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| | The New Yorker : critics : art |
 | | Cy Twombly was twenty-five years old in 1953, when, at the borrowed studio of Robert Rauschenberg, on Fulton Street, he made some of the inauspicious-looking monoprints and pencil drawings that open “Cy Twombly: Fifty Years of Works on Paper,” an absorbing, uneven show at the Whitney. |
 | | Twombly’s works of the fifties remain his most exciting, for me. Those in the show, beginning in 1954, are flurries of impulsive line in pencil, crayon, or paint—sometimes mostly erased or overlapped with white house paint—which seem barbarically formless, yet are perversely graced with sensitive touch and texture. |
 | | Amazingly, Twombly’s candid flailing has proved to wear far better than the aggressive certainties of most fame-seeking artists, which, when they do not attain the deathless clarity of masterpieces (that is, nearly all the time), tend to become embarrassingly dated with the next turnover of artistic fashion. |
| www.newyorker.com /critics/art/?050307craw_artworld (1285 words) |
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