PICPOETRY

Picpoetry: unedited mobile photography and rapidly, almost automatic unedited poetic prose writing, ideally on the spot in order to capture the atmospherics of the specific time and space. I upload all my picpoetry on Instagram under the name picpoet. This is a method I invented in 2009 in order to explore an ontology of presence without falling into the standard trappings of visual and textual phenomenology. There have been two waves of picpoetry. The first one, with about 600 picpoems, ended in July 2013 were all except for the very last picpoem were ceremoniously deleted for picpoet’s suicide. The second one, since 2014 and still ongoing, counts more than 1000 picpoems and can be found below and on Instagram.

Roundness that sounds like a yes, curvature that s Roundness that sounds like a yes, curvature that sounds like a perhaps, depth that sounds like I know, a grammar of parallel sighs, your crystal that needs to be cracked again and again, till the flesh softness from a different planet, rolls out finally always: breath.
• Sound On • @daniellearnaudgallery ‘Tracing • Sound On • @daniellearnaudgallery ‘Tracing Submergence V’, the fifth in a series of one-minute videos comprising multiple superimposed Zoom split-screen recordings. The work is a collaboration across the time zones of Hobart, Tasmania and London, UK, in the era of COVID-19, between Jan Hogan and Andreas Philippopoulos-Mihalopoulos writing on Japanese paper with ink and water ⚡️🌊 ‘Tracing Submergence’ brings together the materialities of the geological and the human, working through tracing and erasure, layering ways of listening to the digital other, a writing dialogue where neither is leading but both follow the movements of water. 
 #tracingsubmergence #andreasphilippopoulosmihalopoulos #janhogan #zoom
Now our circles are growing broader, the water fla Now our circles are growing broader, the water flatter, the air greyer. But the first small rounded breath we drew, a winking half circle, water sliding through its openness, now becomes a horizon to retain within.
The body needs things that only gravity can give. The body needs things that only gravity can give. Don’t forget the oceans of oxygen lying on the floor beneath.
I will return where I first floated, amongst the l I will return where I first floated, amongst the lilies of our forgiveness.
I’ve always liked to feel the empty above me. So I’ve always liked to feel the empty above me. Somewhere to fly to when the wings finally grow. Somewhere to hide when the wings finally fall off. Pic by @loshedinspace
Repost @daniellearnaudgallery ‘Tracing Submergen Repost @daniellearnaudgallery ‘Tracing Submergence IV’, the fourth in a series of one-minute videos comprising multiple superimposed Zoom split-screen recordings. The work is a collaboration across the time zones of Hobart, Tasmania and London, UK, in the era of COVID-19, between Jan Hogan and Andreas Philippopoulos-Mihalopoulos writing on Japanese paper with ink and water ⚡️🌊 ‘Tracing Submergence’ brings together the materialities of the geological and the human, working through tracing and erasure, layering ways of listening to the digital other, a writing dialogue where neither is leading but both follow the movements of water.  #tracingsubmergence #andreasphilippopoulosmihalopoulos #janhogan #zoom
This is the first piece I’ve ever shown publicly This is the first piece I’ve ever shown publicly in an exhibition. It’s a hole in the belly of the universe and keeps on calling me back. I don’t always find the angel waiting.
We tried to but failed to forget them. They were c We tried to but failed to forget them. They were constantly there when we would take our morning tea overlooking the water. The other us. The ones who lived under the water’s surface, drinking our excreta as if it were their oxygen.
Fight me or love me please, or do both when you se Fight me or love me please, or do both when you see me, and especially when you don’t see me, when you have not seen me for a while, because I need both your breaths to touch my face today and again today.
