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
Johanna Went
I remember (Johanna Went)
Simon Critchley
Learning to Eat Time with One’s Ears
Dan-el Padilla Peralta
Junk Philology. An Anti-Commentary
Donatien Grau
A Life in Philology
Felix Stalder
Feedback as Authenticity
Mengia Tschalaer
Queer Spaces
A. L. Kennedy
What is an Author?
Claire Fontaine
Towards a Theory of Magic Materialism
Zoran Terzić
The Grand Generalization
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem
Tomb for Guy Debord
Sandra Frimmel
I Hate the Avant-garde
Sina Dell’Anno
Oratio Soluta
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
Hans Block, Moritz Riesewieck
What we don’t see
Ines Kleesattel
Art, Girls, and Aesthetic Freedom Down Below
Fritz Senn
Das Leben besteht aus gestrandeten Konjunktiven
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 4
Michele Pedrazzi
The Next Bit. Corpo a corpo con l’ignoto
Zoran Terzić
Political Transplants
Jochen Thermann
The Assistant Chef
Angelika Meier
Who I Really Am
Wolfgang Plöger
After This Comes That Before That Comes This
Eric Baudelaire
Abecedarium
Ann Cotten
Dialogs
Jelili Atiku, Damian Christinger
Venice, Lagos, and the Spaces in between
Bruce Bégout
The Man from Venice
Diane Williams
Bang Bang on the Stair
Discoteca Flaming Star
Ich erinnere mich… (Discoteca Flaming Star)
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 5
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 2
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Facebook’s picture tumbler is currently reminding me of my first visit to China a year ago. I was impressed: so...
I sit in the lobby of a hotel in China where I am accommodated along with other guests of an...
I noticed this pattern for fingernail decoration four years ago in the window of a “nail studio” in Salisbury, south-west...
The Facebook algorithm has noticed that I have something to do with art and museums, and presents me with a...
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.
Red oder Blue? Welche Götter? What’s wrong with reality? Nord oder Süd? Wie sterben? What is the problem with solutions?
Vonceptually sensory bills of fare, enumerations and selections…
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.
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.