Towards a Theory of Magic Materialism
Feedback as Authenticity
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
The Grand Generalization
Toke My Asymptote – or, The Ecstatic Agony of Appearance
I Hate the Avant-garde
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Shrewing the Tame
Michael Heitz, Hendrik Rohlf
Uma’s Face—Thurman’s Voice
Andreas L. Hofbauer
Hans Block, Moritz Riesewieck
What we don’t see
Une Trinite de la Memoire
Damian Christinger, Monica Ursina Jäger
The Next Bit. Corpo a corpo con l’ignoto
Maria Filomena Molder
The Alms of Time
Der Algorithmus und ich 3
An interview with Manuel Franquelo
After This Comes That Before That Comes This
The Twilight of Classification?
Futurama Nights, October 1978
Rolf Bossart, Milo Rau
Bang Bang on the Stair
Alexander García Düttmann
Can There Be a Society Without Ceremony or the Critical Question of Theatre
Another New God in Parts
The Transversal Shelf of Printed Books in Times of Accelerated Opaque Media
THE MOST BEAUTIFUL CLOUD NAMES
Facebook’s picture tumbler is currently reminding me of my first visit to China a year ago. I was impressed: so...
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...
Vonceptually sensory bills of fare, enumerations and selections…
Following Georges Perec’s Memory 480: "I remember… (to be continued…)"…
L’œuvre d'art n’a pas d’idée, elle est idée
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.
The ironic self-awareness of the poet can only be that of his own inauthenticity, repeated or fed back into itself at increasingly conscious levels, and ‘to know inauthenticity is not the same as to be authentic’.
The question of authenticity and I go back some way; we’re old sparring partners – frenemies. It’s been a fraught relationship, shot through with paradox and misconstruing. My first novel, Remainder, does turn around its protagonist’s obsession with becoming ‘real’, inhabiting his era or his city, building, skin, movements and gestures in a ‘first-hand’ or ‘authentic’ way, an obsession which he carries to the point of murder. Yet the pleasure of seeing this book receiving glowing press reviews that praised it for its ‘originality’ and ‘true’-ness was tinged with an awareness of something being odd or ‘off’, since Remainder is in fact the most un-original of novels, a novel about non-originality and simulacra that’s quite blatantly composed of set tropes and constructed situations reprised and, only slightly modified, replayed from sources ranging from Ballard’s Crash and Beckett’s Godot back to Sterne’s Tristram Shandy (Uncle Toby’s domestic re-stagings of battle terrains)...
»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.