Sinking City II (detail), Acrylic and gold leaf on Sinking City II (detail), Acrylic and gold leaf on canvas, 2020. “Seascape epistemology is movement’s sound, its taste and color, the fluctuation of a process that joins the world together.” Karin Amimoto Ingersoll, Waves of Knowing, 2016
SOUND ON • @daniellearnaudgallery ‘Tracing Sub SOUND ON • @daniellearnaudgallery ‘Tracing Submergence III’, the third in a series of one-minute videos comprising multiple superimposed Zoom split-screen recordings. The work is a collaboration across the time zones of Hobart, Tasmania and London, UK, in the era of COVID-19, between Jan Hogan and Andreas Philippopoulos-Mihalopoulos writing on Japanese paper with ink and water ⚡️🌊 ‘Tracing Submergence’ brings together the materialities of the geological and the human, working through tracing and erasure, layering ways of listening to the digital other, a writing dialogue where neither is leading but both follow the movements of water. 
@picpoet #tracingsubmergence #andreasphilippopoulosmihalopoulos #janhogan #zoom
There is always that point, just before the middle There is always that point, just before the middle of the day, when every thing turns turbulent. He had to learn how to swim again.
"She would fall asleep with a taste of home on her "She would fall asleep with a taste of home on her lips."
My video+text contribution to the Journal of Visual Culture @jvcjournal and Harun-Farocki Institut collaboration, invited by the ever inspiring @mancabajec Link https://www.harun-farocki-institut.org/en/2020/06/10/she-would-fall-asleep-with-a-taste-of-home-on-her-lips-journal-of-visual-culture-hafi-29/
Someone left him a note just where he was about to Someone left him a note just where he was about to step. He picked it up, read something on it, and turned back out again. These holes in the texture of our living, these invitations to the abyss.
Choose your violence wisely. Choose your violence wisely.
#blackoutday2020 #blackoutday2020
There was nothing wrong with the world. He just di There was nothing wrong with the world. He just didn’t have the key.
Just where he sat briefly to put his shoes on, jus Just where he sat briefly to put his shoes on, just then he realised that there was no one around him and that the sun ray coming through the window was a reminder of these absences. This didn’t stop him from having his daily chat with them.
Just where his body lied for the night, a train pa Just where his body lied for the night, a train passed screeching as loudly as his dream: they were all sitting down to tea in the train’s restaurant carriage, the world outside hurling past, and he could see his own bedroom, a passing light in the night outside.
SOUND ON @daniellearnaudgallery ‘Tracing Submerg SOUND ON @daniellearnaudgallery ‘Tracing Submergence II’, the second of five one-minute videos comprising multiple superimposed Zoom split-screen recordings. The work is a collaboration across the time zones of Hogart, Tasmania and London, UK, in the era of COVID-19, between Jan Hogan and Andreas Philippopoulos-Mihalopoulos writing on Japanese paper with ink and water ⚡️🌊 ‘Tracing Submergence’ brings together the materialities of the geological and the human, working through tracing and erasure, layering ways of listening to the digital other, a writing dialogue where neither is leading but both follow the movements of water. 
@picpoet #tracingsubmergence  #janhogan #zoom
Just where he smelled the air of his sleep, a drea Just where he smelled the air of his sleep, a dream that didn’t make it to his night, started quivering like morning light. He didn’t know what to do with it, so he just placed it on his breakfast tray.
Where he spread his body, across passages and boun Where he spread his body, across passages and boundaries, a chain of rooms mushroomed like a maze, doors and empty spaces crowding his open limbs and soft back, differences in temperature caressing his extremes as if his skin was shedding its own climate. And just then, a line, vibrant light breath coming from the window, extended across his evening and bridged everything that until then had felt fragmented.
