Emma Waltraud Howes
Questionnaire Emma Waltraud Howes
Marie Glassl, Sophie Lewis
Surrogate Abolition
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
Dennis Cooper, Donatien Grau, Richard Hell
"I’d rather live in a book"
Dan-el Padilla Peralta
Junk Philology. An Anti-Commentary
Johanna Went
I remember (Johanna Went)
Claire Fontaine
Towards a Theory of Magic Materialism
Tom McCarthy
Toke My Asymptote – or, The Ecstatic Agony of Appearance
Felix Stalder
Feedback as Authenticity
Zoran Terzić
The Grand Generalization
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem, Philippe Sollers
What is the Meaning of the Avant-garde’s Death?
Zoran Terzić
The Tautomaniac
Sandra Frimmel
I Hate the Avant-garde
Lars von Trier in Conversation with Mehdi Belhaj Kacem & Raphaëlle Milone
Michael Heitz
Wong Ping’s "Who’s the Daddy"
Hans Block, Moritz Riesewieck
What we don’t see
Ines Kleesattel
Art, Girls, and Aesthetic Freedom Down Below
Jean-Luc Nancy
Zah Zuh
Zoran Terzić
Political Transplants
Helmut J. Schneider
How Distant Can My Neighbor be?
Wolfgang Plöger
After This Comes That Before That Comes This
Dieter Mersch
Digital Criticism
Elena Vogman
Dynamography, or Andrei Bely’s Rhythmic Gesture
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 3
Jelili Atiku, Damian Christinger
Venice, Lagos, and the Spaces in between
Bruce Bégout
The Man from Venice
Stephen Barber
Futurama Nights, October 1978
Tom Kummer
Questionnaire Tom Kummer
Ann Cotten
Dialogs
Michael Heitz
Another New God in Parts
Hendrik Rohlf
Richard Prince (Book)
Johanna Went
I remember (Johanna Went)
Tyler Coburn
Quaddie
On the first gaze the works of Emma Waltraud Howes seem incongruously out of time. Visiting her studio, one enters another world: meets mushrooms and corals, glass artichoke-hand grenades, the...
Nicole Bachmann’s latest work, I say, has the performer practice a text, sense a word in the mouth, calling it forth, and another, repeating, hearing, interrupting, and another, beginning again,...
The project space CORNER COLLEGE in Zurich’s 4th district has for some time now been giving invigorating impulses to both art and theory, and can be recommended to every visitor...
I got to know Tom Kummer in 2006 while editing his book Blow Up in nighttime telephone calls to Los Angeles. We met for the first time at the book...
The post I’m now sharing was somewhat unsettling: “Barbara joined Facebook 6 years ago!”
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.
J.G. Ballard’s self-declared ‘Immodest Proposal’ for a global war-alliance to exact the destruction of America demonstrates the provocatory zeal of his last fiction plans, as well as their enduring prescience. As Ballard emphasises several times in the World Versus America notebooks, he is utterly serious in his concerns and visions.
Although the Ballard estate declined permission for any images of pages from the World Versus America archival notebooks to accompany this essay, any member of the general public interested to do so can readily visit the British Library and view the notebooks in their entirety in the freely-accessible manuscripts collection there.
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.