Monoskop, the collaborative research platform for art history, culture and media technology, have recently published an expansive archive of over one hundred and fifty avant-garde and modernist magazines, all to enjoy online for free. Check them out here.
What is the relevance of avant-garde magazines printed on aging paper to a society which views the world in real time and through networked digital lenses? There are two common answers. Regardless of their age, the art they carry can be looked at anew since it is only its techniques that pale, and on the other hand, they provide us with a historical record of several generations of artists and writers. Although what strikes the eye first is a variety of their fabrics and of workings of the page, something estranged from the relentless linearity of digital bits and the UX of the glowing screen. Here, they also remind us that our lenses matter as well, their properties are variables.
3:AM Magazine’s SJ Fowler travels with his Enemies Project and other poets on a collaborative poetic voyage across Scotland, documented by Ross Sutherland.
The Enemies project: Auld Enemies was a transnational poetry collaboration where six poets worked in rolling paired to produce original works for readings across the breadth of Scotland and where in each event also featured numerous pairs of writers from the region, who also presented brand new poetry collaborations. Beginning on July 9th and finishing on July 27th, the project visited Dundee, Edinburgh, Glasgow, Aberdeen, Lerwick and Kirkwall, before a wrapping up in London. Auld Enemies was a groundbreaking exploration of contemporary Scottish poetics through the potential of collaboration.
I’m delighted to join 3:AM Magazine as fiction editor.
3:AM was the first place to publish a piece of my writing. At the time I was working from a visual art background and it was – appropriately – a cutup. The magazine is a special place not only for new writers, but for more established authors looking to experiment in ways they might not be able to elsewhere.
It’s difficult to define submission guidelines when one of the things I’ll be looking for is something I’ve never seen. There are sensibilities I know I’ll recognise, as soon as I read them. I’m interested in work that is experimental, playful, serious; in work that pays close attention to form, and language, always in support of what the work is; in intelligent work that wears its learning lightly: to paraphrase Beckett on Joyce, writing that is not [only] about something; it is that something itself.
Read the guidelines below, and…
A few practical guidelines:
* Most pieces I publish will be under 2,500 words. Your work could be a standalone piece, or an extract from a larger work. It may be a lot shorter than 2,500 words. It might not look like ‘fiction’ at all.
* All submissions must be in English and previously unpublished online.
* I’m very interested in writing in translation, if you’re happy to sort out the rights and permissions. Translations should be accompanied by a copy of the original text. If you submit a translation, or a piece previously published in print (see the point immediately above), you must be able to secure a statement of permission from the original publisher, and/or writer.
* I’ll try to give you a yes or no within a month of your submission.
* I’m happy with simultaneous submissions, but please email me immediately if you decide to publish your piece elsewhere.
* Please put your name and the work’s title in your filename, as well as at the head of your piece.
* Please send me a very brief bio/cv. I’m as likely to publish unpublished as published writers, but, if you have published before, I’m interested in what, and where.
illustrations by Stephen Crowe for Finnegans Wake
Newly posted short by 3:AM contributor and film director John Rogers (@fugueur) on the Leytonstone Centre for Contemporary Art.
When human blood reacts with luminol, it lights up a ghostly blue. This reaction, most commonly used to detect whether violence has taken place at suspected crime scenes, combines the human and the chemical, it invokes violence and disposability but also transformation. THE LUMINOL REELS takes its imagery from pornography, Catholicism, and crime scene investigation to interrogate the violence done to women. It considers the ongoing brutality of the femicides in Ciudad Juarez and the institutional misogyny of the Catholic Church. Violence is intrinsically linked to location, and the shrines, quinceañera parties, holy communions, and seances of this book are all stained luminescent blue.
Laura Ellen Joyce‘s The Luminol Reels is forthcoming from Calamari Press; more info here.
On August 26 the ICA will screen 3:AM contributor John Rogers’ Make Your Own Damn Art, a study of Leytonstone’s most celebrated contemporary artist Bob and Roberta Smith.
This is preceded by an ‘Art Party’ event (and film screening) on August 21, featuring music from The Fucks (who appeared at our ‘Good Sex Prize awards’ at the Stuckism Gallery in 2004) and other programmed content related to the film’s satirical theme challenging the Education Secretary’s attacks on art teaching in British schools.