Tonight, Saturday, 18:30 UK time Zoom into a wild Tonight, Saturday, 18:30 UK time Zoom into a wild session of corona-time talents, part of stay-at-home artist residencies by People's Bureau Eva Sajovic and Rebecca Davies, where I am presenting three moving-poems on questions of home, touch, mother, return, fear, freedom, circularity, facades, weaving, etc, inspired by the contributions of the participating artists Nicola Privato, Luzmira Zerpa and Oms Rocha, Ryan Neil Skelton, Julene Robinson and Katrina Wilde, artfully brought together in a zoom extravaganza by Shona Hamilton and with the narrative contribution of Sarah Butler.  https://us02web.zoom.us/j/82975137128
This Is A Call – Online Event Date: Saturday 16 This Is A Call – Online Event

Date: Saturday 16th May 2020, 18:30 GMT (UK time)

Location: Zoom https://us02web.zoom.us/j/82975137128

At the beginning of May, Peoples’ Bureau (Eva Sajovic and Rebecca Davies), along with writer Sarah Butler and film maker Shona Hamilton put out a call for artists to respond to the questions ·  What is the role of the artist in today's political, economic and social context?
·  What is home?
·  What might the future of living look like?
•
Please join the successful artists, Nicola Privato, Julene Robinson, Ryan Skelton, Luzmira Zerpa and Omar Rocha, and Katrina Wilde to share the outcomes of their at-home-artist-residencies. A rich mix of music, poetry, performance and visual art. The works will be woven punctuated by Andreas Philippopoulos-Mihalopoulos. You are invited to join us on zoom at 18:30. We look forward to seeing you there. •
Please note that the performance will be recorded and turned into a moving image art piece for exhibition purposes at a later point. Please mute your audio and turn on speaker view.
You can choose to switch your video on or off. If you do not want to be identified please change your name. •
Artist Katrina Wilde will be delivering a durational performance/workshop during the performance. If you would like to take part please prepare:
·  A needle
·  Some thread
·  Something that needs mending that you've been putting off doing. •
Sound by Nicola Privato.

Link to event also in bio.

@ryanskelt @luzmirazerpa @katrinawilde #julenerobinson #nicolaprivato #sarahbutler #shonahamilton @rebeccamariadavies #peoplesbureau @oms_rocha @picpoet
#Repost @vesper_journal ・・・ ••Vesper No. #Repost @vesper_journal
・・・
••Vesper No. 1 Supervenice••
>The Water Constellations<
By Andreas Philippopoulos-Mihalopoulos @picpoet .
The surface, heavy with water and waiting, would sometimes gradually boil up to cover her, and other times swiftly drain, leaving her skin moist with the memory of the flow. At times like this, when her body was closer to the sky, she turned to look at the mountain she had just descended.
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Full text on Vesper No. 1 Supervenice.
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#vesperjournal #architecture #theory #iuav #dcp #iride #pard #venice #publishing #quodlibet #bruno #editorial #project #urban #madeinitaly #goodtype #graphicindex  #grafikradar #graphicdesign #visual #layout #architetturejournal #artjournal #artmagazine #magazine #architecturemiagazine #restauro #restoration
#Repost @daniellearnaudgallery ・・・Sound ON ‘Tracing Submergence I’, the first of five one-minute videos comprising multiple superimposed Zoom split-screen recordings. The work is a collaboration across the time zones of Hogart, Tasmania and London, UK, in the era of COVID-19, between Jan Hogan and Picpoet / Andreas Philippopoulos-Mihalopoulos writing on Japanese paper with ink and water ⚡️🌊 ‘Tracing Submergence’ brings together the materialities of the geological and the human, working through tracing and erasure, layering ways of listening to the digital other, a writing dialogue where neither is leading but both follow the movements of water. 
@picpoet #tracingsubmergence #andreasphilippoppulosmihalopoulos #janhogan #zoom
Just where he placed his hand, a curtain trembled Just where he placed his hand, a curtain trembled into his reality, an invitation to pull and clear, to reach out and find, to veil and reveal.
Polyptych 4, Sinking Cities series, acrylic and go Polyptych 4, Sinking Cities series, acrylic and gold leaf on found wood. Different to my usual ones - the ones I make in Venice are on gondola wood with egg tempera. The ones here are done on pieces of wood I find on my walks in the local parks, and with acrylics so that I avoid the egg tempera stench (ok for the studio but not for the study :).
