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Mama Say Make I Dey Go, She Dey My Back
Mama Say Make I Dey Go, She Dey My Back

Jelili Atiku, Damian Christinger

Venice, Lagos, and the Spaces in between

Wandering down the Riva S. Biasio I gaze at the superyachts, thronged at the quay, and the African street vendors selling cheap knock-off handbags: poor immigrants trying to make a living contrasted with the absurdly wealthy visiting one of the great gatherings of the globalized art world. This image has become a sort of a cliché, especially during the last edition of the Biennale di Venezia, curated by Okwui Enwezor, with its emphasis on art from the global South and...
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  • colonialism
  • performance
  • feminism
  • Africa
  • body
Arts
About ‘how we treat the others’

Artur Zmijewski

About ‘how we treat the others’

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  • migration
  • gift
  • political aesthetics
  • propaganda
  • National Socialism
  • concentration camp
  • documenta
  • contemporary art
  • ethics
  • Poland
It was another 75° day in LA.
It was another 75° day in LA.

Kim Gordon

The Pitch

It was another 75° day in LA. The kind that can either make you gloriously happy to live in such perfect warmth in February or want to make you want to go home and lay down and turn on the TV for a little feeling of connection to life outside of Cali. Those goddamn Santa Ana winds were beginning to whip around. I know the clichés about them creating madness. As I walked around the garage I couldn’t help wonder what her...
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Fiction

Stephen Barber

Twenty-four hours in state of unconsciousness

Now the dead will no longer be buried, now this spectral city will become the site for execrations and lamentations, now time itself will disintegrate and void itself, now human bodies will expectorate fury and envision their own transformation or negation, now infinite and untold catastrophes are imminently on their way —ready to cross the bridge over the river Aire and engulf us all — in this winter of discontent, just beginning at this dead-of-night ­instant before midnight, North-Sea ice-particles already crackling in the air and the last summer long-over, the final moment of my seventeenth birthday, so we have to go, the devil is at our heels… And now we’re running at full-tilt through the centre of the city, across the square beneath the Purbeck-marble edifice of the Queen’s ­Hotel, down towards the dark arches under the railway tracks, the illuminated sky shaking, the air fissured with beating cacophony,...

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Digital disrupture
Digital disrupture

Dieter Mersch

Digital Criticism

We really need an analysis of algorithmic conditions and their paradoxes and ambiguities that gives them an adequate framework and horizon. But instead we currently seem to be finding an algorithmic solution of the algorithmic, much as digital solutions are being offered for the problems of the digital public sphere, in the way that IT corporations, for example, use exclusively mathematical procedures to evaluate and delete “fake news,” inappropriate portrayals, or the violation of personal rights. This tends to result...
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Discourse

Ute Holl

Dream, Clouds, Off, Exile

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  • communism
  • Karl Marx
  • exile
  • monotheism
  • film
»The camera is my »exosomatic extension‹.«
»The camera is my »exosomatic extension‹.«

Gertrud Koch, Michael Lüthy, ...

A Walk With Allan Sekula Through His Exhibition

Gertrud Koch: We would like to start by discussing the different narrative forms you have chosen for the titles of your series, like »story«, »fable« or »tale«: how would you differentiate between stories and fables, and what autobiographical narratives are involved here? Is it a kind of metanarrative, is it a composing of different narrative moments?
   Allan Sekula: Very often my titling a particular work has an idiomatic logic: Fish Story has a vernacular resonance, particularly in American English where a...
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  • Allan Sekula
  • exhibition
  • fiction
  • memory
  • photography
Humanities

Maria Filomena Molder

So many egoists call themselves artists…

“So many egoists call themselves artists,” Rimbaud wrote to Paul Demeny on May 15, 1871. Even though that is not always obvious, ‘I’, the first person, is the most unknown person, a mystery that is constantly moving towards the other two, the second and third persons, a series of unfoldings and smatterings that eventually gelled as ‘Je est un autre’. That is why ‘apocryphal’ is a literarily irrelevant concept and ‘pseudo’ a symptom, the very proof that life, writing, is made up of echoes, which means that intrusions and thefts (Borges also discusses them) will always be the daily bread of those who write.

Words from others, words taken out of place and mutilated: here are the alms of time, that squanderer’s sole kindness. And so many others, mostly others who wrote, and many other pages, all of them apocryphal, all of them echoes, reflections. All this flows together into—two centuries...

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