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
Dan-el Padilla Peralta
Junk Philology. An Anti-Commentary
Dennis Cooper, Donatien Grau, Richard Hell
"I’d rather live in a book"
Johanna Went
I remember (Johanna Went)
Sina Dell’Anno
Punk / Philology
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
Mengia Tschalaer
Queer Spaces
Felix Stalder
Feedback as Authenticity
Zoran Terzić
The Grand Generalization
A. L. Kennedy
What is an Author?
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem
Tomb for Guy Debord
Zoran Terzić
The Tautomaniac
Sina Dell’Anno
Oratio Soluta
Hans Block, Moritz Riesewieck
What we don’t see
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
Michael Heitz
Wong Ping’s "Who’s the Daddy"
Michael Heitz, Hendrik Rohlf
Uma’s Face—Thurman’s Voice
Michele Pedrazzi
The Next Bit. Corpo a corpo con l’ignoto
Angelika Meier
Who I Really Am
Jochen Thermann
The Assistant Chef
Damian Christinger, Monica Ursina Jäger
Homeland Fictions
A.K. Kaiza
An Annotated History of Wakanda
Maël Renouard
The Twilight of Classification?
Stephen Barber
A War of Fragments: World Versus America
Marcus Quent
Elapsing Time and Belief in the World
Artur Zmijewski
Conversation on “Glimpse”
Jurij Pavlovich Annenkov
A Diary of my Encounters
Bruce Bégout
The Man from Venice
Tom Kummer
Questionnaire Tom Kummer
Andreas Reihse
LISTMANIA: GUANAJUATONOVIEMBRE
Tyler Coburn
Quaddie
Peter Ott
The Monotheistic Cell Or Reports from Fiction
Jean-Luc Nancy
Je me souviens (Jean-Luc Nancy)
Johanna Went
I remember (Johanna Went)
Facebook’s algorithm has served up memories of my Turkish travels often enough, but now it’s taking countermeasures and suddenly presenting...
I’m no longer very happy with Facebook. Recently the algorithm seems to be taking the platform into total despotism. And...
Facebook recently wanted to make merry with me. To this aim it posted an entry on my notice board, which...
The Facebook algorithm has noticed that I have something to do with art and museums, and presents me with a...
Following Georges Perec’s Memory 480: "I remember… (to be continued…)"…
L’œuvre d'art n’a pas d’idée, elle est idée
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…
In the late nineteenth century Alfred Jarry created a prototype of the modern wannabe in his pot-bellied Père Ubu, a figure that raises entitlement to a high art. Ubu doesn’t want to be king; others urge him to it. But he is also the others. And when he does become king, CEO, or US president, he doesn’t know what it means, or if it means anything at all. He just states his claim. And so he shimmies from statement to power. And having obtained power, Ubu decerebrates the world, exposing the grounds for groundlessness, to paraphrase Ortega y Gasset. Ubu is a tautomaniac, that is, he can be explained in his own terms and is thus always in the right (being in the right is all he is). He needs no proof, but on the contrary wants “to turn the absurd into the highest power of thought” (Deleuze & Guattari)....
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.