Just where he rest his gaze, abstracted after the Just where he rest his gaze, abstracted after the same breakfast for years now, a newness arose, neither sun nor day, just a molecular composition, fresh and never before, and the water turned visible everywhere around him.
Just where he touched his hand, a doorknob appeare Just where he touched his hand, a doorknob appeared, on a door where no door was, that opened another door, and then another, within that one. His apartment became a folding maze, collapsing deeper into itself with every crossing.
Just where he leaned his back, right there, the sp Just where he leaned his back, right there, the space quickened into a pattern of last night’s dream, a city of multiple gravities with water flowers blooming from walls and ceilings.
Just where he ran, corridors of chiaroscuro broke Just where he ran, corridors of chiaroscuro broke free from his day and started screaming right in his ear, this way! this way!, opposing ways of vein maps running through his legs, pulling him and pushing him till he just had to sit down, immobile, still.
Between the flames, in the volumes of air still an Between the flames, in the volumes of air still and heavy with heat, here he is, a  funambulist treading softly, fearing that his body will break any moment now, molecular binding with his future self.
Just where his foot stepped, an afternoon emerged, Just where his foot stepped, an afternoon emerged, light and shadow spending their last breaths making room for more nothingness to fill the air.
Just where his mind rested when he was thinking ab Just where his mind rested when he was thinking about last night, a fire creeped up, low and whispering, sweet empty futures getting hold of his hair and dragging him down to lines untraced and surfaces uncreased.
Just where he swam, the two waters of his life cam Just where he swam, the two waters of his life came together, the morning waters of blue elsewhere and the gold waters of a late afternoon in Venice.
Just where he left his body, his whole body and hi Just where he left his body, his whole body and his whole other body and the one after (my city, he said, has valleys that no one has ever seen, my city is a grave and a cradle for all my bodies, the ones now and the ones after and even the ones that will never follow) just there, a light like a Berlin morning rose up, a bathing light for all his metaphors.
Just where his hand gripped, an abandoned square i Just where his hand gripped, an abandoned square in an abandoned city emerged in the thick of humanity, toil and strife that produced no shadows.
Just where he rested his arm after sanding off the Just where he rested his arm after sanding off the end of his small eternity, just there a glow as sharp as the next morning etched itself.
Just where he sat for a moment, at the edge of a l Just where he sat for a moment, at the edge of a low bed, naked feet on dark wood, the light crawled up and touched his eyelids, last night’s chemical waves smelling of hotel dreams.
Just where he sat seconds ago, a piece of air was Just where he sat seconds ago, a piece of air was left hanging, a voice biting into the wood, a light filled with feathers; I want to stay here, he thought.
Just where his head laid, an island emerged, lit f Just where his head laid, an island emerged, lit from underneath as if his eyelids were still shut, his sleep still light.
We are dysfunctional families now. Architectural c We are dysfunctional families now. Architectural clay, metal, glaze. Series DOTS.
This morning, the final hour left our lives. This morning, the final hour left our lives.
But it has always been empty. You just have to loo But it has always been empty. You just have to look at the other side where things go to rest and the air smells of a softer spring.
The name of the world is missing a syllable. Right The name of the world is missing a syllable. Right in the middle of the word there is a silence that cannot be bridged. Just close your eyes.
Look, they still have hand soap! Look, they still have hand soap!
Whichever way it turns, the outcome will be the sa Whichever way it turns, the outcome will be the same. And things will be different.
My take on the virus at Critical Legal Thinking: “The ethics of withdrawal before Covid is a show of a planetary collectivity, where we finally understand that our bodies are all connected, and that taking precautions in London will mean that more people will survive in the refugee camps or in the less developed world with more fragile health systems. It is ultimately a show of removing oneself from the mania of ‘progress’, with its global pollution, climate change and anthropocenic irreversibility, and allowing the planet to take a breath. This is the Virocene.” http://criticallegalthinking.com/2020/03/13/covid-the-ethical-disease/
And we thought we were separate from the water. An And we thought we were separate from the water. And we thought we could fly. And we thought that the world needed us. And we thought we could think.
