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Artikel
Multiples, Authorship and the Eighteenth-Century Portrait Bust’s Aura
Malcolm C. Baker
Multiples, Authorship and the Eighteenth-Century Portrait Bust’s Aura
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DENKT KUNST? DENKT KUNST!
Denkt Kunst! Das bedeutet, sie zuallererst angemessen denken zu lernen – das heißt, in Begriffen und Argumenten zu fassen, was sich vorderhand nicht in Form von Begriffen, sondern in Wahrnehmungsgestalten, Figuren, Klängen, Rhythmen und Konstellationen artikuliert. Denkt Kunst? Denkt Kunst!
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Halluzinatorische Chroniken New Yorks
Reportagen, Fiktionen, Wirklichkeiten der Hauptstadt des 20. Jahrhunderts
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minima oeconomica
Analysen und Kritik moderner Ökonomie, deren Wissenschaft und Legitmation im Zeitalter der Finanzialisierung
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Antonin Artaud, Stephen Barber (Hg.)
Watchfiends and Rack Screams
Chantal Akerman
Meine Mutter lacht
Stephen Barber
An immodest proposal
J.G. Ballard’s self-declared ‘Immodest Proposal’ for a global war-alliance to exact the destruction of America demonstrates the provocatory zeal of his last fiction plans, as well as their enduring prescience. As Ballard emphasises several times in the World Versus America notebooks, he is utterly serious in his concerns and visions.
Although the Ballard estate declined permission for any images of pages from the World Versus America archival notebooks to accompany this essay, any member of the general public interested to do so can readily visit the British Library and view the notebooks in their entirety in the freely-accessible manuscripts collection there.
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Maria Filomena Molder
So many egoists call themselves artists…
“So many egoists call themselves artists,” Rimbaud wrote to Paul Demeny on May 15, 1871. Even though that is not always obvious, ‘I’, the first person, is the most unknown person, a mystery that is constantly moving towards the other two, the second and third persons, a series of unfoldings and smatterings that eventually gelled as ‘Je est un autre’. That is why ‘apocryphal’ is a literarily irrelevant concept and ‘pseudo’ a symptom, the very proof that life, writing, is made up of echoes, which means that intrusions and thefts (Borges also discusses them) will always be the daily bread of those who write.
Words from others, words taken out of place and mutilated: here are the alms of time, that squanderer’s sole kindness. And so many others, mostly others who wrote, and many other pages, all of them apocryphal, all of them echoes, reflections. All this flows together into—two centuries...
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