An impressionist was said to be proficient with the unanalytical first sight of bodies and fields, the early Roman Twombly was said to have never had any real schooling.

Before long, the marvels of painting in specks and at rough touches had not been any more apparent to painters, and for the expatriates and expersonates of the universal democracy, painting became a rite of chance and unforeseen fits any foul should be able to master in a quarter. Most artifacts constructed from time immemorial discernible pictures, if not narratives: a lot of modernisms impudently none. Its spineless kids jibed in not resuming the long chain of those masters insisting on canon and feminine white flab, on manners and symbols, on ratios and sinewy steeds, despising daubs, random rankness of mark, unsightliness and irratio.

Manet considers himself a link less soldered than the Titian’s one, and puts the Venus formerly of Urbino to the bed of a house for the love for hire. Twombly loves the Manet’s lady with black woman-servant but thinks the best artist wrist don’t really take direction from any imitation or erection in front of a model, so his Olympia  frustrates voluntarily the voyeur – and the repute as outcaste/outdated that would go with a lively white complexion on canvas. The Venere callipigia   by Evver seems to be






a fleeting rotation whose only necessity is as a record of the unnecessary human dancing [ Venus callypigian, photograph on Fuji paper, run of three copies in the size 20,2 centimetres in height, 15,1 in width ] whose unremittingness is surmised as a result of the species’ convulsions, not the individual’s.

Let’s beware of the women’s buttocks, of the magnifying our longing widens without respecting the measurements of truth. Let’s remember what it said on one rejection letter to Sylvia Plath: After a heavy rainfall, poems titled RAIN pour in from across the nation  . In Manet’s days, a painter got vent to his turgid fore middle straight into the brothel and then went back to the easel to pour off his humiliation turgidly through artificial issues. He just exchanged one recess of rules for another. In post-war prolapsed Rome, a painter spent a few minutes stuck on trickling trying to transform into relics what an artist before the war would have dropped into the ol’ sarlacc pit.

The beings have moving shapes, but once the artist has seized them, the emotion becomes rib of aesthetical cage. How can an earnest artist even it out? In Eisenhower’s opinion, the eyes are difficult sometimes, but mouth is the most arduous lineament to reproduce: Twombly doesn’t reproduce either mouth or eyes or nose or slut grace or warrior breast bone: Evver doesn’t beguile the eager adolescent with a venereal drill between rosy emispheres, doesn’t give Venus mincing cupids, doesn’t give cupids moth wings, as instead did Francesco Lorenzi wronging at one and the same time  entomology and paediatrics.

Appearance and underlayer have always seemed happy to persist cheek-by-jowl in art, but in the great twentieth-century perverting of nature, words and practices that hendiadys got lost in many unstickings and acidifications. Once an artist dreads the appearance, bad faith in creating’s gonna be unstoppable like a chain reaction, in which every decade’s vibes – with their chic names and ethical bugbears – attract spits for the lowest standard of their tricks from the following decade.

It would be mischievous to see in this Venus by Evver a large woman with her rump on Our Lady’s face: it would be misleading to read a goddess animally sat on a polished virgin face in this aniconical mist Karl Evver hugs himself over scaling the certitude of the bodies with, lending a death forestalling to consoling edged habits of identification. It would be less hasty to think of the stubborness in declining utopia and its footmen – lie and glamour – of an artist like Miroslav Tichy. The man whom communism convicted to eight years’ imprisonment in a camp and then to an utter pariahness and who notwithstanding kept taking inaccurate, relentless, truthful photographs of women:  the ones who disappear as soon as they are set down in the emotion of glancing at them, with their lax asses and their hurry on the street.

More cowardly and hypocritical than the Czech one, the Italian communism has in its turn repulsed Evver within the most silent holes of the social body, far off the ganglia of its serviceable bribery. And Evver has kept in his turn taking photographs of figures and shapes wandering around out him waiting to be found and handed down without the adulterations of priests, marxists, popisms, fraudianisms and other fictions.

Not Twombly even loved the red of the gaolers. He toke his mind off fictions by being imbued with orange, faded sienna, chalk white  , the colour of the sun inside the eyelid, the colour of the clay the man was made of, the colour of the house the men toke shelter from the sun in, as soon as they had stolen the rudiments of geometry from the gods of rule, of cube, of scene.


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