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
Dennis Cooper, Donatien Grau, Richard Hell
"I’d rather live in a book"
Dan-el Padilla Peralta
Junk Philology. An Anti-Commentary
Johanna Went
I remember (Johanna Went)
Sina Dell’Anno
Punk / Philology
A. L. Kennedy
What is an Author?
Zoran Terzić
The Grand Generalization
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
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?
Sandra Frimmel
I Hate the Avant-garde
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem
Tomb for Guy Debord
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 5
Sina Dell’Anno
Oratio Soluta
Lars von Trier in Conversation with Mehdi Belhaj Kacem & Raphaëlle Milone
Johannes Binotto
Shrewing the Tame
Hans Block, Moritz Riesewieck
What we don’t see
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 4
Michele Pedrazzi
The Next Bit. Corpo a corpo con l’ignoto
Damian Christinger, Monica Ursina Jäger
Homeland Fictions
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 5
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 3
Dietmar Dath
Your Sprache Never Was
Stephen Barber
A War of Fragments: World Versus America
Ann Cotten
Dialogs
Jurij Pavlovich Annenkov
A Diary of my Encounters
Artur Zmijewski
Conversation on “Glimpse”
Bruce Bégout
The Man from Venice
Blixa Bargeld
LISTMANIA: ABT. DIE DUEMMSTEN BERLINER FRISÖRNAMEN
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
Haus am Gern
L’œuvre d'art n’a pas d’idée, elle est idée (Blog1)
Facebook’s algorithm has served up memories of my Turkish travels often enough, but now it’s taking countermeasures and suddenly presenting...
I sit in the lobby of a hotel in China where I am accommodated along with other guests of an...
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...
Vonceptually sensory bills of fare, enumerations and selections…
…rather alarms, to truth to arm her than enemies, and they have only this advantage to scape from being called ill things, that they are nothings…
Raucous time capsules, rare jewels, and indispensable bulky goods from all epochs, languages, and genres.
Red oder Blue? Welche Götter? What’s wrong with reality? Nord oder Süd? Wie sterben? What is the problem with solutions?
I Hate the Avant-Garde. When an artist as self-ironic and self-reflective as Yuri Albert makes such a statement about art, then skepticism is called for. Like his overall series Elitist-Democratic Art, the title deliberately plays with simple affirmations and negations, and at the same time exhibits the inherent receptive dilemma of the series: a (large) part of the artistically trained viewers see these shorthand works as abstract forms, without understanding the text, and only the few who can read (Russian) shorthand perceive a text, which for them doesn’t necessarily have to be art. I Hate the Avant-Garde was created in 2017, after a sketch made in 1987 in reaction to a changed situation in the reception of nonconformist art. With the beginning of perestroika, unofficial art that had hitherto been excluded from the state-run art scene—that is, from the official infrastructure of museums and exhibition spaces, and from art scholarship...
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.