Do come in. Just don’t press any buttons. Do come in. Just don’t press any buttons.
The bubble that carried you before you were you, y The bubble that carried you before you were you, you are now carrying it always in you. Stay tender, round.
The space opened up with an awareness of violence. The space opened up with an awareness of violence. Strange, he thought, that we all feel so comfortable. Strange that nothing bleeds from the walls and that the bodies of our fear remain asleep. But then he noticed the room.
Feet rooted in the night sky, head deep in the fun Feet rooted in the night sky, head deep in the funghi, her eyes becoming one with the network of intelligence that speaks no english.
She had enough of celebrations. There wasn’t muc She had enough of celebrations. There wasn’t much to do today, so she started weaving her hair in thick waves, adding almond oil for shine, lavender for colour, a few flowers for a spring breeze, then some birds that brought stories and some bees that kept their honey to themselves, and then even a few stingrays that shaded the sky and a couple of large antelopes that jumped around making the whole hair job too messy - so she had to start again. It turned out to be a sort of celebration anyway.. #womensday #diadelasmujeres
Start counting and end when your face becomes the Start counting and end when your face becomes the same again #jaumeplensa #jaumeplensajulia
She said, paint him. She said, paint him.
Untitled, DOTING series, architectural clay and gl Untitled, DOTING series, architectural clay and glaze
It didn’t happen every evening. Sometimes she ha It didn’t happen every evening. Sometimes she had a hunch. Other times, it would take her by surprise. Like last night, when she was thinking of opening the windows and invite that crisp winter dusk to come in and sit opposite her on the table, play a game of cards or just have a glass of wine. At that point the itch started, and before she knew, a majestic pair of dark blue wings popped out of her back. They were even speckled with gold. Oh yes, because even when she could feel it when they were about to pop up, she could never tell what colour they would be.
She put some of the inside out. But that was not e She put some of the inside out. But that was not enough. So she brought some of the outside in. Again, though, not enough. She kept on moving bits to the other side, the green colour of the water from her aquarium, or that afternoon light just after lunch, or the plants that had made their home on her terrace. By the end of it, the whole inside had become outside. She slept in a room without ceiling, her tap poured green lagoon water, and her clothes were hanging on her terrace. And that was, finally, enough.
She started writing when she smelled her first day She started writing when she smelled her first day. Her hand grabbed the air and the ceiling became her sheet of paper. But the paper stayed too still and she had to move onto the ocean, hovering above like a hand of god raining upon its noisy children. Not for a moment did she stop writing, however much the surface of the water kept on moving. But her stories, they sunk deep into the seabed, taking distance from her own hand, becoming clouds of plankton and continents of sediment.
A pact with himself: slowly to walk into the day, A pact with himself: slowly to walk into the day, slowly to greet the evening, slowly to switch the night light on. But he could still feel the rush passing him by, waves of storms lashing onto his skin like the ageing of a whole planet, right there, underneath his eyes, rapid fury holding hands with his rabid fears. Time, a cube in his hands, jumping with thumbing speed and a dying forever.
She woke up with a large concrete box barking on h She woke up with a large concrete box barking on her chest. She had to stay in bed, day after day, hoping that it would go away. But all along she was growing tentacles, molecular extensions of soulful soils slowly worming into the concrete with every breath. And one day, the box just crumbled away, and she got up and made some tea.
He spread her body parts, one on every page, one f He spread her body parts, one on every page, one for every reader, her mouth, her thigh, her clit, all there, written with sand and glued with words, softly promising the end of the summer. [picpoet’s performance at #resistancegallery for @mlle.beachcomber Fucking Law book launch along the performances by @swasteeranjan and @theflyingcocktailian]
The surface yawned and the reflections surged up, The surface yawned and the reflections surged up, light and diffraction and other worlds, all spat out, standing in line with what you used to know: this would be the kind end of metaphysics.
