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
Dan-el Padilla Peralta
Junk Philology. An Anti-Commentary
Johanna Went
I remember (Johanna Went)
Sina Dell’Anno
Punk / Philology
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
Claire Fontaine
Towards a Theory of Magic Materialism
A. L. Kennedy
What is an Author?
Mengia Tschalaer
Queer Spaces
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem, Philippe Sollers
What is the Meaning of the Avant-garde’s Death?
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Zoran Terzić
The Tautomaniac
Alexander García Düttmann
Cold Distance
Michael Heitz, Hendrik Rohlf
Uma’s Face—Thurman’s Voice
Hans Block, Moritz Riesewieck
What we don’t see
Andreas L. Hofbauer
Yoke
Fritz Senn
Das Leben besteht aus gestrandeten Konjunktiven
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 4
Fritz Senn
Das Leben besteht aus gestrandeten Konjunktiven
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
Wolfgang Plöger
After This Comes That Before That Comes This
Emma Waltraud Howes
Questionnaire Emma Waltraud Howes
Elena Vogman
Dynamography, or Andrei Bely’s Rhythmic Gesture
Dieter Mersch
Digital Criticism
Ann Cotten
Dialogs
Tom Kummer
Questionnaire Tom Kummer
Jelili Atiku, Damian Christinger
Venice, Lagos, and the Spaces in between
Diane Williams
Bang Bang on the Stair
Alexander García Düttmann
Can There Be a Society Without Ceremony or the Critical Question of Theatre
Tyler Coburn
Quaddie
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 5
Peter Ott
The Monotheistic Cell Or Reports from Fiction
I remember during the frozen Tokyo winter of 1997: I took long walks in the dead of night through the...
So wie geplant kommt es ja selten, meistens ergibt sich etwas halt so. Das ist weniger der Zustand der Welt...
Ich erinnere mich an mein Exemplar von Alles kurz und klein, das weg ist, verschwunden! – wer erinnert sich, es...
L’œuvre d'art n’a pas d’idée, elle est idée
The post I’m now sharing was somewhat unsettling: “Barbara joined Facebook 6 years ago!”
…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…
Vonceptually sensory bills of fare, enumerations and selections…
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.