Malte Fabian Rauch
Where the Negative Holds Court
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem, Philippe Sollers
What is the Meaning of the Avant-garde’s Death?
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem
Tomb for Guy Debord
Hans Block, Moritz Riesewieck
What we don’t see
Shrewing the Tame
Wong Ping’s "Who’s the Daddy"
Lars von Trier in Conversation with Mehdi Belhaj Kacem & Raphaëlle Milone
Der Algorithmus und ich 5
Damian Christinger, Monica Ursina Jäger
An Annotated History of Wakanda
The Twilight of Classification?
Der Algorithmus und ich 3
Your Sprache Never Was
Bang Bang on the Stair
Alexander García Düttmann
Can There Be a Society Without Ceremony or the Critical Question of Theatre
The Man from Venice
Conversation on “Glimpse”
Questionnaire Tom Kummer
I sit in the lobby of a hotel in China where I am accommodated along with other guests of an...
I’m no longer very happy with Facebook. Recently the algorithm seems to be taking the platform into total despotism. And...
Facebook recently wanted to make merry with me. To this aim it posted an entry on my notice board, which...
The Facebook algorithm has noticed that I have something to do with art and museums, and presents me with a...
Raucous time capsules, rare jewels, and indispensable bulky goods from all epochs, languages, and genres.
Not on any Knowlede’s service this register in progress seeks accumulating entries of imagenables: names, objects, imaginations… singularities, that neither have to be thought nor upon which must be speculated.
Vonceptually sensory bills of fare, enumerations and selections…
Following Georges Perec’s Memory 480: "I remember… (to be continued…)"…
»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.«
Dire works on the bogus regime—not just of art—but endowed with wit, beauty and irresistible fetish character.