Hanover Talk: Biomorphic Horror

Philosophical posthumanisms oppose anthropocentrism – the presumption that reality must be thought about from a human perspective. But what remains of embodiment in post-anthropocentric thought? Should it retain a place for the body or the aesthetic as distinctive ways of encountering reality? If not, how can it adequately describe of our ‘posthuman predicament’ as bodies […]

The Biomorphic Horror of Everyday Life

This paper has been written for the Philosophy, Art and Society: Body as Medium event in the Watershed Media Center, Bristol June 16 2018 It explores the idea of the ‘biomorph’ as a perverse ‘non-philosophical’ solution to the aporias of speculative posthumanism through the work of J G Ballard, Hans Bellmer and Gary J Shipley. […]

Bellmer in Doll Space: A Note

Perversion defers all conceptual or affective satisfaction; proliferating desire in ways that cannot answer to any settled ecology or ethics. Hans Bellmer’s dolls afford a kind of plastic algorithm for this infinite potentiation  – in particular his celebrated second doll, equipped with its articulating ball joint. In one of the texts from his 1934 book […]

exo scars

A hermetic suburb ringed by derelict overpasses.  The low sun etching grainy pebbledash and plaster. Internal walls pucker grey-veined “new flesh”.  Pink sporocarps in tenement halls, tumescent foam mattresses fruit delicate engines over stained concrete. Roaches juiced with bone or collagen radii. Hear them pine, their agony. It makes you want to hurt them some […]

Philosophical Catastrophism: Posthumanism as Speculative Aesthetics

Philosophical Catastrophism: Posthumanism as Speculative Aesthetics   Traven lost within the blocks With the exhaustion of his supplies, Traven remained within the perimeter of the blocks almost continuously, conserving what strength remained to him to walk slowly down their empty corridors. The infection in his right foot made it difficult for him to replenish his […]

Ballarday – time music and the parody of crystals

I was raised in an amorphous outer-London suburb which, it has always seemed to me, could wrap a world in its condescension. This non-place, which J G Ballard explores in works such as Vermillion Sands, the Atrocity Exhibition and Crash, was more familiar than anything real. It formed the grammar of feeling and, for a time, a solitude beyond rage. […]