Sebastians everywhere. Sebastians everywhere.
The light smelled of a desert wind. The light smelled of a desert wind.
If one night a traveller asks me for the way out, If one night a traveller asks me for the way out, and that will not be a dream, that will be a real person coming out of my suitcase, my belly might respond with a gurgle and my hand with a grip.
That law came from the future and slapped us hard That law came from the future and slapped us hard on the face.
That used to open inwards. We would sit around and That used to open inwards. We would sit around and look at our feelings, especially the ones that had made their home in the sofas and armchairs of our living room and hardly ever moved.
Because I can see the future, I say, blind me, I s Because I can see the future, I say, blind me, I say, blind me with your radiance. Then I will be able to touch the future too.
The day after was just like the day before and wil The day after was just like the day before and will probably be just like the day after that too. But the water had already started moving differently.
There never was the right moment. So he waited. An There never was the right moment. So he waited. And the world changed around him, taking away all the moments.
Slashing around on solid surfaces. Gliding is our Slashing around on solid surfaces. Gliding is our ethical responsibility, he thought, and left his suitcase behind.
That one night turned all her days into nights. Ev That one night turned all her days into nights. Ever since that night, all nights follow tightly one another, contiguous darkness, flooding thickness, no day in between. That night, she found a light under her living room floor.
In this theatre, with its few seats and recycled s In this theatre, with its few seats and recycled sets, you lead your entire life as if it were the open world. Look at your reflection when you sing your last aria - the water will be kind.
At the end of the city, on the edge of the water, At the end of the city, on the edge of the water, where the night mist meets the skin of the planet, an embrace, safe and dangerous like a memory.
Those first days that often feel like last. He wok Those first days that often feel like last. He woke up with a taste of yesterday in his mouth, his teeth metallic with anticipation. Again, he said. Again.
Now go in and close the door. They will float fine Now go in and close the door. They will float fine just by themselves. But you must leave.
@ikonavenezia @fondazione_ugo_e_olga_levi finissag @ikonavenezia @fondazione_ugo_e_olga_levi finissage Nicola di Croce + Enrico Coniglio @ennedicroce @enrico_coniglio @utopiesdomestiques
Some things best not reveal their secrets, he thou Some things best not reveal their secrets, he thought.
They always leave trails of orange behind, whateve They always leave trails of orange behind, whatever they wear. I wonder whether I do too.
Parts of your body may lie elsewhere. Please relis Parts of your body may lie elsewhere. Please relish your sense of displacement.
Ah yes, he thought: where things luminesce from wi Ah yes, he thought: where things luminesce from within. I must have arrived home.
And I write even when I don’t. And my hand trace And I write even when I don’t. And my hand traces sentences even when I am not. And my fingers mould words even when they don’t. What happens to the body when the words finish?
When your foot touches the crest of Fujiyama, you When your foot touches the crest of Fujiyama, you might become humble.
Between two waters, the breath flows against each Between two waters, the breath flows against each self.
Between two waters, the breath was left to rest. Between two waters, the breath was left to rest.
Between two waters, he felt the breath of another. Between two waters, he felt the breath of another.
Between two waters, he is breathing. Between two waters, he is breathing.
Between two waters, i breathe. Between two waters, i breathe.
Between two waters, i breathe. Between two waters, i breathe.
Between two waters, i breathe. Between two waters, i breathe.
Between two waters, i breathe. Between two waters, i breathe.
Whatever you’ve stopped, it comes flooding back. Whatever you’ve stopped, it comes flooding back.
The one he left on Tuesday became a traffic light. The one he left on Tuesday became a traffic light. The one on Saturday, a sooted hole on the road. He never knew. He kept on spreading them every time he would think of that word. Today though, the word was so plural that it became a bunch of bikes, tangled promises of proximity, lying on the pavement.