Monday, August 23, 2010


The double contract, the skin and the immortal idol of love is but a pebble in the mouth of my good and flawed friend Currado Malaspina. The grateful gaiety which greeted his recent exhibition at Gallerie Livarot provoked in me nothing but a night-sweat of awkward embarrassment. 

Maquettes de Marquis no. 14    

For a man who drinks the fruit of life clenched within the lenience of raffish corruption, the Maquettes de Marquis series of drawings is just a flowerly coverlet of imposture. It's a carnival of melodrama posing as debauchery. It's license without lewdness. Simulated wickedness in the altercloth of expressionism.

Currado, be chivalrous in your defeat and stop simmering in the mildew of petty provocations. Try to retrieve the raw air of your innocent jejunity. Your new work, the overcooked cousin of your erstwhile genius, mocks the garbled loyalty of your purblind partisans.

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