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
Donatien Grau, James Spooner
Afropunk Philology
Donatien Grau
A Life in Philology
Simon Critchley
Learning to Eat Time with One’s Ears
Sina Dell’Anno
Punk / Philology
Claire Fontaine
Towards a Theory of Magic Materialism
A. L. Kennedy
What is an Author?
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
Mengia Tschalaer
Queer Spaces
Sandra Frimmel
I Hate the Avant-garde
Zoran Terzić
The Tautomaniac
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem, Philippe Sollers
What is the Meaning of the Avant-garde’s Death?
Malte Fabian Rauch
Where the Negative Holds Court
Hans Block, Moritz Riesewieck
What we don’t see
Andreas L. Hofbauer
Yoke
Ines Kleesattel
Art, Girls, and Aesthetic Freedom Down Below
Alexander García Düttmann
Cold Distance
Johannes Binotto
Shrewing the Tame
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
Helmut J. Schneider
How Distant Can My Neighbor be?
Maria Filomena Molder
The Alms of Time
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 5
Wolfgang Plöger
After This Comes That Before That Comes This
Maël Renouard
The Twilight of Classification?
Dieter Mersch
Digital Criticism
Eric Baudelaire
Abecedarium
Jelili Atiku, Damian Christinger
Venice, Lagos, and the Spaces in between
Rolf Bossart, Milo Rau
On Realism
Stephen Barber
Futurama Nights, October 1978
Artur Zmijewski
Conversation on “Glimpse”
John Donne
Paradox I
Ute Holl
Dream, Clouds, Off, Exile
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 3
¡ Wenn sie im Flugzeug freie Plätze sehen, dann nicht darum prügeln !
¡ Auf gar keinen Fall darf...
1. Tell the Earth, “I love you. I can’t live without you."
2. At first you may feel embarrassed...
Cumulus tuba ;
Cirrus cumulonimbogenitus ;
Wallcloud ;
Bannerwolke ;
Föhnfische ;
mother-of-pearl cloud ;
Altocumulus translucidus ;
Stratocumulus...
Following Georges Perec’s Memory 480: "I remember… (to be continued…)"…
L’œuvre d'art n’a pas d’idée, elle est idée
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.
…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…
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.