WAITING FOR DEFACEMENT
In the Palazzo delle Scienze, erected for the revoked Esposizione Universale di Roma 1942, sloughs its skin in the Sixties the Pigorini Museum, whose roots go down from the Collegio Romano to the Athanasius Kircher’s lunatic collecting.
If all had gone to Giangiacomo Borghese’plan, EUR42 would have been the apogee of Fascist impetus that saw the mean think end: but Borghese was the last qualified governor of Rome, EUR42 remained the dream dreamt by the best men, and Twombly would take up quarters at a Rome gelded by the Christian Democrat laziness, that preferred giving its clefts to geckos to taking a great architectural idea of itself. A gone to pot Rome.
The futility of the deed dogged your every waking hour, which would dishearten every coming generation but gave to Twombly’s signs their agreeable unperemptory waiting for defacement. Mayors more cowardly than board bulls surround the crib of universal grants, Cioccetti succeeds Tupini, Della Porta follows Cioccetti: later, and fouller, the communists will burn alive Stefano and Virgilio Mattei, and in 1976 they will induct at Campidoglio their front man, a hack named Argan, incapable of telling a drilled stone from a work of art.
Who do you turn to when you’ve all about more disgrace, unsightliness and pretence to try than you know what to do with? A disgrace the like of which was rare even in the Late Empire of the autarches infected by monotheism, bigotry and trinity riddle? It should be naive to neglect the decay as much distressing in the overseas America: the Kennedian anaesthesia, the brother to injure the justice, the father’s broad loot to buy highbrows and storytellers, the conceit of fooling anyone with big words and capitals, an anticommunism as much hasty as producing the opposite effect, utopia to blow up the mouths and mankind as before.
Twombly preferred to go to the Pigorini Museum. A place full of carvings cut by the most secluded nations, none of which prayed the Kennedy’s, the Pope’s god. None of which venerated the godless reasoning machine.
Karl Evver pries in a large plank into Twombly at the museum: I feticci del Pigorini parlano di sé con Twombly [ The fetishes in the Pigorini talk of themselves to Twombly – pyrography on wood, 89 centimetres in width, 179 in height, 2,2 in thickness ] bends him above some manufactured stump, taken away from a case.
Wood may never talk, but a fetish can be a voice that murmur is endless. Roughly translated, this murmur contents the silly women, the ultimate truth-diggers, ill at ease people in front of the matter, but myths had taught Twombly to beware of that which we are sure of hearing, because when it is rumbling in our soul, there are always our hopes involved. In which direction does Twombly feel this ancient murmur is veering? Does he quite realise the full extent of the modernist fraud? Picasso, the Stalin’s darling among the affected French millionaires, saw in the African masks only an easy way of reducing a countenance to few edges without thought, without ancestry truth, without unrepeatable fate. Any following avant-garde should inherit this well-ensconced shorthand for no correspondence.
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