Marie Glassl, Sophie Lewis
Surrogate Abolition
Emma Waltraud Howes
Questionnaire Emma Waltraud Howes
I.V. Nuss
The Love in the Convex, in Absolute Roundness and the Sluttification of All Men West of the Bosporus
Sina Dell’Anno
Punk / Philology
Simon Critchley
Learning to Eat Time with One’s Ears
Donatien Grau, James Spooner
Afropunk Philology
Mengia Tschalaer
Queer Spaces
Tom McCarthy
Toke My Asymptote – or, The Ecstatic Agony of Appearance
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
Felix Stalder
Feedback as Authenticity
Sandra Frimmel
I Hate the Avant-garde
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem
Tomb for Guy Debord
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Axel Dielmann
The Dressmaker
Johannes Binotto
Shrewing the Tame
Hans Block, Moritz Riesewieck
What we don’t see
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 5
Ines Kleesattel
Art, Girls, and Aesthetic Freedom Down Below
Fritz Senn
Das Leben besteht aus gestrandeten Konjunktiven
Helmut J. Schneider
How Distant Can My Neighbor be?
A.K. Kaiza
An Annotated History of Wakanda
Michele Pedrazzi
The Next Bit. Corpo a corpo con l’ignoto
Angelika Meier
Who I Really Am
Stephen Barber
A War of Fragments: World Versus America
Nicole Bachmann
Questionnaire Nicole Bachmann
Emma Waltraud Howes
Questionnaire Emma Waltraud Howes
Dieter Mersch
Digital Criticism
Diane Williams
Bang Bang on the Stair
Alexander García Düttmann
Can There Be a Society Without Ceremony or the Critical Question of Theatre
Jelili Atiku, Damian Christinger
Venice, Lagos, and the Spaces in between
Ann Cotten
Dialogs
Bruce Bégout
The Man from Venice
John Donne
Paradox I
Haus am Gern
L’œuvre d'art n’a pas d’idée, elle est idée (Blog1)
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 1
Luc Meresma
Capt. Norman MacMillan (Book)
1. Tell the Earth, “I love you. I can’t live without you."
2. At first you may feel embarrassed...
Plörre
Smegma
Ohrwurm
Schlamassel
Kummerspeck
Weltschmerz
Gesöff
Fernweh
Lotterbett
Spelunke
Scharmützel
Donnerwetter
Schabracke
Mumpitz
Spatzenhirn
Lustmolch
Kaschemme
Spinatwachtel
Popanz
Cumulus tuba ;
Cirrus cumulonimbogenitus ;
Wallcloud ;
Bannerwolke ;
Föhnfische ;
mother-of-pearl cloud ;
Altocumulus translucidus ;
Stratocumulus...
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.
Red oder Blue? Welche Götter? What’s wrong with reality? Nord oder Süd? Wie sterben? What is the problem with solutions?
…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…
Raucous time capsules, rare jewels, and indispensable bulky goods from all epochs, languages, and genres.
I said “Would you like a rope? You know that haul you have is not secured properly.”
“No,” he said, “but I see you have string!”
“If this comes into motion—” I said, “you should use a rope.”
“Any poison ivy on that? ” he asked me, and I told him my rope had been in the barn peacefully for years.
He took a length of it to the bedside table. He had no concept for what wood could endure.
“Table must have broken when I lashed it onto the truck,” he said.
And, when he was moving the sewing machine, he let the cast iron wheels—bang, bang on the stair.
I had settled down to pack up the flamingo cookie jar, the cutlery, and the cookware, but stopped briefly, for how many times do you catch sudden sight of something heartfelt?
I saw our milk cows in their slow...
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.