Seventeen-year-old, Karl Evver came across his vocation in Rome. Poor and pure, he had on breast a moth that faded verdigris on the skin. Therefore it wasn’t a silver moth.

Though he never stopped outlining and sketching, Evver made his living as elderly ladies’ suborner. Only towards the end of youth – and three degrees north of Rome – the heavens opened. He had still a bitterness to soothe that could never be soothed, but his works began to be more frankly worn and imperfect: what makes a painting feel infringed in, or rather something differing from ornament, immortality conceit, skill display.

In this Demotic Age, anyone is half bewildered by new forms , anyone passes seeking among those untaught foresters if   he can find one form resembling   something true – if it’s allowed to steal the words to Shelley – but Evver didn’t know just how much abrading toil it would be.

Even to get to its bottom sounds unfounded, nowaday. Why isn’t it elating? Why the foresters are outlines of an outdoor museum, financed by maladjusted, bored billionaires, and who wins in the struggle for lights wins a rougher death.

The light at the Evver’s studiolo   is faint. He works here in mess and purity,



 KARL EVVER'S  studiolo



along an intermittent inspiration. Collectors and dealers can apply to the curator of Evver’s works about Twombly’s Italian blooming: please contact her at


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