Lars von Trier in Conversation with Mehdi Belhaj Kacem & Raphaëlle Milone
Das Leben besteht aus gestrandeten Konjunktiven
Hans Block, Moritz Riesewieck
What we don’t see
Wong Ping’s "Who’s the Daddy"
Don Quixote lisant
Who I Really Am
Helmut J. Schneider
How Distant Can My Neighbor be?
The Twilight of Classification?
Elapsing Time and Belief in the World
An interview with Manuel Franquelo
Modifications infimes et considérables
Lieber Paul 3
The Man from Venice
Jurij Pavlovich Annenkov
A Diary of my Encounters
Conversation on “Glimpse”
I remember (Stephen Barber)
Der Algorithmus und ich 3
Human Oddities (Book)
DIAPHANES is collecting lists: conceptually sensory bills of fare, enumerations and selections in the serenely fatal undertaking of classifying an unclassifiable present, of orienting ourselves through the stringing together of self-determined entries. The freely associated registers (including unequal and redundant items) are a call to attention or simply the excursive (as every list is potentially infinitely long or short) inventory of taste or consciousness.
¡ Wenn sie im Flugzeug freie Plätze sehen, dann nicht darum prügeln !
¡ Auf gar keinen Fall darf...
1 Luminous Procuress
3 Brass Canon
4 Mexican Tea Party
6 New Earth
…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…
Red oder Blue? Welche Götter? What’s wrong with reality? Nord oder Süd? Wie sterben? What is the problem with solutions?
Following Georges Perec’s Memory 480: "I remember… (to be continued…)"…
Raucous time capsules, rare jewels, and indispensable bulky goods from all epochs, languages, and genres.
»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.«
Dire works on the bogus regime—not just of art—but endowed with wit, beauty and irresistible fetish character.