By Samuel Stolton, Editor
This summer’s reading pool, fattened by the inclusion of a number of works determined by my recent travels, has been disposed to a broad and expansive character. So much so, that I believe it to be may be one of my most nauseous reading lists, a dizzying circus-market of philosophy, anarchist theology, poetry and critical theory. Posited on the underside of my mind are the rots of Blago Blung Blago Bung, a collection of some of the founding texts of Dadaism, Hugo Ball’s Tenderenda the Fantast, Richard Huelsenbeck’s poetic fragmentations Fantastic Prayers, and Walter Serner’s Last Loosening – a manifesto of which provoked a symphony of voracious affrays when read at the Cabaret Voltaire in Zurich – needless to say my own venture to the venue this summer resulted in nothing more than the sight of proto-hipster baristas, ironic post-dada semiotics, overpriced coffee and sardonic monocles.
Zurich’s slap back into the 21st century was consequentially accompanied by a reading of Tiziana Terranova’s Network Culture: Politics for the Digital Age, a book I’ve been meaning to read for nearly ten years now, and such has satisfied my academic impulse for the time being. To calm such a brutal viaduct between academic political theory and fiction, a copy of Reza Negarestani’s Cyclonopedia: Complicity with Anonymous Materials presented itself as one of the most apt of suitors to such a segue. Hailed as of cardinal significance when tracing the contours of Iranian philosophical sci-fi horror, Negarestani’s narrative – an incestuous tribrid of hyper-occultist theological discourse, abstract demonology and geopolitical schizophrenia, provided me with an appropriate conduit from a certain Hegelian speculative logic into my next course of contemplation. That was to be attributed to Hegel’s The Encyclopedia of the Philosophical Sciences in Outline, originally published in 1817, that travelled with me on my journey to Heidelberg University in Baden-Württemberg, south-west Germany. Hegel penned this work for his students while an academic at the University, incredibly evident as such, as he unscrambles the oft distorted Hegelian storyboard to form a more widely accessible theorem.
The positing of a Dadaist bacterium in Zurich had left me with an appetite to be re-afflicted by abstractism. For this cause I turned to Yi Sang’s The Wings. Not much has been written about Korea’s most prominent Dadaist exponent, and the short stories in the collection as well as The Wings – Encounters and Departures and Deathly Child, can provide perhaps one of the most distinct insights into the troubled man. A master of autobiographical exploitation, Yi Sang mutates elements of his forlorn existence into a conceptual abjectionist narration, administering variants of his worldly experience as a means to prize into the public domain the ambiguous introspections of an schizotypalist bent on the pursuance of the absurd, the nonsensical chatterings of the midnight rambler, the lilt from the flirting shadow behind the curtain of solitude.
Travelling through the vineyards of Burgundy, I decided to further my Korean enterprise with a more modern title. For some reason the antithesis between the two polar industries of French Wine and Korean Literature appealed to me. Kim Hyesoon’s poetic collection, I’m OK, I’m Pig, catered for this want. The revolutionary twist in her postcolonial tongue is evident throughout the work, as is the brutal venture into body-politics and gender relations, that resists, as fellow south Korean poet Don Mee Choi observes, a feminism categorized by a passive and genteel taste, what is referred to as ‘yoryusi’. On the contrary, Hyesoon’s lexicon is a violent and uncompromising dialect, applying language as a means to subvert a traditionalist discourse taut to the pursuance of establishing patriarchal hierarchies and administering the stereotypical parameters of gender relations.
Later this month, I shall also compliment the summer’s poetic stock with two new titles from New Directions Books, A Musical Hell by Alejandra Pizarnik, and The Helens of Troy, NY by Bernadette Mayer. From one Bernadette to another, the Bernadette Corporation’s poetic elegy to New York City, The Complete Poem stitched a multifariously colourful drapery to dress in this summer (the metaphor not unfounded as the corporation is both an art and fashion collective). Their epic poem uprooting from the depths of the subways a patchwork of underground oratorios, a clandestine derive through the sullied words of the City, where ‘every day is a dirty secret you never speak of.’
Under the recommendation of a friend, I have also begun Jacques Ellul’s The Technological Society, originally published in French in 1954. A most prophetic title, preempting the metaphysical ascendancy of technology from the mere habitations of utility into the echelons of social governance. Ellul’s dialectic is one that becomes ever potent with age, a fine wine, apt as the commencement of this book paralleled with my departure from Mâcon’s vineyards.
