Towards a Theory of Magic Materialism
The Grand Generalization
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
Kai van Eikels
Do in What's Doing, Democracy in!
I Hate the Avant-garde
Malte Fabian Rauch
Where the Negative Holds Court
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem, Philippe Sollers
What is the Meaning of the Avant-garde’s Death?
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
Art, Girls, and Aesthetic Freedom Down Below
Michael Heitz, Hendrik Rohlf
Uma’s Face—Thurman’s Voice
Das Leben besteht aus gestrandeten Konjunktiven
Shrewing the Tame
The Assistant Chef
Helmut J. Schneider
How Distant Can My Neighbor be?
Une Trinite de la Memoire
Damian Christinger, Monica Ursina Jäger
Der Algorithmus und ich 3
The Twilight of Classification?
An interview with Manuel Franquelo
Questionnaire Nicole Bachmann
Futurama Nights, October 1978
Questionnaire Tom Kummer
The Poetics of Architecture
The Man from Venice
Jurij Pavlovich Annenkov
A Diary of my Encounters
Lieber Paul 1
LISTMANIA: ABT. DIE DUEMMSTEN BERLINER FRISÖRNAMEN
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 noticed this pattern for fingernail decoration four years ago in the window of a “nail studio” in Salisbury, south-west...
The Facebook algorithm has noticed that I have something to do with art and museums, and presents me with a...
L’œuvre d'art n’a pas d’idée, elle est idée
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.
Following Georges Perec’s Memory 480: "I remember… (to be continued…)"…
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.
»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.«
Dire works on the bogus regime—not just of art—but endowed with wit, beauty and irresistible fetish character.