Emma Waltraud Howes
Questionnaire Emma Waltraud Howes
Andreas L. Hofbauer
Ersatzkaffeelesen
Marie Glassl, Sophie Lewis
Surrogate Abolition
Marie Glassl, Sophie Lewis
Stellvertretende Abschaffung
Barbara Vinken
Geistige Mütter
Dennis Cooper, Donatien Grau, Richard Hell
"I’d rather live in a book"
Johanna Went
I remember (Johanna Went)
Sina Dell’Anno
Punk / Philology
Sina Dell’Anno
Punk / Philologie
Felix Stalder
Feedback as Authenticity
Zoran Terzić
The Grand Generalization
Michael F. Zimmermann
Courbet als Assyrer
Claire Fontaine
Vers une théorie du matérialisme magique
Marlene Streeruwitz
L'auteur n'est pas l'auteure
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem
Tomb for Guy Debord
Sandra Frimmel
I Hate the Avant-garde
Jean-Luc Nancy
Après les avant-gardes
Michael Heitz, Hendrik Rohlf
Umas Gesicht – Thurmans Stimme
Hans Block, Moritz Riesewieck
Was wir nicht sehen
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 5
Hans Block, Moritz Riesewieck
What we don’t see
Andreas L. Hofbauer
Yoke
Michele Pedrazzi
The Next Bit. Hautnah am Körper des Unbekannten
Maria Filomena Molder
The Alms of Time
Angelika Meier
Wer ich wirklich bin
Joseph Morder
Une Trinite de la Memoire
Elena Vogman
Dynamography, or Andrei Bely’s Rhythmic Gesture
Maël Renouard
The Twilight of Classification?
Wolfgang Plöger
After This Comes That Before That Comes This
Maël Renouard
Fragmente eines unendlichen Gedächtnisses
Mário Gomes
Poetik der Architektur
Jelili Atiku, Damian Christinger
Venice, Lagos, and the Spaces in between
Ann Cotten
Dialogs
Ann Cotten
Dialoge
Rolf Bossart, Milo Rau
Über Realismus
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 5
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 3
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 2
¡ Wenn sie im Flugzeug freie Plätze sehen, dann nicht darum prügeln !
¡ Auf gar keinen Fall darf...
Es sei uns gestattet, hier einmal sämtliche Gründe aufzuzählen, warum wir von Schach nichts halten.
1. Es ist ein...
Plörre
Smegma
Ohrwurm
Schlamassel
Kummerspeck
Weltschmerz
Gesöff
Fernweh
Lotterbett
Spelunke
Scharmützel
Donnerwetter
Schabracke
Mumpitz
Spatzenhirn
Lustmolch
Kaschemme
Spinatwachtel
Popanz
DIAPHANES fragt nach Relikten von Zukunftsvisionen in den Bildräumen der Vergangenheit, nach Spuren und Signaturen eines einst Vorstellbaren und zeitlos Möglichen.
In der Folge von Georges Perecs Erinnerung 480: "Ich erinnere mich… (Fortsetzung folgt…)"
…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…
L’œuvre d'art n’a pas d’idée, elle est idée
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...
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»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.