A collection of memories,
dreams, reflections.



Maria Lassnig, Selbstporträt mit Stab, 1971.

But this was a point on which I would never give way: I couldn't understand how one could make compromises with one's life in order to enjoy the dubious applause of a dubious public.

—Simone de Beauvoir, Memoirs of a Dutiful Daughter


The clash in art criticism – academic vs journalistic writing

Ernst Ludwig Kirchner. Street, Dresden. 1908.

The tendency to declare “a crisis in art criticism” isn’t new by any means. It seems the ongoing debate is rehashed every couple of years across newspapers, magazines and public talks. 

In these discussions, the rising power of other agents in the art market – such as money, collectors, curators, celebrities and technology – are typically pinned as the culprits. Inevitably, the convergence of these forces into the realm of art has led us again to questions of: What should art criticism be doing? To whom should it be speaking to? Is anyone paying attention? And if so, are they making sense of what critics are saying?

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La Toilette (1896). Henri Toulouse-Lautrec

Manchmal scheint uns alles falsch und traurig, 
Wenn wir schwach und müd in Schmerzen liegen,
Jede Regung will zur Trauer werden,
Jede Freude hat gebrochne Flügel,
Und wir lauschen sehnlich in die Weiten
Ob von dorther neue Freude käme.

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Intro to cyborg theory

Image courtesy of Justine Zwiebel for BuzzFeed Ideas

BuzzFeed Ideas is probably the only part of BuzzFeed that doesn't make me feel like a misanthrope.

...andandand how about this illuminating post on Donna Haraway's A Cyborg Manifesto, which "uses the metaphor of a cyborg to urge feminists to move beyond the limitations of traditional gender, feminism, and politics"...

To be a woman is a never-ending process toward perfection. The journey is the destination, probably, but the journey is also a mandatory part of the performance married to conventional representations of gender identity. If you would like to be called a woman, there is a set of responsibilities that you must consistently perform, appearances that you must keep up, and most important, a certain amount of effort you must exert that is largely invisible to those watching you.


Our existing infrastructures fail us because they think we’re already broken. The internalized lessons of aspirational literature, pharmaceutical aids intended to keep women laboring at appropriate levels, the woman watching herself being watched to keep her a cog in a wheel — the same narratives we’ll hear as long as there’s money to be made in telling a woman that she’s doing it wrong.

What I want is the ability to communicate everything I think and feel without ascribing to platitudes or cliches; to work as a means to its own end, work that I do because I love it, because it gives me purpose, because it keeps me as a machine in service for myself and not because I am a well-oiled cog in a larger machine; to live on a timeline that I determine, not one determined by a fear of breaking tradition.


Selective perception and/or small instances of synchronicity – a short chronology

Seestück (1970). Gerhard Richter. Öl auf Leinwand.

A remembrance of coincidences...

Exhibit A: Gerhard Richter at Neue Nationalgalerie

I only recall the date because I turned a quarter of a century old and had a pressing urge to be alone – free from the bindings of time, sequence and others.

Somewhere standing in the midst of the abrupt slashes of colour and lines in Atelier (1985), the pulsating gray-scale waves in Seestück (1970) and the seemingly monolithic canvas in Grau, 349/2 (1973), which were hung from left to right respsectively, I felt the magic of idea gestation stirring from right to left. 

Exhibit B: Watching Der Baader Meinhof Komplex

Some weeks (or days?) after, probably on a Sunday, I was saying to my flatmate that I'd never watched Tatort because handling the suspense/gore during a crime television show is not my best skill (as in I can't). Then, I shared my plan of watching Der Baader Meinhof Komplex later that evening to practice my German... she responded saying that the movie was a lot more violent/graphic than Tatort. Something along the lines of "Beware".

I watched it anyway (and cringed... a lot). 

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