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 – one of the oldest poets of Instagram combining visual and poetic prose. Picpoetry 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.

The normalisation of water.
Doing a performance talk thing at Lisbon’s MAAT (Museu de Arte, Arquitetura e Tecnologia) this Thursday for @lucinda__correia amazing Green Book. 
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘎𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘗𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘶𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘑𝘰𝘴é 𝘈𝘥𝘳𝘪ã𝘰 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘈𝘯𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘴 𝘗𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘱𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘰𝘴-𝘔𝘪𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘱𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘰𝘴. 

Andreas Philippopoulos-Mihalopoulos é um académico, artista e autor de ficção. Participou na 58ª Bienal de Arte de Veneza de 2019, na 16ª Bienal de Arquitetura de Veneza de 2016 e em intervenções na Tate Modern, no Inhotim - Instituto de Arte Contemporânea do Brasil, na Danish The Royal Cast Collection da Dinamarca, na Royal Music Academy da Suécia, bem como noutras instituições. É Professor de Direito e Teoria na Universidade de Westminster e fundador e Diretor do The Westminster Law & Theory Lab.

𝘈𝘯𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘴 𝘗𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘱𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘰𝘴-𝘔𝘪𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘱𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘰𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘤𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘤, 𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘳. 𝘈𝘯𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘱𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘩𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘦𝘹𝘵, 𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘱𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘏𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 58𝘵𝘩 𝘝𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘈𝘳𝘵 𝘉𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘦 2019, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 16𝘵𝘩 𝘝𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘈𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘉𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘦 2016, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘛𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘔𝘰𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘯, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘐𝘯𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘮 - 𝘐𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘶𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘦 𝘈𝘳𝘵𝘦 𝘊𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘰𝘳â𝘯𝘦𝘢 𝘉𝘳𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘭, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘋𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘙𝘰𝘺𝘢𝘭 𝘊𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘊𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘙𝘰𝘺𝘢𝘭 𝘔𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘤 𝘈𝘤𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘮𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘚𝘸𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘯, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴. 𝘏𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘴𝘰 𝘗𝘳𝘰𝘧𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘰𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘓𝘢𝘸 & 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘜𝘯𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘞𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘋𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘞𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘓𝘢𝘸 & 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘓𝘢𝘣. 

📸 ©Tim Marsden

#greenpaper #livroverde #counterarchitecture #contraarquitetura #maat #efabula #future #futuro #urbanity #urbanidade #fct #lisboacapitalverde #teatropraga @lisboagreencapital2020 @maatmuseum @teatropraga @fa_ulisboa @ulisboa @iscte_iul @nova_fcsh @oxford_uni @picpoet @joseadriaoarquitetos
I will find my extensions. They are lying low, speaking to the world in tongues of fingeredges. They were here before me. I will become an extension of my extensions.
He was looking forward to those nights when the water rose and he could just float out of the window like a pet jelly fish sneaking out to explore the world.
This is all I want, she said. To become one with everything. And she laid down her want and her I and her all, and the world covered her like an autumn blanket.
Join the dots. They will lead you nowhere. Join the dots. You need the circle. Join the dots. You are afraid of empty. Join the dots. They are endless.
Performing Justice, one gesture at a time.
Deodorising capitalism.
 #hauserwirth #georgecondo
Elated to be part of The Mnemosyne-Initiative first group exhibition at the Metaverse Biennale @artgatevr. Thank you to @centerforhellenicstudies for supporting and recognizing the initiative during 2020/21, giving the myth of Mnemosyne a voice in times of loss, sorrow, and instabilities. Humbled to be amongst the nine extraordinary artists from nine countries (like the nine muses! Get it?) who regularly met in zoom for more than a year and developed concepts of memory reviving the myth of Mnemosyne into the present and future.  Thank you @christophquarch and @picpoet for your continuous scholarly support through in depth philosophy workshops and inspiring conversations.  We are so excited about the opportunity to present the Mnemosyne in the Metaverse tomorrow.  #artgatevr #metaverse #memory #mnemosyne #exhibtion #annagillespie #billadair #irisbrosch #albertbonay #dorahartist #dorah #artemisherber #perlakrauze #marcrobarge #picpoet #christophquarch #akademie_3 #centerforhellenicstudies #goldendoorsofinfinity #artcollision @marcrobarge @krauzeperla @artemisherber @albertbonay @williamadair @annagillespiesculpture @irisbrosch_art @dorah_artist
My one eye opens inwards worlds of sea without blue. My other eye opens outwards waiting till you swim to me. That door though will never open.
I’m not that mean. Only if you ask nicely.
Once I find the tools, I’ll make the master’s house a comfortable little hovel. 
Doting II, architectural clay, glaze, wood, metal. 15x22x10, 2021
That thing called contrast, that thing called fairytale, that thing called capitalism, that thing called shade, that thing called refuge, that thing called mirror, that thing called time, that thing called nowhere.
In a far away country, there was once a girl with orange lips. They brought her here to learn her secrets. She made moonjuice and water canapés. They all ate and drunk. Their lips turned orange too. And the girl was forgotten.
Vertical high it becomes deep, cloud folds swallows, the up becomes the below, but even when you finally manage to breathe pure sky, you will never manage to forget the earth.
Sometimes I wish you couldn’t see me.
Speak to me of the times when you had another self next to you, do you still remember? and you touched the world with two souls, opened already to each other, open forever to the outside.
The city is a garden of kindness. Here for a weekend break after many years, and I managed to leave my suitcase at the airport bus. The thought of replacing all that I lost was too much. But then @lola.kiko appears out of nowhere, having found the suitcase and located me. Thank you for being such a wonderful human being.
Holding the light, lightly.
I will keep forever watching me watching me, wondering whose shadow this has been. #catherineyass #ambikap3
My body is a building, a temple, a vestibule. My mind is a cloud, a terrace, a window. My needs are underground, my fears are growing where the jasmine grows. My ever is in my belly, my never on my skin. #catherineyass #ambikap3
We will never, ever open. #friezemasters
We are all complicit. Still from online performance Slashing Waters, twin camera, 20 mins on double screen, available on my website andreaspm.com
I always dive upwards, he said. The splash is gentler, the breath holds longer. And the seabed pulses with the luminescence from other planets.
We used to be shadows.
There was a pill we all took, the journey was long but we were asleep, we woke up and we could finally see, stars and skies upside down.
‘Slowly sinking ascending’, triptych, 30x72cm, 2021 (in progress)

