tsnoK

Recent contributions in this category

• Hypocrite lecteur, mon semblable, mon frère!

  OK, stuff Foucault. We’re talking about Savannah Bob. In this case, the texts have been written in a situation where it was not possible to write without hiding behind a pseudonym. Anonymity is something else.

• Spam chronique for tsnok “sticky eye”

  My name is Vera

  How are you today?

• Throuwe by Sebastian Rozenberg

  “I admit to being a bit thrown when I saw you yesterday”

• Art School Odyssey

  BY EVA BJÖRKSTRAND

• Problems with how Nature can be interpreted in artistic processes, and what I am working on at the moment

  The process is like an octopus sometimes, one of those disgusting octopuses with a big heavy occiput which looks like a cross between a fester and a water-filled balloon. In that head, in the mind, there is either a muscle visible under the skin, or else there aren´t any muscles at all, alternatively withered muscles and a lot of skin.

• “the ‘means’ [le moyen] is also a means to achieve something other than its own end.” Ranciere, 2012

  http://vimeo.com/56662654…

• The Coating by Stephen Sarrazin

  Bad Romance
  Solo Show Pascal Lièvre
  Galerie Vanessa Quang, Paris
  4 septembre-30 octobre 2010

• The rationally unattainable certainty

  No one in the audience doubts that he is telling the truth, not even Wittgenstein, who might have been there. But Wittgenstein does not understand why Moore is saying it; he has never heard any one utter that kind of sentence before, so naturally he is a bit puzzled.

• Why didn’t Piero Manzoni use my sewing machine?

  Piero Manzoni was born on July 13th 1933 and died on February 6th 1963, therefore in 2013 will be the 50th anniversary of his death and the 80th of his birth.

  This is a transcription of Piero Manzoni’s Infinite Line with Sewing Machine, a Performance by Elena Berriolo

• Bacon and the collapse of the borderline between the joke and the sublime

  by Staffan Boije Af Gennäs

  Prague, 1990. It is the summer after the Berlin wall came down. I’m having breakfast at Hotel Jalta – a communist style luxurious establishment. Eggs, bacon, jam and toast. I’m sitting on the terrace facing Václavské námesti, the city’s main parade