Emma Waltraud Howes
Questionnaire Emma Waltraud Howes
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
Donatien Grau, James Spooner
Afropunk Philology
Donatien Grau
A Life in Philology
Dan-el Padilla Peralta
Junk Philology. An Anti-Commentary
Sina Dell’Anno
Punk / Philology
Tom McCarthy
Toke My Asymptote – or, The Ecstatic Agony of Appearance
Zoran Terzić
The Grand Generalization
Kai van Eikels
Do in What's Doing, Democracy in!
Mengia Tschalaer
Queer Spaces
A. L. Kennedy
What is an Author?
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem
Tomb for Guy Debord
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem, Philippe Sollers
What is the Meaning of the Avant-garde’s Death?
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Michael Heitz, Hendrik Rohlf
Uma’s Face—Thurman’s Voice
Johannes Binotto
Shrewing the Tame
Hans Block, Moritz Riesewieck
What we don’t see
Axel Dielmann
The Dressmaker
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Michele Pedrazzi
The Next Bit. Corpo a corpo con l’ignoto
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
A.K. Kaiza
An Annotated History of Wakanda
Maria Filomena Molder
The Alms of Time
Jean-Luc Nancy
Zah Zuh
Maël Renouard
The Twilight of Classification?
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 3
Elena Vogman
Dynamography, or Andrei Bely’s Rhythmic Gesture
Ann Cotten
Dialogs
Rolf Bossart, Milo Rau
On Realism
Jelili Atiku, Damian Christinger
Venice, Lagos, and the Spaces in between
Alexander García Düttmann
Can There Be a Society Without Ceremony or the Critical Question of Theatre
Eric Baudelaire
Abecedarium
Michael Heitz
Another New God in Parts
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 2
Ute Holl
Dream, Clouds, Off, Exile
Haus am Gern
L’œuvre d'art n’a pas d’idée, elle est idée (Blog1)
Plörre
Smegma
Ohrwurm
Schlamassel
Kummerspeck
Weltschmerz
Gesöff
Fernweh
Lotterbett
Spelunke
Scharmützel
Donnerwetter
Schabracke
Mumpitz
Spatzenhirn
Lustmolch
Kaschemme
Spinatwachtel
Popanz
Cumulus tuba ;
Cirrus cumulonimbogenitus ;
Wallcloud ;
Bannerwolke ;
Föhnfische ;
mother-of-pearl cloud ;
Altocumulus translucidus ;
Stratocumulus...
1. Ringo Starr
2. Mike D.
3. Roland TR 808
4. Jaki Liebezeit
5. Paul Lovens
6. Anthony Williams
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.
The post I’m now sharing was somewhat unsettling: “Barbara joined Facebook 6 years ago!”
Raucous time capsules, rare jewels, and indispensable bulky goods from all epochs, languages, and genres.
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.