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
Simon Critchley
Learning to Eat Time with One’s Ears
Donatien Grau
A Life in Philology
Donatien Grau, James Spooner
Afropunk Philology
Johanna Went
I remember (Johanna Went)
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
Zoran Terzić
The Grand Generalization
Claire Fontaine
Towards a Theory of Magic Materialism
Felix Stalder
Feedback as Authenticity
Tom McCarthy
Toke My Asymptote – or, The Ecstatic Agony of Appearance
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem, Philippe Sollers
What is the Meaning of the Avant-garde’s Death?
Zoran Terzić
The Tautomaniac
Axel Dielmann
The Dressmaker
Michael Heitz
Wong Ping’s "Who’s the Daddy"
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 5
Jean-Luc Nancy
Zah Zuh
Jean-Luc Nancy
Zah Zuh
Angelika Meier
Who I Really Am
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 3
Wolfgang Plöger
After This Comes That Before That Comes This
Marcus Quent
Elapsing Time and Belief in the World
Ann Cotten
Dialogs
Stephen Barber
Futurama Nights, October 1978
Bruce Bégout
The Man from Venice
Rolf Bossart, Milo Rau
On Realism
Johanna Went
I remember (Johanna Went)
Oliver Hendricks
Human Oddities (Book)
Blixa Bargeld
LISTMANIA: ABT. DIE DUEMMSTEN BERLINER FRISÖRNAMEN
Haus am Gern
L’œuvre d'art n’a pas d’idée, elle est idée (Blog1)
K.A.
Hermal
It may be due to the simple design of this dust jacket, which gives no indication of genre, and to...
The Nonexistent Giotto
A picture may announce the future not in the sense that it refers to any future events...
Although contemporaries attested Romantic qualities to François Gérard’s Belisar, it didn’t appeal to the arch-Romantic Delacroix: “The fortune of a...
Red oder Blue? Welche Götter? What’s wrong with reality? Nord oder Süd? Wie sterben? What is the problem with solutions?
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.
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.