Marie Glassl, Sophie Lewis
Surrogate Abolition
Emma Waltraud Howes
Questionnaire Emma Waltraud Howes
I.V. Nuss
The Love in the Convex, in Absolute Roundness and the Sluttification of All Men West of the Bosporus
Donatien Grau
A Life in Philology
Johanna Went
I remember (Johanna Went)
Sina Dell’Anno
Punk / Philology
Donatien Grau, James Spooner
Afropunk Philology
Tom McCarthy
Toke My Asymptote – or, The Ecstatic Agony of Appearance
Zoran Terzić
The Grand Generalization
Claire Fontaine
Towards a Theory of Magic Materialism
Kai van Eikels
Do in What's Doing, Democracy in!
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem
Tomb for Guy Debord
Sandra Frimmel
I Hate the Avant-garde
Hans Block, Moritz Riesewieck
What we don’t see
Ines Kleesattel
Art, Girls, and Aesthetic Freedom Down Below
Michael Heitz, Hendrik Rohlf
Uma’s Face—Thurman’s Voice
Andreas L. Hofbauer
Yoke
Axel Dielmann
The Dressmaker
Jochen Thermann
The Assistant Chef
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Angelika Meier
Who I Really Am
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 5
Fritz Senn
Das Leben besteht aus gestrandeten Konjunktiven
Nicole Bachmann
Questionnaire Nicole Bachmann
Marcus Quent
Elapsing Time and Belief in the World
Elena Vogman
Dynamography, or Andrei Bely’s Rhythmic Gesture
Eric Baudelaire
Abecedarium
Mário Gomes
The Poetics of Architecture
Ann Cotten
Dialogs
Alexander García Düttmann
Can There Be a Society Without Ceremony or the Critical Question of Theatre
Tom Kummer
Questionnaire Tom Kummer
Peter Ott
The Monotheistic Cell Or Reports from Fiction
Beni Bischof
LISTMANIA: BIG BUGS
Michael Heitz
Another New God in Parts
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 1
I remember during the frozen Tokyo winter of 1997: I took long walks in the dead of night through the...
La soif
Quand j’étais enfant, près de la maison ou j’habitais, il y avait une voie ferrée. Avant de m'endormir, j’entendais...
I remember during the frozen Tokyo winter of 1997: I took long walks in the dead of night through the...
We are looking for relics of visions of the future in past image spaces, for the traces and signatures of something once imaginable and timelessly possible.
The post I’m now sharing was somewhat unsettling: “Barbara joined Facebook 6 years ago!”
…rather alarms, to truth to arm her than enemies, and they have only this advantage to scape from being called ill things, that they are nothings…
Raucous time capsules, rare jewels, and indispensable bulky goods from all epochs, languages, and genres.
My language
English
Selected content
English
»Ineluctable modality of the visible: at least that if no more, thought through my eyes. Signatures of all things I am here to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the nearing tide, that rusty boot. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Limits of the diaphane. But he adds: in bodies. Then he was aware of them bodies before of them coloured. How? By knocking his sconce against them, sure. Go easy. Bald he was and a millionaire, MAESTRO DI COLOR CHE SANNO. Limit of the diaphane in. Why in? Diaphane, adiaphane. If you can put your five fingers through it it is a gate, if not a door. Shut your eyes and see.
Rhythm begins, you see. I hear. Acatalectic tetrameter of iambs
marching. No, agallop: DELINE THE MARE.
Open your eyes now. I will. One moment. Has all vanished since?
If I open and am for ever in the black adiaphane. BASTA! I will see
if I can see.
See now. There all the time without you: and ever shall be, world
without end.«
James Joyce
Dire works on the bogus regime—not just of art—but endowed with wit, beauty and irresistible fetish character.