Putting a wall under much greater scrutiny can disclose what wasn’t done by the bricklayers. Once he has buttoned the bags up again, a ill-feeling man can libel whomever he likes, hurting the lime with a key or passing a pencil across there, brutally or meticolously.
These handwritings murmur above the running water what a hard thing that is to live in the teeth of days which are not welcoming of the umpteenth man into the world. Questions and answers are often of different hand, but related in whatever manner: even more often the chalk doesn’t trace rhymed lines, but rather two legs wide apart, and in the midst the oval from which all has come.
Hope of such draftsmen, other than peeping at death through that oval with the ancient waters thundering in their ears, would be to be overtaken by the same foe they have just defamed. To the grit of the lime also decamp for months in outline priapea mushrooms: they are anyhow debris of the human soul, and in so far as such Twombly accepts them within his representations. They are always there when we move our fingers with little reflection.
To live is to be murdered by one’s own obtuseness, and no compensation will be assessed at some hearing in heaven. Talora gli sembrava buono [ ciò che si mangiava a questi restaurants ] , talora detestabile, dipendeva dunque dall’umore, dallo “stato d’animo”. Dio mio, lo stato d’animo anche nella minestra! [ Sometimes it seemed to him – what one ate in these restaurants - tasty, sometimes dreadful, it depended on the mood therefore, on the “state of the soul”. Oh my God, the soul even in the soup! ] sighed facetious Filippo De Pisis under the boho appearance of the Marchesino : Twombly smells in the public baths a deeper soul than triumphal archs with their teaching patriotism, their hinting at the vault of heaven, their sonorous inscriptions.
He knows that the post-war generations, mentally and temperamentally ravaged by decades of liberal upbringing, progressive cautionary tales and pedagogical pseudosciences, can’t delight in Classical Rome’s fruits, in thoughts, boldnesses, arts and battles interconnecting in a prolific order within an overarching measure. This uprooted time wouldn’t enjoy the subtleties stili cultioris , wouldn’t find a way out even from the polished homography of U and V in the best Roman epigraphy of the Imperial Age. They see those tips, they don’t distinguish the one tough from the vowel and so cry Fascism. Because of mean cultural quality, democracy requires lavatory aesthetics and postponement of score settlement, and Twombly gives her them both.
Even though loftiness of Rome was sadly long gone, Twombly found there many grounds for wanting to spend a life on. It certainly retrieves the radiance of his painting that we don’t objectively see here architectural chitterlings of the dead city either laurel figments, but we do witness the humble semantics of an urinal at the thermal baths, which groups one against the other a thing of tired out acceptance of deferred renewal. The painter is well read and the painting officiates daubly what was and what it has on all sides.
Might and outcome couldn’t be further apart. The artist acts arrogantly inside an age frozen by euphemistic imperatives and utter surrender to the market in the hope that he can someday be thawed by posthumous sanguine men and his work restored to living sights. Twombly looks at the saltpetrous wall before him before he resigns his craving for signs. Not by chance he stutters 38 Letters of Resignation from MCMLIX to MCMLXVII and these aren’t at all the prelude to a cease-paint. What sense would have it, if making a mess of a canvas one can be received into the soft circle of the squillionaires?
Agreed, this circle is not euclidean. It takes sooner after a tepid, crooked human orifice. Umiliazione di Euclide
[ Euclid’s humiliation, pastels, plumbago and lipliner on scratched thin felt-pasteboard, 21,2 centimetres in width, 29,5 in height ] is an Alexandrian scene. The pessimism of Karl Evver can’t be unaware this scene happens unchanged every day from millennia, since mathematical purity in the mind and inexact reality in the daily dust began rubbing together their opposition, igniting the brief fate of everyone.
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