« In his own particular way, Twombly tells us that the essence of writing is neither a form nor an use but simply a gesture, the gesture that produces it by allowing it to happen: a scrawl, almost a smudge, a negligence. (…) The essence of an object has something to do with the way it turns into trash. It’s not necessarily what remains after the objects has been used, it’s rather what is thrown away in use.
And so it is with Twombly’s writings. They are the fragments of an indolence, and then extremely elegant; it’s as if the only thing left after the writing, strong erotic act, were the languid fatigue of love: a garment felt down in a corner of the page. »