O’Sullivan, James. Towards a Digital Poetics: Electronic Literature & Literary Games, Palgrave Macmillan, 2019, pp. 11, 12, 25, 104:
“Perhaps e-lit is already dead?” Andrew Gallix once mused (2008). Central to Gallix’s succint and useful account of the field is the idea that electronic literature has been “subsumed into the art world or relegated to the academic margins”, a proposition that I found time to reject the best part of a decade later: in the works of practitioners like Mez Breeze, Andy Campbell, Dan Pinchbeck and his studio, The Chinese Room, we see that electronic literature is finally having its contemporary moment, and that it does have a measure of popular appeal (O’Sullivan 2017) [p.11].
But Gallix has a point, nonetheless, and the great divide has renewed significance [p. 12].
Responding to Andrew Gallix’s challenge that electronic literature sacrifices literary quality . . . [p. 104].
[PS My claim was not that literary quality was being compromised, but that the most interesting examples of digital literature — or so it seemed to me at the time — were morphing into something that was no longer literature at all. This was not a criticism on my part.]
A picture of me (left) and Yannick from 1981 used to illustrate the “British Anarchy” section of Bill Osgerby‘s “The Teenage Revolution” on the Museum of Youth Culture‘s website, April 2020.
A picture of me and my stepdad on holiday in Jersey, July 1981:
Lloyd, Katie. “The Museum of Youth Culture Wants Londoners to Share Pictures of their Awkward Teenage Years.” Time Out, 23 April 2020:
I have reviewed Lars Iyer‘s delightful Nietzsche and the Burbs for The Stinging Fly. You can read it here.
Above all, Art wants the band to play truant by absconding through the gap it has opened up between potentiality and actuality — that rent in the fabric of time. Nietzsche and the Burbs is a paean to those languorous summer afternoons, on the cusp of adulthood, when time stretches to eternity, allowing us to pull ‘moments out of moments like conjuror’s scarves’.
My stepdad and me on holiday in Jersey, July 1981. And now at the Museum of Youth Culture.
Willson, Tayler. “Fred Perry and the Museum of Youth Culture Team Up For London Takeovers.” mixmag, 31 January 2020:
Fred Perry and The Museum of Culture have announced they’ll be launching two London in-store takeovers, starting from January 30th.
Entitled “From Bedrooms to Basements”, this pop-up exhibition is dedicated to the styles, scenes and sounds forged by young people over the last 100 years, incorporating crowdsourced photography and youth culture ephemera matched with clothing from the Fred Perry archive.
A joint exhibition curated across two iconic Fred Perry locations — Camden High Street and Henrietta Street — the pop-up museum concept celebrates the importance of subcultural spaces and personal stories with a nod to the impact of Fred Perry on youth culture history.
Here is the picture of myself and my best mate that is currently exhibited in the Fred Perry store on Camden High Street (6 February-March 2020). It was taken in my mum’s back garden, Merton Park, back in April 1981. We were about to go to a Bow Wow Wow concert at the Lyceum. Our shirts were from BOY on the King’s Road while our Clash-style trousers (as well as my studded belt and bracelet) came from Kensington Market.
Picture courtesy of Lisa Der Weduwe and The Museum of Youth Culture.
Pettman, Dominic. Infinite Distraction: Paying Attention to Social Media. Cambridge: Polity, 2016, p. 120.
Human culture is intergenerational continuity (made up of what Stiegler calls “tertiary retentions” — the technical storage and transmission of collective memories). The long threads that compose our group, and the individual identities from which they are woven, start to fray and wear away. As one commentator, Andrew Gallix, put it, “We live in an age of total recall and rampant dementia.”
Mardell, Oscar. “Style Wars: The Conquest of Gall.” 3:AM Magazine, 21 December 2019:
[…] Here, Paris is both “transformed” into a symbol, and “taken away” from its inhabitants: a “dumb show” for “the world” but not, it seems, for Parisians. And when Sartre wonders “if we too hadn’t become symbols”, he is essentially positing that the citizen body might be “guarding carefully the object within [it]self” — that it might, like Genet’s criminal child, have become the “image” of a Paris to which it has been denied access.Did this “artificial existence” end after Liberation? Did Paris — and, moreover its public — simply cease to be a symbol once its “practical purpose” was restored? To these questions, We’ll Never Have Paris offers a defiant “no”. If one thing is made clear by this paradigm-shifting collection, it is that Paris has been routinely plundered by another occupier, one which predates the German invasion by at least a decade, and which has hung around long after Liberation. As Andrew Gallix phrases it in his stunning introduction: “our vision of literary Paris has been shaped by anglophone writers”:
By “literary Paris” I do not mean the city’s depiction in works of literature (Hugo, Balzac and Proust will always trump foreign competitors on that front) or even Saint-Germain-des-Prés’ café society, but rather the more nebulous notion of Paris as the very space of literature. A place, crucially, that you have to go to in order to become, be recognised as, and lead the life of a writer…Paris is a city where literature can actually be lived out — where you can be a writer without writing…
The idea here is that Paris signifies literariness, is so infallible a marker of writerly authenticity that if writers can brandish Parisian postcodes then they don’t need to put pen to paper at all. But what is crucial about this sign, about “the bohemian Paris people think of most readily outside of France”, is that it, as Gallix explains, “is anglophone”: a symbol whose exchange rate is best outside of France, whose power to signify rests chiefly in a foreign language — a sign which has been “confiscated”, in other words, from its rightful owners.