Enough with all these damn murals!
Enough with these figurative studies, these needless sucklings of the romantic ego, these thick gilded frames, these meanderings of hue and saturation and volume and texture and drapery, these idyllic landscapes and soul-wrenching faces and kinetic geometries, these soaring flawed metaphors of grandiosity realized in succulent and fulsome lustful blood red, swollen and bruised purple, capacious blue, auspicious goldenrod.
In fact, death to aesthetics. In Florence, no less.
Elfo intends to scrawl upon the walls of the cityscape like a desperate inmate who has lost his will, peaking briefly upward to the wan grey, drained of all expression. His rant is gestural, harried and blunt.
All caps, it reads MORTE AL L’ ESTETICA!!!
The best translation is, I think, “F**k Aesthetics,” he tells us.