I.V. Nuss
Die Liebe im Konvexen, in der totalen Rundung und zur Slutifizierung aller Männer westlich des Bosporus
Marie Glassl, Sophie Lewis
Stellvertretende Abschaffung
I.V. Nuss
The Love in the Convex, in Absolute Roundness and the Sluttification of All Men West of the Bosporus
Emma Waltraud Howes
Questionnaire Emma Waltraud Howes
Simon Critchley
Learning to Eat Time with One’s Ears
Johanna Went
I remember (Johanna Went)
Dennis Cooper, Donatien Grau, Richard Hell
"I’d rather live in a book"
Sina Dell’Anno
Punk / Philology
Mengia Tschalaer
Queer Spaces
Claire Fontaine
Towards a Theory of Magic Materialism
Felix Stalder
Feedback als Authentitzität
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
Sandra Frimmel
I Hate the Avant-garde
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem, Philippe Sollers
What is the Meaning of the Avant-garde’s Death?
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem, Philippe Sollers
Wofür steht der Tod der Avantgarden?
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem
Tomb for Guy Debord
Andreas L. Hofbauer
Yoke
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
Ines Kleesattel
Art, Girls, and Aesthetic Freedom Down Below
Sina Dell’Anno
Oratio Soluta
Zoran Terzić
Political Transplants
Zoran Terzić
Transplants politiques
Jochen Thermann
Der Hilfskoch
Angelika Meier
Wer ich wirklich bin
Helmut J. Schneider
Wie fern darf der Nächste sein?
Marcus Quent
Verrinnen der Zeit und Glaube an die Welt
Emma Waltraud Howes
Questionnaire Emma Waltraud Howes
Stephen Barber
Krieg aus Fragmenten: World Versus America
Dieter Mersch
Digital Criticism
Mário Gomes
The Poetics of Architecture
Artur Zmijewski
Conversation on “Glimpse”
Alexander García Düttmann
Can There Be a Society Without Ceremony or the Critical Question of Theatre
Bruce Bégout
The Man from Venice
Mário Gomes
Poetik der Architektur
Blixa Bargeld
LISTMANIA: ABT. DIE DUEMMSTEN BERLINER FRISÖRNAMEN
Donatien Grau, Pierre Guyotat
Conversation
The Transversal Shelf of Printed Books in Times of Accelerated Opaque Media
Facebooks Algorithmus hat mir oft genug Erinnerungen an meine Türkei-Reisen serviert, gibt nun aber Gegensteuer und präsentiert plötzlich ganz andere...
Ich sitze in der Lobby eines Hotels in China. Zum Hotel inmitten einer toskanisch anmutenden Landschaft, in das ich mit...
Ich bin nicht mehr sehr zufrieden mit Facebook. Denn in jüngerer Zeit scheint der Algorithmus dort ein totales Willkürregime zu...
Der Facebook-Algorithmus hat mitbekommen, dass ich was mit Kunst und Museen habe und setzt mir aus dem Pool meiner früheren...
Lärmende Zeitkapseln, rare Bijous, unverzichtbares Sperrgut aller Epochen, Sprachen und Genres.
Gedanklich-sinnliche Küchenzettel, Aufzählungen und Auslesen…
Apfel oder Zitrone? Remembering, what do you hear? Wie sterben? Nord oder Süd? A question to which “yes” is always your answer?
L’œuvre d'art n’a pas d’idée, elle est idée
Now the dead will no longer be buried, now this spectral city will become the site for execrations and lamentations, now time itself will disintegrate and void itself, now human bodies will expectorate fury and envision their own transformation or negation, now infinite and untold catastrophes are imminently on their way —ready to cross the bridge over the river Aire and engulf us all — in this winter of discontent, just beginning at this dead-of-night instant before midnight, North-Sea ice-particles already crackling in the air and the last summer long-over, the final moment of my seventeenth birthday, so we have to go, the devil is at our heels… And now we’re running at full-tilt through the centre of the city, across the square beneath the Purbeck-marble edifice of the Queen’s Hotel, down towards the dark arches under the railway tracks, the illuminated sky shaking, the air fissured with beating cacophony,...
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Deutsch, Englisch, Französisch
»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.