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Auf den Spuren des Imperiums
Auf den Spuren des Imperiums

Victoria Lomasko

Die letzte sowjetische Künstlerin

Im Winter endeten Alexej Nawalnys Rückkehr nach Russland und die neuen Proteste mit Repressionen, und das autoritäre Putin’sche System wurde gänzlich zu einer Diktatur. Wegen der restriktiven Zensur sämtlicher künstlerischer Beschreibungen der Dinge, die vor unser aller Augen geschehen, und wegen der gleichzeitigen Unmöglichkeit, während der Pandemie zu reisen und im Westen zu arbeiten, fand ich mich in einer fast schon sowjetischen Realität wieder: einer Realität, in der nonkonformistische Künstler auf sich selbst und ihre Fantasie, auf die vorhandenen künstlerischen...
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Es gibt kein absolutes Besonderes.

Rolf Bossart, Milo Rau

Es gibt kein absolutes Besonderes.

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  • Humanismus
  • Reenactment
  • Postmoderne
  • Kunsttheorie
  • Realismus
  • Künstlerische Praxis

 

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Stephen Barber

Twenty-four hours in state of unconsciousness

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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Verbannung aus Kalifornien
Verbannung aus Kalifornien

Angelika Meier

Osmo

„Angeklagte, Sie haben das letzte Wort.“ „Ich möchte sagen, dass mir alles sehr, sehr leid tut und dass ich mich bei den Angehörigen entschuldigen möchte.“ „Bei wem? Das Opfer hatte keine Angehörigen.“ „Oh, äh nein, ich meine natürlich … meine, natürlich … meine Angehörigen.“ Mary Lynn hob endlich den Kopf, sah den Richter zum ersten Mal seit Prozessbeginn fest an und wandte sich dann, beflügelt vom Mut, der eigenen Wahrheit im irritierenden Spiegel des richterlichen Vierauges ins Gesicht zu sehen, ebenso entschlossen dem Saal zu, in...
  • Literatur
  • Gegenwartsliteratur
  • Amerika
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Diane Williams

How about some string?

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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Maria Filomena Molder

So many egoists call themselves artists…

“So many egoists call themselves artists,” Rimbaud wrote to Paul Demeny on May 15, 1871. Even though that is not always obvious, ‘I’, the first person, is the most unknown person, a mystery that is constantly moving towards the other two, the second and third persons, a series of unfoldings and smatterings that eventually gelled as ‘Je est un autre’. That is why ‘apocryphal’ is a literarily irrelevant concept and ‘pseudo’ a symptom, the very proof that life, writing, is made up of echoes, which means that intrusions and thefts (Borges also discusses them) will always be the daily bread of those who write.

Words from others, words taken out of place and mutilated: here are the alms of time, that squanderer’s sole kindness. And so many others, mostly others who wrote, and many other pages, all of them apocryphal, all of them echoes, reflections. All this flows together into—two centuries...

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