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
Dan-el Padilla Peralta
Junk Philology. An Anti-Commentary
Simon Critchley
Learning to Eat Time with One’s Ears
Johanna Went
I remember (Johanna Went)
Donatien Grau, James Spooner
Afropunk Philology
A. L. Kennedy
What is an Author?
Tom McCarthy
Toke My Asymptote – or, The Ecstatic Agony of Appearance
Felix Stalder
Feedback as Authenticity
Zoran Terzić
The Grand Generalization
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem, Philippe Sollers
What is the Meaning of the Avant-garde’s Death?
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem
Tomb for Guy Debord
Zoran Terzić
The Tautomaniac
Axel Dielmann
The Dressmaker
Michael Heitz, Hendrik Rohlf
Uma’s Face—Thurman’s Voice
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 5
Lars von Trier in Conversation with Mehdi Belhaj Kacem & Raphaëlle Milone
Sina Dell’Anno
Oratio Soluta
Helmut J. Schneider
How Distant Can My Neighbor be?
Joseph Morder
Une Trinite de la Memoire
Damian Christinger, Monica Ursina Jäger
Homeland Fictions
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
Marcus Quent
Elapsing Time and Belief in the World
Emma Waltraud Howes
Questionnaire Emma Waltraud Howes
Stephen Barber
A War of Fragments: World Versus America
Wolfgang Plöger
After This Comes That Before That Comes This
Rolf Bossart, Milo Rau
On Realism
Ann Cotten
Dialogs
Eric Baudelaire
Abecedarium
Mário Gomes
The Poetics of Architecture
Tom Kummer
Questionnaire Tom Kummer
Dorothee Scheiffarth
THE MOST BEAUTIFUL CLOUD NAMES
Haus am Gern
L’œuvre d'art n’a pas d’idée, elle est idée (Blog1)
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 1
Peter Ott
The Monotheistic Cell Or Reports from Fiction
K.A.
Hermal
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...
…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…
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.
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.
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.