Barbara Vinken
Geistige Mütter
I.V. Nuss
Die Liebe im Konvexen, in der totalen Rundung und zur Slutifizierung aller Männer westlich des Bosporus
Andreas L. Hofbauer
Ersatzkaffeelesen
Emma Waltraud Howes
Questionnaire Emma Waltraud Howes
Marie Glassl, Sophie Lewis
Stellvertretende Abschaffung
Dan-el Padilla Peralta
Junk Philology. An Anti-Commentary
Dennis Cooper, Donatien Grau, Richard Hell
"I’d rather live in a book"
Donatien Grau
A Life in Philology
Johanna Went
I remember (Johanna Went)
Marlene Streeruwitz
Der Autor ist nicht die Autorin
Marlene Streeruwitz
L'auteur n'est pas l'auteure
A. L. Kennedy
Qu’est-ce qu’un auteur ?
Kai van Eikels
Do in What's Doing, Democracy in!
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem
Grabmal für Guy Debord
Jean-Luc Nancy
Nach den Avantgarden
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
Michael Heitz
Wong Ping’s "Who’s the Daddy"
Hans Block, Moritz Riesewieck
What we don’t see
Lars von Trier in Conversation with Mehdi Belhaj Kacem & Raphaëlle Milone
Maria Filomena Molder
The Alms of Time
Maria Filomena Molder
Die Almosen der Zeit
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
Stephen Barber
Krieg aus Fragmenten: World Versus America
Stephen Barber
A War of Fragments: World Versus America
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 3
Maël Renouard
Fragmente eines unendlichen Gedächtnisses
Jelili Atiku, Damian Christinger
Venedig, Lagos und der Raum dazwischen
Mário Gomes
Poetik der Architektur
Diane Williams
Bang Bang on the Stair
Artur Zmijewski
Gespräch über ‚Glimpse‘
Jean-Luc Nancy
Je me souviens (Jean-Luc Nancy)
Damian Christinger
Huelsenbeck (Book)
Donatien Grau, Pierre Guyotat
Conversation
Tyler Coburn
Quaddie
What do I remember? My memories of my life have always been very limited. I only remember single fragments, good...
So wie geplant kommt es ja selten, meistens ergibt sich etwas halt so. Das ist weniger der Zustand der Welt...
I remember during the frozen Tokyo winter of 1997: I took long walks in the dead of night through the...
Lärmende Zeitkapseln, rare Bijous, unverzichtbares Sperrgut aller Epochen, Sprachen und Genres.
L’œuvre d'art n’a pas d’idée, elle est idée
DIAPHANES fragt nach Relikten von Zukunftsvisionen in den Bildräumen der Vergangenheit, nach Spuren und Signaturen eines einst Vorstellbaren und zeitlos Möglichen.
Nicht im Dienste irgendeines Wissens oder Spekulierens will dieses fortlaufende Register Eintragungen über Vorstellbares ansammeln: Namen, Objekte, Phänomene, Singularitäten.
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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»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.