The god of Daniello Bartoli, companion in faith of that Kircher to whom we owe the original core of the collections at the Pigorini Museum, quite dear site to the hunger of the young Twombly for the faint descents of our sight, is a voluptous bulge of the cheeks after a grammar coming. Bello, senza sembiante di volto; immenso, senza mole di corpo; infinito, senza partimento di misure; ricco, senza tesoro di nulla.  [ … ] Sempre il medesimo e sempre nuovo; solo e non solitario; unico e non infecondo; non confuso nell’unità, non diviso nel numero. Né la libertà punto il varia, né la necessità lo sforza, né il tempo il misura, né il cambiano le vicende, né gli spazi l’allargano, né le angustie lo stringono.  [ Fair, and he hasn’t appearance; vast, and he hasn’t mass; infinite, and he hasn’t partitions; abounding, and he hasn’t treasure at all. [ … ]  Perennially the same and new all the time; he’s alone and he’s not lonely; he’s the only one and he’s not barren; in the unitedness he’s not indistinct, in the number he’s not split. Neither freedom alters him, nor need strains him, nor time measures him, nor events change him, nor spaces widen him, nor narrowness contracts him. ]

What do we do with the big talking of a tough given out to be teology? Life is owerpoweringly succulent from start to finish, but perennially the same is only the deceitfulness of those who close their eyes for not watching the gods who come to them. With art making so much money Cy Twombly can float off alongside a divine vision whenever he feels it quivering and fading away. Taking it easy in Tuscia, he doesn’t pay great attention to the porporino coffins: can you imagine anything less inspiring than a stone for a man so crossed by the passing forms? No, for him to be keeping unperturbed, grey, unyielding abode for ages does go against the grain of the truthful landscape, done of staggering men, unrecognizable details of declivities, incorrect memories.

Bacchus makes violaceous the vin rosé of Tuscia, and Twombly loves the wine more than the strict marriage between basalt and limestone; Bacchus rescues the women from the indrances of shyness, dread of offending the father, overestimation of the mother’s griefs -  Statius tells in his Thebaide  : Bacchica mugit / buxus et insanae maculant trieterida matres  [ the Bacchic pipe is lowing, and matrons out of their mind soil the three-yearly festival ].

The gaiety of this coven depends on the largeness of this god’s spurt and on the derisive fierceness of another god, that Momus whose fine follower Mario Castellacci, one of the most beneficial dispenser of blows on the red conformism in Italy after World War II, lies under the soil of Bassano in Teverina.


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