Why are Animals Funny by the Everyday Analysis Collective concluded my summer reading thus far. A concise application of critical theory to an array of elemental quotidian productions, from mobile phone covers to Old Spice adverts to the death of James Gandolfini, the group bleed out radical perspectives from the body of popular culture and burn a philosopher’s fire from the residue – an insightful and astute blaze. I have followed the EDA Collective from the early blogging days, and Zero Books’ publication of their corpus has been a characteristically bold and bright move, I’m very much looking forward to volume two, it could very well be on next year’s summer reading list.
By Callie Hitchcock, Intern
Stepping into Anaïs Nin’s world has been interesting to say the least. Mirages: The Unexpurgated Diaries 1939-1947 chronicles the emotional fluctuations of a life drunk on love and writing. And who wouldn’t want that? Then, I am inhabiting the more private world of Sara Maitland in her book How to be Alone. Hopefully after reading the two at the same time I will come to some zen understanding of how life is meant to be lived.
Next up is One Hundred Years of Solitude, apparently continuing the theme of autonomy. Márquez has this hypnotic prose that dredges up a primordial desire for story telling. And as I write this from Granada, my Federico García Lorca senses are tingling so I will be revisiting his poetry as well.
Taipei by Tao Lin will be ravenously devoured as soon as it comes in from the library. No one can parallel is delicious absurdity. Check out his NYU graduation speech and accompanying mandalas if you wish to fall down the rabbit hole.
As my back-of-the-used-bookstore-
My hard hitters for the dead heat and end of summer are Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse and of course Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov as my pilgrimage through the canon continues.
By Anna Aslanyan, Reviewer
Earlier this summer, talking to fellow reviewers about books we pretend to have read, I promised, rather unwittingly, to read The Man Without Qualities. Although Robert Musil never finished his trilogy, I feel bound by my word to read it from cover to cover. The only choice left is the language in which to read it. Tackling the original would be a lifelong project, but I have a Russian edition handy. Translated by the late Solomon Apt, one of the best translators from German, it comes in two volumes, one over 800 pages long, the other just under 600. That’s most of my summer taken care of.
If reading in German is a project for another summer, I have no excuse to postpone reading Curzio Malaparte in Italian. I first learnt about the author of Kaputt, born Kurt Erich Suckert, from Bruce Chatwin’s collection What Am I Doing Here (which I might, by the way, reread this summer too, along with Under the Sun, Chatwin’s letters selected and edited by his widow, Elizabeth Chatwin, and his biographer, Nicholas Shakespeare). Viva Caporetto! La rivolta dei santi maledetti, sitting on my shelf, opens with the sentence “Not everyone will be able to read this book”, making me even more determined to find out what the revolt of those damned saints was about, and why the book, first published in 1921, caused a scandal in Mussolini’s Italy.
Before embarking on European literature, I have to read The Silent History by American authors Eli Horowitz, Matthew Derby and Kevin Moffett. It started as an app “written and designed specially for iPad and iPhone”, which “uses serialization, exploration, and collaboration to tell the story of a generation of unusual children — born without the ability to create or comprehend language”. The printed book is different from its e-version, which includes “Testimonials” and “Field Reports”, the latter being site-specific and only available once you’re within 10 metres of the specified location. My hardback copy (513 pages) is quite heavy, but at least I can read it on a train anywhere – for instance, to Edinburgh, where I’m going in August. The main theme of this year’s festival programme is, naturally, WWI, so I’ll probably end up rereading some related novels (Front, a multilingual production I’m planning to see, is based on Erich Maria Remarque’s All Quiet on the Western Front) as well as Wilfred Owen’s poetry, since the shows I’ve earmarked for reviewing include Anthem for Doomed Youth.
My summer reading usually culminates in an equinox frenzy, and this year the most exciting September titles on my list are Samantha Harvey’s Dear Thief (I was impressed by her first two novels, The Wilderness and All Is Song) and Wittgenstein Jr by Lars Iyer, an author whose new book no 3:AM contributor – or reader, for that matter – would want to miss. I could go on and list a few more, but my earlier promise hangs over me, all 1400 pages of it.
By Steven J. Fowler, Poetry Editor
Stephen Emmerson’s Comfortable Knives
Colin Herd’s Glovebox
Tim Allen’s Tattered by Magnets
James Davies’s Two Fat Boys
Kristiina Ehin’s Walker on Water
Anna McKerrow’s Regressive Poetics
Tom Chivers’s Flood Drain
Chris McCabe’s in the catacombs
Tom Chivers & Martin Kratz’s Mount London
Tomaz Gonzalez’s In the Beginning was the Sea