Marie Glassl, Sophie Lewis
Stellvertretende Abschaffung
Emma Waltraud Howes
Questionnaire Emma Waltraud Howes
I.V. Nuss
Die Liebe im Konvexen, in der totalen Rundung und zur Slutifizierung aller Männer westlich des Bosporus
Johanna Went
I remember (Johanna Went)
Dan-el Padilla Peralta
Junk Philology. An Anti-Commentary
Simon Critchley
Learning to Eat Time with One’s Ears
Emanuele Coccia
Le futur de la littérature
A. L. Kennedy
Qu’est-ce qu’un auteur ?
Michael F. Zimmermann
Courbet als Assyrer
Mengia Tschalaer
Queere Räume
Tom McCarthy
Toke My Asymptote – oder: die ekstatische Agonie des Erscheinens
Felix Stalder
Feedback als Authentitzität
Jean-Luc Nancy
Après les avant-gardes
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem, Philippe Sollers
What is the Meaning of the Avant-garde’s Death?
Jean-Luc Nancy
Nach den Avantgarden
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem
Tombeau pour Guy Debord
Axel Dielmann
The Dressmaker
Ines Kleesattel
Art, Girls, and Aesthetic Freedom Down Below
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Johannes Binotto
Shrewing the tame
Angelika Meier
Wer ich wirklich bin
Maria Filomena Molder
The Alms of Time
Thomas Huber
Generation of the Lynn Hershman Antibody
Jean-Luc Nancy
Zah Zuh
Fritz Senn
Das Leben besteht aus gestrandeten Konjunktiven
Stephen Barber
A War of Fragments: World Versus America
Maël Renouard
Modifications infimes et considérables
Maël Renouard
The Twilight of Classification?
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 3
Mário Gomes
The Poetics of Architecture
Bruce Bégout
L’homme de Venise
Artur Zmijewski
Conversation on “Glimpse”
Mário Gomes
Poetik der Architektur
Peter Ott
The Monotheistic Cell Or Reports from Fiction
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 3
Mário Gomes
Brandsatz & Ästhetik
Es mag der schlichten Gestaltung dieses Buchumschlags geschuldet sein, der keine Auskunft über Genre und Inhalt gibt, und der in...
Der nichtexistente Giotto
Ein Bild mag die Zukunft weniger im Sinne einer Bezugnahme auf ein zukünftiges Ereignis ankündigen, als vielmehr...
Obwohl die Zeitgenossen François Gérards Belisar romantische Qualitäten attestierten, gefiel er dem Erzromantiker Delacroix nicht: »Das Geschick eines großen Kriegers,...
Apfel oder Zitrone? Remembering, what do you hear? Wie sterben? Nord oder Süd? A question to which “yes” is always your answer?
Nicht im Dienste irgendeines Wissens oder Spekulierens will dieses fortlaufende Register Eintragungen über Vorstellbares ansammeln: Namen, Objekte, Phänomene, Singularitäten.
L’œuvre d'art n’a pas d’idée, elle est idée
Lärmende Zeitkapseln, rare Bijous, unverzichtbares Sperrgut aller Epochen, Sprachen und 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...
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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.