I.V. Nuss
The Love in the Convex, in Absolute Roundness and the Sluttification of All Men West of the Bosporus
Marie Glassl, Sophie Lewis
Surrogate Abolition
Emma Waltraud Howes
Questionnaire Emma Waltraud Howes
Donatien Grau
A Life in Philology
Johanna Went
I remember (Johanna Went)
Donatien Grau, James Spooner
Afropunk Philology
Mengia Tschalaer
Queer Spaces
Claire Fontaine
Towards a Theory of Magic Materialism
Zoran Terzić
The Grand Generalization
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
A. L. Kennedy
What is an Author?
Malte Fabian Rauch
Where the Negative Holds Court
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem
Tomb for Guy Debord
Sandra Frimmel
I Hate the Avant-garde
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
Andreas L. Hofbauer
Yoke
Sina Dell’Anno
Oratio Soluta
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 5
Michael Heitz
Wong Ping’s "Who’s the Daddy"
Zoran Terzić
Political Transplants
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
Angelika Meier
Who I Really Am
Fritz Senn
Das Leben besteht aus gestrandeten Konjunktiven
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 3
Maël Renouard
The Twilight of Classification?
Emma Waltraud Howes
Questionnaire Emma Waltraud Howes
Tom Kummer
Questionnaire Tom Kummer
Diane Williams
Bang Bang on the Stair
Jurij Pavlovich Annenkov
A Diary of my Encounters
Eric Baudelaire
Abecedarium
Trmasan Bruialesi
Lieber Paul 1
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 1
Michael Heitz
Another New God in Parts
The Transversal Shelf of Printed Books in Times of Accelerated Opaque Media
Une Trinité de mémoire
Je me souviens de quelques lieux, de quelques parfums d’enfance. En Amérique du Sud, en Equateur, à...
Ich erinnere mich an mein Exemplar von Alles kurz und klein, das weg ist, verschwunden! – wer erinnert sich, es...
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...
Red oder Blue? Welche Götter? What’s wrong with reality? Nord oder Süd? Wie sterben? What is the problem with solutions?
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.
L’œuvre d'art n’a pas d’idée, elle est idée
Vonceptually sensory bills of fare, enumerations and selections…
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.