I remember (Johanna Went)
Donatien Grau, James Spooner
Dan-el Padilla Peralta
Junk Philology. An Anti-Commentary
Learning to Eat Time with One’s Ears
Towards a Theory of Magic Materialism
Feedback as Authenticity
Kai van Eikels
Do in What's Doing, Democracy in!
A. L. Kennedy
What is an Author?
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem
Tomb for Guy Debord
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem, Philippe Sollers
What is the Meaning of the Avant-garde’s Death?
Malte Fabian Rauch
Phenomena in Exile
Lars von Trier in Conversation with Mehdi Belhaj Kacem & Raphaëlle Milone
Andreas L. Hofbauer
Alexander García Düttmann
Hans Block, Moritz Riesewieck
What we don’t see
An Annotated History of Wakanda
Helmut J. Schneider
How Distant Can My Neighbor be?
Das Leben besteht aus gestrandeten Konjunktiven
Elapsing Time and Belief in the World
After This Comes That Before That Comes This
Questionnaire Nicole Bachmann
Der Algorithmus und ich 3
Bang Bang on the Stair
Questionnaire Tom Kummer
Jurij Pavlovich Annenkov
A Diary of my Encounters
LISTMANIA: ABT. DIE DUEMMSTEN BERLINER FRISÖRNAMEN
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
I’ve always been fascinated by globes, which is why I photographed this very special example in 2011, and the FB...
Facebook’s algorithm has served up memories of my Turkish travels often enough, but now it’s taking countermeasures and suddenly presenting...
I noticed this pattern for fingernail decoration four years ago in the window of a “nail studio” in Salisbury, south-west...
Facebook recently wanted to make merry with me. To this aim it posted an entry on my notice board, which...
Following Georges Perec’s Memory 480: "I remember… (to be continued…)"…
Vonceptually sensory bills of fare, enumerations and selections…
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.
»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.«
Dire works on the bogus regime—not just of art—but endowed with wit, beauty and irresistible fetish character.