Native merriment is year by year deadened by what sweats by shady walls at home. My house was your, the steps of the few end up on those of the many, imprisoned in these old plank floors. It may be that there are squares out there which wait still for a man who treads them, but these legs will rise in umpteenth human heads.
January twenty-second MCMXXVIII – Cy was still a shrimp to soak – Filippo De Pisis calls back to his mind old feelings in Rome: 149 era il numero del grande portone, pesante come quello di una chiesa, della vecchia casa borghese, quasi un palazzo, in via Monserrato a Roma [ 149 was the number above the main gate – as burdensome as that one of a curch – of the old bourgeois mansion – almost a palace – in via Monserrato, in Rome]. Why does De Pisis subdue with an almost the urban weight of Palazzo D’Aste? After the consideration that D’Astes had been discreet and branch aristocracy? Because Giovanni Antonio De Rossi had designed something curbed, immune from giantism, parade and squandering?
Rossi designed two mansions for D’Astes: this in Rione Regola, where Cy Twombly should come to dwell in full republican decay of Italy, and that other in Piazza Venezia, where Napoleon’s mother should come to outlive the son. Twombly was to consider the fond of Popism America not worthy of his unpopular rhetoric quite on the other side of those icons, snaps, things, toys, if he liked better the deceiving Rome, whose dwellers were made to live politically like brutes to pursue individually the most saturated knowledge.
No sign, however sharp, is safe from moss smudge under the timeless aegis of SPQR. This city placates the men as a broad, gluey whole in which nothing of human life stands against anything else and anyone can fail without it taking over him. Throngs of foreigners try to draw near this startless bedding for a skimming over its amalgamating property, and Rome lets them through as slothfully as it takes to fade their longing for haste, their trust in significance.
De Pisis took the view that Paris was more clearing than some Roman mystical addresses, but the cool mannerisms up north revealed slyly far less than he would have like them to: Twombly should agree to this Roman building cabala between via Monserrato and Piazzetta de’ Ricci with a touch fruitfulness in which complacency is mingled with the announcement of the death looming over the three great impostures without gods on the earth.
When the cloak is about to be taken away from our eyes its foetid inside sharpens our focus and we start to find out about a millenary, insane past, to laugh appalled at our gone oxymoronic countenance: a lofty, permanent profile upon a slavering, gloomy, greasy, inexact breathing, with no sort of pure air that ever seemed to be under mouth. An official stamp of approval can set on the cloak: it can’t leave its tinge on the sweating grimace of the man inside, and few painters strive for enjoying the impolite rite of knowledge by dragging that moist face out of its nominal, public, theatrical interment.
When Twombly saw the remote building harmony of Palazzo D’Aste, he’d have done badly to heed the screeching of the inferiority certainty and to give up the pleasure of messing about in a studio. He chose instead to share his paltry bent with the depreciated, mixed nations in the post-modern drowsiness.
His art thus showed right from the removed start the deathly pale signs of a creative exhaustion, without acting a racked and vigorous dig inwardly. Nothing gold can stay ascertains Frost, but even from an universal dung paving can ascend the human haunting for fetish, for altar, for simulacrum. Twombly doesn’t use gold, but rather cheap plywood. He doesn’t try to avoid the unsightly the shadows of disjunction that mar the unitedness of his plinths: having left so much breath, such a lot of foot blood in an undermining war, Xenophon increased his speech so that he did with his Anabasis the impressive syntactic equivalent of so long marching, of so multiple dying, of so various guises of exhaustion in an only powerful event, while Twombly’s MCMLXXX Anabasis isn’t much more complicated than the foot-rest box of a shoeshine.
Could the art of Xenophon have been quite as involving without the Cyrus the Younger’s war imbuing with blood it? Would Twombly have sold quite as at imperial prices his works without the cunning subtraction of backbone, magnitude, war handsomeness and breed neatness from them? Life slips from these stripping questions that no longer resound but still resound a little bit in the man even who has found a lot of coins on his way.
He replies without turning maybe one day he sould take off the drapery, but right now the time and the weather aren’t right, which is understandable. An artist doesn’t get performed to get remained unknown, doesn’t make paintings to desert them in a stack. Market shouts “Stay in!” and the soul rustles “Out,out…” but if this inner sissy knew any of this outer nothing she would be terrified.
Mortal being isn’t allowed to reach anything final: an ancient Greek enjoyed the ascent to the ridge from where to see again the sea: Cy Twombly has pleasure in ascending discreetly from being anonymous cryptographer to one of the international artistic community’s richest members: Karl Evver takes advantage of his extraneousness to this community and delights in a shwarmas, mazed, voluptuous descent into the dark womb of the western foundation, down where there are loads of
wild gods and the same number of doubts in regard to them roaming all about.
Catabasi [ Catabasis, pastel crayons, plumbago, kajal on plank, 55,2 centimetres in width, 73 in height, 0,5 in thickness ] expounds very evidently both the narrative powerlessness and the philosophy of the middle-aged Evver. Let us start from the latter. The farther away a man gets from the current thought, the more exertion it takes to move, and the more likely it is to deform under oneness stress. Towns are mostly owned by people who never leave widespread convictions, the distinctions between custom and truth become ever more blurred while the departed mind finds lasting pleasure twice over: in the disappointment inherent to things and people and in theatrical warmth of this very disappointment.
If there weren’t this slope towards the Newtonian triumph of Mother Earth’s mire, life would be a dull, motionless solid without even the smart exact edges of a tetrahedron. Earth, according to Oeconomicus ‘ Xenophon, is τοὺς καρποὺς τρέφουσα τῷ κρατοῦντι [ pregnant of fruits at the strongest man’s disposal ] and since men exist, fields are witnessing a struggle amongst vertical shapes – fought by millions but overcome by few – that anyway go finally down to the horizontal indistinctness. Are hunger and yearning a ploy to keep standing these shapes?
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