This is the last work I’m trying to finish before leaving Venice. It’s more visceral than the rest, yet the omnipresent jellyfish have now become more part of the material, without paint of their own but just movements made with a brush dipped in Venetian Turpentine on the existing gold paint layer. Something subtler, something fiercer. It might be the departure from the waters.
Your roundedness your arching your spherical your heightened, they are everywhere
Small bleeding ways out.
We looked at different mirrors and thought we were seeing each other. Yet the connection was made. And on its taught lines, miniature deers and flying fishes were hanging like Murano grapes.
You let me touch an early spring, it was the year before you were born, it was filled with roses but no scent, you said now you’ll know me, I waited, your halo slid down the skirt of the planet, nothing to risk nothing to gain, I waited, nothing to dive in nothing to drink, I no longer wait.
He opened both windows because he didn’t know which way the moonlight was going to come in the house. He wanted to be prepared.
Let the viscera climb up
Drawing battle lines as if they were embraces.
Your name was written on the floor as if we were all ready to forget it.
“All ascends carry the weight of the ground they leave behind ”
Triptych, Oil paint, gold metallic spray and gold leaf on canvas board, 60x100cm, 2021
There we are, top step gazing, the air is different up there, the sun steams like a boiled apricot, we are younger, we are closer to another life, we must never never step down, but the wind picks up.
I left my afternoon on your shoulders, and when you turned it became a forest.
I left my breath on your neck, and when you turned it became a necklace
He said past he said future but with his hand he was already touching the light of now.
cover invisible, line interrupted, roof of air, day adeciduous : these are the ways our angels hide from us
For that one brief moment in our lives, we all, human reptilians, become a mirror, our skin a surface that no longer protects but only projects, the vast light of the next moment.
Aquiferous angel
In his body carried water
And in water 
slowly descending
he let it flow
Air and water were sliding beneath them. And they were floating away on the elements.
His first word was mountain. But then the sea opened up and gave him a life. He did well out of it. But he never stopped looking for heights and depths.
Monuments to a departing world.
There was another world. The door stayed always open. Anyone could walk in. But the world only lasted for a few seconds. Most people turned back. And we just followed.
Post-swim shaky parting
(photo by Elias Avramidis)
The power of cliché
Several cups of coffee later, small strong dark, lost moments of the day when the day blossoms into an ocean, round shiny inward, and the pleasure of his loneliness dissolved in him like brown sugar.
We’ve all had heard that metaphor, it was nesting under our skin, by now, crawl crawl break, flood flood sink, ah it’s ok, it’s just a metaphor.
And we could never know whether it was us or something outside us.
We kept the windows open throughout the rain.
In the late morning, the city filled with imaginary windows that led to the water or the light, one never knew until one climbed into them, and even then, the windows made further windows, waves of windows lapping gently on that little market full of shiny fruit made by dragons and other floating colours. This should be enough for me, she said. It’ll last me one week of swimming.
We gathered around the light waiting to see where it was coming from. What a waste of a garden, we thought. But still waited.
That time when the wind blew without upsetting a single hair on his perfect head and the city turned like a well pasted lipstick in the tube of eternal joy.
