I.V. Nuss
The Love in the Convex, in Absolute Roundness and the Sluttification of All Men West of the Bosporus
Emma Waltraud Howes
Questionnaire Emma Waltraud Howes
Marie Glassl, Sophie Lewis
Surrogate Abolition
Simon Critchley
Learning to Eat Time with One’s Ears
Donatien Grau
A Life in Philology
Dennis Cooper, Donatien Grau, Richard Hell
"I’d rather live in a book"
Johanna Went
I remember (Johanna Went)
Sina Dell’Anno
Punk / Philology
Kai van Eikels
Do in What's Doing, Democracy in!
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
Zoran Terzić
The Grand Generalization
Tom McCarthy
Toke My Asymptote – or, The Ecstatic Agony of Appearance
A. L. Kennedy
What is an Author?
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem, Philippe Sollers
What is the Meaning of the Avant-garde’s Death?
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem
Tomb for Guy Debord
Alexander García Düttmann
Cold Distance
Ines Kleesattel
Art, Girls, and Aesthetic Freedom Down Below
Johannes Binotto
Shrewing the Tame
Michael Heitz, Hendrik Rohlf
Uma’s Face—Thurman’s Voice
Maria Filomena Molder
The Alms of Time
Jochen Thermann
The Assistant Chef
Damian Christinger, Monica Ursina Jäger
Homeland Fictions
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 4
Helmut J. Schneider
How Distant Can My Neighbor be?
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 3
Manuel Franquelo
An interview with Manuel Franquelo
Emma Waltraud Howes
Questionnaire Emma Waltraud Howes
Diane Williams
Bang Bang on the Stair
Jelili Atiku, Damian Christinger
Venice, Lagos, and the Spaces in between
Eric Baudelaire
Abecedarium
Artur Zmijewski
Conversation on “Glimpse”
Haus am Gern
L’œuvre d'art n’a pas d’idée, elle est idée (Blog1)
Damian Christinger
Huelsenbeck (Book)
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 3
Blixa Bargeld
LISTMANIA: ABT. DIE DUEMMSTEN BERLINER FRISÖRNAMEN
Une Trinité de mémoire
Je me souviens de quelques lieux, de quelques parfums d’enfance. En Amérique du Sud, en Equateur, à...
I remember during the frozen Tokyo winter of 1997: I took long walks in the dead of night through the...
Ich erinnere mich an gewellte goldene Kornfelder.
Ich erinnere mich an mich; in der Peripherie des Bildes.
Ich erinnere mich an die...
L’œuvre d'art n’a pas d’idée, elle est idée
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.
…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…
The post I’m now sharing was somewhat unsettling: “Barbara joined Facebook 6 years ago!”
Externalized memory had always proceeded by contractions, summaries, reductions, selections, breaks in flow, as well as by organization, classification, boiling down. Card catalogues reduced thousands of works to a few key notions; tables of contents contracted the hundreds of pages in a given book. The sign itself was the first abbreviation of experience. An epic stitched of words was an abbreviation of the war, the long years of which were reduced to a few nights of recitation; the written text that recorded the epic was a contraction of the oral narration which pushed aside its sensory richness, melody, life in a thousand details. In accumulating, every level of abbreviation reconstituted an infinite flow, a new dilation that would be contracted in its turn. From the plurality of pages to the index and the table of contents; from the plurality of books to card catalogues.
The abbreviated elements were further arranged, situated...
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.