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
Dan-el Padilla Peralta
Junk Philology. An Anti-Commentary
Johanna Went
I remember (Johanna Went)
Dennis Cooper, Donatien Grau, Richard Hell
"I’d rather live in a book"
Kai van Eikels
Do in What's Doing, Democracy in!
Claire Fontaine
Towards a Theory of Magic Materialism
Zoran Terzić
The Grand Generalization
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
Malte Fabian Rauch
Where the Negative Holds Court
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem, Philippe Sollers
What is the Meaning of the Avant-garde’s Death?
Sandra Frimmel
I Hate the Avant-garde
Zoran Terzić
The Tautomaniac
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem
Tomb for Guy Debord
Fritz Senn
Das Leben besteht aus gestrandeten Konjunktiven
Michael Heitz
Wong Ping’s "Who’s the Daddy"
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
Ines Kleesattel
Art, Girls, and Aesthetic Freedom Down Below
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 5
Fritz Senn
Das Leben besteht aus gestrandeten Konjunktiven
Jochen Thermann
The Assistant Chef
Damian Christinger, Monica Ursina Jäger
Homeland Fictions
Zoran Terzić
Political Transplants
Jean-Luc Nancy
Zah Zuh
Emma Waltraud Howes
Questionnaire Emma Waltraud Howes
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 3
Elena Vogman
Dynamography, or Andrei Bely’s Rhythmic Gesture
Maël Renouard
The Twilight of Classification?
Mário Gomes
The Poetics of Architecture
Alexander García Düttmann
Can There Be a Society Without Ceremony or the Critical Question of Theatre
Eric Baudelaire
Abecedarium
Rolf Bossart, Milo Rau
On Realism
Jurij Pavlovich Annenkov
A Diary of my Encounters
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
Donatien Grau, Pierre Guyotat
Conversation
On the first gaze the works of Emma Waltraud Howes seem incongruously out of time. Visiting her studio, one enters another world: meets mushrooms and corals, glass artichoke-hand grenades, the...
Nicole Bachmann’s latest work, I say, has the performer practice a text, sense a word in the mouth, calling it forth, and another, repeating, hearing, interrupting, and another, beginning again,...
The project space CORNER COLLEGE in Zurich’s 4th district has for some time now been giving invigorating impulses to both art and theory, and can be recommended to every visitor...
I got to know Tom Kummer in 2006 while editing his book Blow Up in nighttime telephone calls to Los Angeles. We met for the first time at the book...
The post I’m now sharing was somewhat unsettling: “Barbara joined Facebook 6 years ago!”
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.
L’œuvre d'art n’a pas d’idée, elle est idée
Following Georges Perec’s Memory 480: "I remember… (to be continued…)"…
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,...
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.