I.V. Nuss
The Love in the Convex, in Absolute Roundness and the Sluttification of All Men West of the Bosporus
Marie Glassl, Sophie Lewis
Surrogate Abolition
Emma Waltraud Howes
Questionnaire Emma Waltraud Howes
Simon Critchley
Learning to Eat Time with One’s Ears
Donatien Grau, James Spooner
Afropunk Philology
Johanna Went
I remember (Johanna Went)
Zoran Terzić
The Grand Generalization
Tom McCarthy
Toke My Asymptote – or, The Ecstatic Agony of Appearance
Mengia Tschalaer
Queer Spaces
A. L. Kennedy
What is an Author?
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem
Tomb for Guy Debord
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem, Philippe Sollers
What is the Meaning of the Avant-garde’s Death?
Sandra Frimmel
I Hate the Avant-garde
Lars von Trier in Conversation with Mehdi Belhaj Kacem & Raphaëlle Milone
Andreas L. Hofbauer
Yoke
Axel Dielmann
The Dressmaker
Ines Kleesattel
Art, Girls, and Aesthetic Freedom Down Below
Sina Dell’Anno
Oratio Soluta
Maria Filomena Molder
The Alms of Time
Michele Pedrazzi
The Next Bit. Corpo a corpo con l’ignoto
Joseph Morder
Une Trinite de la Memoire
Maël Renouard
The Twilight of Classification?
Dietmar Dath
Your Sprache Never Was
Jurij Pavlovich Annenkov
A Diary of my Encounters
Tom Kummer
Questionnaire Tom Kummer
Eric Baudelaire
Abecedarium
Alexander García Düttmann
Can There Be a Society Without Ceremony or the Critical Question of Theatre
Peter Ott
The Monotheistic Cell Or Reports from Fiction
Johanna Went
I remember (Johanna Went)
Discoteca Flaming Star
Ich erinnere mich… (Discoteca Flaming Star)
Facebook’s picture tumbler is currently reminding me of my first visit to China a year ago. I was impressed: so...
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...
Red oder Blue? Welche Götter? What’s wrong with reality? Nord oder Süd? Wie sterben? What is the problem with solutions?
Not on any Knowlede’s service this register in progress seeks accumulating entries of imagenables: names, objects, imaginations… singularities, that neither have to be thought nor upon which must be speculated.
Raucous time capsules, rare jewels, and indispensable bulky goods from all epochs, languages, and genres.
…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.