickness we can’t get out of without thinning out our inherited scope.

Somnolant sous la quiétude  of this awkward writing, there is an awful epithet: androphonos  . Venus the Manslayer. The word touches live frights buried beneath the double bed of our self-styledly pacified society. Twombly’s paper is not what this horror was like and will be like as long as the species will be assured by the filth not drained within the bottom sheet: he gives neither beauty nor horror to his onlookers, and stints himself into avoiding the endless sheet of our history being scrubbed clean.

The higher the inquiry in truth rises intellectually, the less strong the art becomes, and streams and streams of data, too much re-worked by minds no doubt conscious of precedents and saturated with less than least epiphanies, have made artists as many johnny-come-latelies as the market can mop up. Oliver Messel gives Mankiewicz the hyperbolic, symbolic, cataleptic garden Mankiewicz is in need of for hindering Montgomery Clift in his Bikkur Cholim   and signifying with the maze to idiots that the innocent are often shut up in entanglements of falsehoods: Sebastian Bremer gives us with his Mata tropicalia   an over-rehearsed garden no path can break in between, no artist can thicken any further.

Twombly’s signs are devised not to fit with nor return the available evidence, and neither draws out Karl Evver of all features of Venus as he encounters her inwards in his chastity. Maybe he doesn’t stand for young women’s dearth of signs, so he’s getting in first by swerving his gaze from them and concentrating it on the aged Venuses.

His Venus climaterica XI  [ pyrography, crayons and plumbago on batten,

 

 

 

 

 KARL EVVER'S Venus Climaterica XI

 

 

 

 48,2 centimetres in width, 47,7 in hight, 0,3 in thickness ] gently notes the back of a woman who hasn’t became the woman she meant to be in her compact days, at least not so far as she was daydreaming. Heine described the males’ mind as a chemist’s cabinet, and in its fifth compartment there would be nothing, that is the  idea. The overthrow of beings and things seems to Evver infinitely juicier than ideas to paint, if only for the way undoing sets off the nothing within what we believe we intuit the archetypes of.

No shape can stand up to close scrutiny, and one could even think beings are the nothing in disguise: we all have only days to try to understand us and the others alongside, that’s that, and ideas and their lingos are the noise by means of which we reassure one another of being there something that carries speeches, arguments, plinths for proclaimers and auctioneers.

Motion pictures deal with the final squabbling of every effable being in varying sequences of attires, mimicries, ethical passwords in fashion, nice deaths. Lacking these sprightly arcs of narration, still pictures on the wall don’t win many lookers-on. Those after the spokespeople fear the stillness of paintings: to their unindependent minds, the silence of these pictures could be suggestive of a miserable deity who doesn’t tell them how to budge, how to talk and the other hows that compose the feel-good factor in the apeing persons.

No man is really accustomed to the hugeness of abhorrence facing him under Venus’ appearance, and Twombly doesn’t give him any appearance, whereas Evver gives him the gay catharsis of a late appearance where the sparse-flowered pantees get wound between the hands which should like to lower them. There’s a lot of pressure put on woman from society, the same lot from within the woman’s flesh against the physical canon put on loins, lending weight to the lurid truth instead of drying up into an imposed self.

Dwarfed by technology, the modern artist inhibits hand and elbow to be differentiated from the current witchcraft,  their works ever more meant to be read as jammings in that industrial witchcraft. Both Twombly and Evver would underwrite Jean Paul Aron’s war-cry, the lived and the felt against the teory and the construction  : but while Twombly maps letters off over and over again to prevent the writing from being fine, to prevent himself from giving an over-full-up collectariat the beauty, Evver helps the onlooker track the human meaning through millenary leftovers of the western picture gallery.

When does art dash upwards? When’s it gonna get beauty? You had better not to say when – human mind is a bit-part player in world’s getting glory out of crises, darkness, wildernesses. World’s mechanicals set the keynote even when individuals are belligerently hunting for being universally panned and loaded with laurels. We die not as originals, but rather as reproductions of already vanished beings, beings whose soul and body were like ours; and after us it will be men who will look and think and feel like we do, and death again will annihilate them. A disheartening, eternal game of repeating, through which the rich earth has ever to generate more than death can destroy, so that it must out of such a necessity care more for the species’ keeping-on than for individuals’ originality  . Impelled by the inaneness of portraitists and portrayeds Heine laspses in philosophy. If men fill the earth not at all to have dominion over it, but rather to give vent to its appetite for decimating, Twombly’s feeling for the occurred decimations history is made of reaches out to lay past and living features to rest, whereas Evver lets the carnal shapes and the abstract ones appear on his scanty woods, though they keep going on too long through our western haunting craving for seeing.

Il vecchio Euclide pensa gli enti matematici  [ Old Euclid thinks over the mathematical beings, pyrography, crayons and plumbago on batten, 23,8

 

 

 

 KARL EVVER'S IL VECCHIO EUCLIDE PENSA GLI ENTI MATEMATICI

 

 

 

centimetres in width, 28,9 in hight, 0,4 in thickness ] gives us a sage who even in his latest days doesn’t quite get off on looking inwards at incorporeal truths. He has gotten them since he was a guy, and yet has remained on our dusty ways.

The fingers in the nose never find the thought behind, but that’s easily overlooked when life offers such choice comparing material. All of this dragged-on modernity is a bonus, and we are so encumbered with going cars that enjoy the Singer Gazelle  Warhol honours in its still shrivelling: we have enjoyed for quite a huge time beauty and fulfillment and can therefore stand for monstrous carbuncles , fleshness Venuses, rent-an-import blots, and in a Bonus-time one likes all of the additions into his synaesthesia the same amount.

We can’t evertheless stand the face of the God the Father   Giovanni Bellini stuffs with hair and passes off as undegradable, and think if that never-short beard stands coarsely before and in the middle, the filamentous clouds behind Him are worth our look and quite a glaze. Chopping off in his own doing any shape above stain and replacing them with signs that match our not needing any more faces on the walls, Twombly fiddles with an acting idly up near zero, while Evver is aware of the vanity within the zero, aware that trumped-up marvels in the zero are designed to divert masses from reckoning the many zeroes in the income of those worthlessness’ lovers.

Depths of modernity guarantee to make eyes glaze over, and keeping out of any picture just even one day can boost one’s chances of clearing his perceptive system. If this is not done every so often, and if the soul is not given these unintelligiblenesses to switch off its attention upon the beings. The non-representational moods in western age of abundance come as belated shoots from the eastern force against imagines showed by the Synod of Hiereia: some kids are exaggeratedly aware of the carnal struggles their parents face, so they shun till their own death the others’ holes, instead of which Boswell should have liked to have thirty women available, yet truly abstention from shapes is wisdom as much as it is fearfulness in front of the degradable, fleeting beings.

Universe doesn’t do anything durable, and that jeu de cache-cache  we dally with painting and philosophy with, falls ever short of its foretold healing us. Twombly has been living pathoslessly with that vis a tergo  history is direly composed of all the while, yet getting it to compel him into pattern, trust, menfolk’s customs: it has taken a while for his effaced history to get going among bolder and crieder museum-relics, but it has been artfully and unwordily accomplished.  

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