That smoothness that took care of my whole life, one with everything else, my skin sleek slalom across my and other bodies. That smoothness that left me no identity. That angular smoothness. That’s all gone when he slid his hand on my face  and then the air. And in between, he stopped.
Your secret is not safe with me. Yes, it’ll only stay in the box, where our hands touched when the lights were still on, and the fans were fluttering like bats ready to drink. But, look, the box is open and the world is crowding.
The other side of the spectacle
That dance, slow and masked, we see connections, but connections ignore us. We ride our doubles, mirrors or smoke, but our doubles fade. Don’t forget to count, he said, foot already placed in the future. 
Pic by @p.s.fiorenza
Fruits of Venice
Artist hard at work. Artist upside down. Artist random shot. Artist not artist. Artist inevitably. Artist slumbrous. Artist afternoon. Artist get up already.
Venice Pantone. Pick up the colour of the city of your dreams. Add time and salt that will destroy it in a year or so. Add hands that will touch it, feet that will step on it and eyes that will devour it. Add yourself in a night walk, light summer drizzle and rising humidity. Add a mad desire to live forever. You’ve got your Pantone city.
The future of a promise - that they will live and they will die and they will pray and they will eat - is a promise itself, wrapped in soft white lace of the type that carries forever the stains made from the melted wax.
This will fill with water.
The water always comes from below. 
Sinking City XXII, oil and gold metallic spray on canvas, 100x50x3.50, 2021 (in progress)
There was a night that came visiting the day. They had tea and vodka together, they learned how to have sex while sleeping and cook breakfast while dreaming. I keep a piece of night in every one of my afternoons.
The flower’s ray, the planet’s debris, the edge of your nose, all inclined, soft as tomorrow’s breeze, ready to be touched by me, the plucker, the sleeper, the glass-blower.
Free the diagonal. Become the ladder.
The lines rolled out across the roofs, down from windows and verandas, up in antennas and sidereal bird flights. The text finally became the city.
The vegetal that we are. The water that we are. The gold that we are. .
Oil and gold chrome on canvas, 50x70cm, 2021
Single bell / background voices / two swallows vanishing in / three clappings : the order of a happiness
Sliding between high and below.
Le bas oneirique, nageant en or et mort verte, pas de haut, juste plus bas.
Yeah ok I’ll press it.
Give her a minute. Just to finish her text. And she’ll jump right in. You just keep it open and deep for her. And she’ll swim in the light like a swan.
Of a wall, of a master, of a tool, of a bounce, of an offering, of a way out, of a hole back in, of demolitions and armours. (Notes on acts of domestic vandalism)
Slashing Waters - a performance on waters, law and wavewriting, online, double camera, twin sound channel, video, acetate, ink, water (video to come on andreaspm.com )
And our distance became water
You’ve always seen me, even when I couldn’t. You’ve never lost me, even though I never found me. You’re always you. I am you only sometimes.
Double bind blind doubling up and yet you’ve managed to come out for that picnic.
Memento mori
Tell me
Everyone bleeds. The air was stale with humidity. He opened the door and walked back in. He wished the gaps weren’t that wide so that he could shut the world out. But the world kept on bleeding in through the air.
For you I turned my days into a stage, joy hidden under every teacup, sadness like dust on every tabletop. But the nights, I drew the curtains shut.
Walking mid-water, ocean deep corridors of strutting backspines, pebble by pebble we make our houses, cracking always in that middle of dark water seashell breath.
Hidden your hand holding a heated afternoon sun, keep it tight in, and when the evening becomes your companion, because it will, then remember to place it somewhere on your face, an electric smile fading or a memory of an adolescent thunder.