1. prostheticknowledge:

    Juan Fontanive

    Artist creates motorized flipbook-style looping animation installations using recycled parts:

    Juan Fontanive makes films without using light. Often recycling the mechanical parts of found clocks and pushbikes as the portable containers of his ‘animations’. His interest lies in the beauty of sequential and repetitive movement. Hand drawn characters, human and typographical, occur in a cranky flip-book module powered by oxide. Pages fall in neat layers in the manner of a paper fountain, somewhere between film and sculpture - there is no ‘screen’ as such. His filmstock is often pulped card or metal leaves.

    Here are a couple of examples embedded below:

    Ornithology E. from Juan Fontanive on Vimeo.

    Vivarium from Juan Fontanive on Vimeo.

    You can find out more at Juan’s website here

  2. Fujiya & Miyagi: Ankle Injuries

  3. A parergon comes against, beside, and in addition to the ergon, the work done [fait], the fact [le fait], the work, but it does not fall to one side, it touches and cooperates within the operation, from a certain outside. Neither simply outside nor simply inside.


    The Truth in Painting (1987: 54)

    Jacques Derrida

    (via parergonal)

  4. So when he gives his opinions away they don’t develop into a new game, they lend resonance to the book, imbuing it with a voice that is singular and unmistakable. As you read on, engrossed by the entertaining surface, you enter into a kind of intimacy with the narrator, listening for his voice, for personal issues even in perfectly innocent questions. This is a work that the book expects you to do. It relies firmly upon our instincts to look for and draw connections even between seemingly unconnected events and statements. By looking closely at the text, listening to it, we find that, far from random, the book is composed, and structured. While one reading wasn’t enough for me to puzzle out that structure, it’s worth noting that the narrator has a few subjects he’s obsessing about, subjects that keep recurring, often in different contexts. It’s not, from a first reading, obvious how these subjects and themes work, in what way they are stacked and repeated, but the enormous amount of them assures that we are made aware of structure, and together with the changes in tone and direction that we see in the personal questions, we have an immediate sense of narrative. Make no mistake, there is not an overt plot, a story that we can follow and retell. To claim that would be absurd. Yet it would be equally absurd to deny the fact of structure, hidden though it is in the folds of this complex book, structure that, indeed, amounts to what can meaningfully be called a narrative.


    on Padgett Powell’s The Interrogative Mood: a Novel?

  5. Richard T. Walker

    Richard T. Walker

  6. Nature uses few words. So, a whirlwind will not last all morning. A sudden storm will not last all day.

  7. COLUMN AT FELDHAUSEN, CAPE TOWN, to commemorate Sir John Herschel’s survey of the Southern Heavens

    COLUMN AT FELDHAUSEN, CAPE TOWN, to commemorate Sir John Herschel’s survey of the Southern Heavens

  8. When the starry sky, a vista of open seas or a stained glass window shedding purple beams fascinate me, there is a cluster of meaning, of colors, of words, of caresses, there are light touches, scents, sighs, cadences that arise, shroud me, carry me away, and sweep me beyond the things that I see, hear, or think. The “sublime” object dissolves in the raptures of a bottomless memory. It is such a memory, which, from stopping point to stopping point, remembrance to remembrance, love to love, transfers that object to the refulgent point of the dazzlement in which I stray in order to be. As soon as I perceive it, as soon as I name it, the sublime triggers—it has always already triggered—a spree of perceptions and words that expands memory boundlessly. I then forget the point of departure and find myself removed to a secondary universe, set off from the one where “I” am—delight and loss. Not at all short of but always with and through perception and words, the sublime is a something added that expands us, overstrains us, and causes us to be both here, as dejects, and there, as others and sparkling. A divergence, an impossible bounding. Everything missed, joy—fascination.

    Julia Kristeva, Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection (New York; Columbia University Press, 1982), p. 12.