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Problem IX: Warum haben Hurenkinder das allermeiste Glück? . . . . . GUANAJUATONOVIEMBRE . . . . . I remember . . . . . Quaddie . . . . . HER . . . . . Charlemagne Rides through Paris . . . . . Michael Heitz . Noch ein neuer Gott in Teilen . . . . . Mário Gomes . Brandsatz & Ästhetik . . . . . Corona Park, Hub of theWorld . . . . . Barbara Basting . Der Algorithmus und ich 8 . . . . . L’œuvre d'art n’a pas d’idée, elle est idée . . . . . Self-portrait . . . . . Human Oddities . . . . . Ute Holl . Dream, Clouds, Off, Exile . . . . . 12 May 2011 – 12 May 2017: On Non-Digital Storage Media . . . . . I remember . . . . . How to Pilot an Aeroplane . . . . . The Transversal Shelf of Printed Books in Times of Accelerated Opaque Media . . . . . I remember… . . . . . TWELVE DRUMMERS DRUMMING . . . . . Tyler Coburn . Ergonomic Futures . . . . . Hermal . . . . . Pierre Guyotat . Unabhängigkeit . . . . . Je me souviens… . . . . . BIG BUGS . . . . . Mike Wilson . Rockabilly . . . . . This is not your blood. . . . . . THE MOST BEAUTIFUL CLOUD NAMES . . . . . Behind the Great Firewall . . . . . Ich erinnere mich… . . . . . Facebook’s Just a Nail Studio . . . . . Artificial and Other Intelligences . . . . . Exodus. Gods and Kings . . . . . Barbara Basting — The Algorithm and I . . . . . LISTMANIA . . . . . Custom Creates Law . . . . . Donatien Grau, Pierre Guyotat . Conversation . . . . . China frisst Menschen . . . . . ABT. DIE DUEMMSTEN BERLINER FRISÖRNAMEN . . . . . Marcus Quent . Ohne Halt . . . . . Boutiques on the Bosporus . . . . . 12 Feb 2011 — 12 Feb 2017 . . . . . Peter Ott . Die monotheistische Zelle oder Berichte aus der Fiktion . . . . . Paradox I: That all things kill themselves . . . . . Pierre Guyotat . The Prison . . . . . American English . . . . . Michael Heitz . Another New God in Parts . . . . . Marcus Quent . No Respite . . . . . Julien Maret . IN EXTREMIS . . . . . Mike Wilson . Rockabilly . . . . . Peter Ott . The Monotheistic Cell Or Reports from Fiction

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DIAPHANES MAGAZINE No. 8/9
DIAPHANES MAGAZINE No. 3

BELISAR by François Gérard

Christine Tauber

Belisar

 

Wie ein stockfischiger Schnapsrausch

Tina Schulz, 03.07.2017

Kommt ein Polizist zu einem Mann, der beschuldigt wird, seinen kleinen Sohn zu Tode geschüttelt zu haben. Wie ist denn das passiert?, will der Polizist wissen. So!, gibt der Mann...

Kybernetik für alle

Michael Schultze, 03.07.2017

Der Titel ist Programm. Dieses »in der hauptsache von 1962 bis 1967« geschriebene Werk ist nicht nur ein megalomanisch zusammengeclustertes Durchverdauen der bewegenden Theorien der späten 60er Jahre (Linguistik, Kybernetik,...

Materiality and corporeality

Kári Páll Óskarsson, 03.07.2017

The Three Marias is a highly interesting work of feminist literature, although it’s now largely forgotten outside of its native Portugal. In the early 70s, while the country was still...

Other columns
Magazine Special

Barbara Basting

Corona Park, Hub of theWorld

I’ve always been fascinated by globes, which is why I photographed this very special example in 2011, and the FB algorithm recently presented it to me again. It’s said to be the largest model of the world in the world. I discovered it in Corona Park in the New York district of Queens, the site of the 1939 and 1964 World’s Fairs. I went to the Queens Museum, whose creeper-covered wall is on the photograph’s right, mainly to see its model of New York. This impressive piece was commissioned by Robert Moses, director of the World’s Fair, in 1964. New York was supposed to look like an urbanist miracle, the most grandiose of 20th-century cities, the hub of the world.
Facebook fished the picture from the depths of its archives while I was thinking about the estate of an artist whose studio I had cleared out. It included a battered...

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»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

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