Profile

Cover photo
Nicolas Holzheu
110,807 views
AboutPostsPhotos

Stream

Nicolas Holzheu

Shared publicly  - 
 
Variations in Normative Violence (I)
"Sunny [artist, writer and activist Sunaura Taylor] recalls that, as a child, when she tried to move without her wheelchair, people told her she looked like a monkey. Her challenge to the socially constructed norms of movement led to her threatened expulsion from the category of the human. This prompts her to muse that wheelchairs may serve the interests of the able-bodied as much as the disabled: they contain the movements of the disabled in ways that make them acceptable." (my emphasis)
- Kathryn Abrams, Performing Interdependence: Judith Butler and Sunaura Taylor in the Examined Life, 21 Colum. J. Gender & L. 72 (2011). Available at: http://scholarship.law.berkeley.edu/facpubs/464
- Self-portrait by Sunaura Taylor
1
Add a comment...

Nicolas Holzheu

Shared publicly  - 
 
#Gas   #Syria   #Poetry  
Dulce et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime...
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.

- Wilfred Owen
nicolas-holzheu
Dulce Et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen
1
Add a comment...

Nicolas Holzheu

Shared publicly  - 
1
Add a comment...

Nicolas Holzheu

Shared publicly  - 
 
- Photo Gundula Schulze Eldowy
- Text Jean Améry in 'Über das Altern. Revolte und Resignation' 

"Aber jetzt ist es zu spät; der Sinn seines Lebens, ein Unsinn, wenn er's genau besieht, ist schon aufgesammelt in ihm als Zeitmasse, das Wirkliche hat das Mögliche von einst überspült, die Substanz, mit der es zu tun hat, ist nicht mehr knetbar.
Er bereut, daß er saumselig war. Nun hat er schon versäumt, und wo er hinblickt, steht auf der Wand: Nie wieder. Vielleicht liegt diese Reue und dieses »Nie wieder«, dessen man gewiß ist, ohne freilich so ganz und vorbehaltlos daran glauben zu wollen, am Urgrund der Todesangst, da doch der Tod uns nicht nur aus dem Raum nimmt, sondern auch die in uns geschichtete Zeit zerstört, so daß nicht einmal die in all ihrer Hoffnungslosigkeit doch noch stets eine Spur absurder Hoffnung enthaltende Reue mehr bestehen kann und mit der Zeit auch die Sehnsucht nach ihrer Umkehrung verschwinden muß." 
1
Nucleo Negazioni's profile photo
 
molto bella
 ·  Translate
Add a comment...

Nicolas Holzheu

Shared publicly  - 
 
Walking the wasteland of contested territories in urban Aleppo, accompanying a sniper to his frontline position, I - as in other occasions before - asked myself whether I'm right now in the cross-hair of a gunsight and if I got hit, would there be anything between now and ultimate oblivion... 
 
"Und doch lag [das Grauen] wieder so greifbar, so bleiern schwer auf den Sinnen, wenn eine verlassene Schar unter dem Gewölbe der Nacht durch unbekanntes Gelände kreuzte, fern und näher von eisernen Wuchten umdröhnt. Entriß sich dann plötzlich in ihrer Mitte ein Glutstrahl der Erde, so trieb ein Schrei von erschütternder Erkenntnis ins Unendliche. Dann mochte den Hirnen im letzten Feuer der dunkle Vorhang des Grauens jäh emporgerauscht sein, doch was dahinter auf der Lauer lag, das konnte der erstarrte Mund nicht mehr verkünden ."  - Ernst Jünger in 'Der Kampf als inneres Erlebnis' (1926)
1
Add a comment...

Nicolas Holzheu

Shared publicly  - 
 
Photo Kati Horna || Poem Miguel Hernández (en/sp)

Letter
The pigeon-house of letters
launches impossible flights
from the rickety tables
where memory leans,
absence’s weight,
the heart, the silence.

I hear the wing-beat of letters
sailing towards their fate.

Wherever I go I meet
with women and with men
injured by absence,
worn away by time.

Letters, tales, letters:
postcards and dreams,
fragments of tenderness
hurled towards the sky,
sent from blood to blood
from longing to longing.

Although beneath the earth
my loving body may lie,
write to me on earth,
so that I can reply.

In a corner hush
old letters, old scraps.
with the colour of age
coating the writing.
There letters perish
full of trembling.
There ink suffers
and pages fade,
and paper tears,
in a little graveyard
of passions past
of loves to come.

Although beneath the earth
my loving body may lie,
write to me on earth,
so that I can reply.

When I write to you
the inkwell stirs,
the cold black well
blushes and trembles,
and a clear human warmth
rises from dark depths.
When I write to you,
my bones begin to write:
I write with indelible ink
of my feelings to you.

There goes my warm letter,
a pigeon forged in flame,
with its folded wings
in the midst its address.
Bird that simply heads for
its nest through air and sky,
your flesh, your hands, your eyes,
and the spaces of your breath.

And you will be naked
beneath your feelings,
unclothed, so as to feel
it all against your breast.

Although beneath the earth
my loving body may lie,
write to me on earth,
so that I can reply.

Yesterday a letter remained
abandoned and unclaimed,
hovering over the eyes
of one whose body was lost.
Letters remain alive
speaking for the dead:
Paper, yearning, human,
without eyes to read it.

Though the teeth chatter,
I hear it growing louder
the soft voice of your letter
like an immense clamour.
I’ll welcome it in sleep,
if I can’t stay awake.
And my wounds will be
flowing wells of ink,
mouths that will tremble
remembering your kisses,
and in their unheard voice
they will murmur: I love you.
- by Miguel Hernández
-------------------------
Carta
El palomar de las cartas
abre su imposible vuelo
desde las trémulas mesas
donde se apoya el recuerdo,
la gravedad de la ausencia,
el corazón, el silencio.

Oigo un latido de cartas
navegando hacia su centro.

Donde voy, con las mujeres
y con los hombre me encuentro,
malheridos por la ausencia,
desgastados por el tiempo.

Cartas, relaciones, cartas:
tarjetas postales, sueños,
fragmentos de la ternura
proyectados en el cielo,
lanzados de sangre a sangre
y de deseo a deseo.

Aunque bajo la tierra
mi amante cuerpo esté,
escríbeme a la tierra,
que yo te escribiré.

En un rincón enmudecen
cartas viejas, sobres viejos,
con el color de la edad
sobre la escritura puesto.
Allí perecen las cartas
llenas de estremecimientos.
Allí agoniza la tinta
y desfallecen los pliegos,
y el papel se agujerea
como un breve cementerio
de las pasiones de antes,
de los amores de luego.

Aunque bajo la tierra
mi amante cuerpo esté,
escríbeme a la tierra,
que yo te escribiré.

Cuando te voy a escribir
se emocionan los tinteros:
los negros tinteros fríos
se ponen rojos y trémulos,
y un claro calor humano
sube desde el fondo negro.
Cuando te voy a escribir,
te van a escribir mis huesos:
te escribo con la imborrable
tinta de mi sufrimiento.

Allá va mi carta cálida,
paloma forjada al fuego,
con las dos alas plegadas
y la dirección en medio.
Ave que solo persigue,
para nido aire y cielo,
carne, manos, ojos tuyos
y el espacio de tu aliento.
Y te quedarás desnuda
dentro de tus sentimientos,
sin ropa, para sentirla
del todo contra tu pecho.

Aunque bajo la tierra
mi amante cuerpo esté,
escríbeme a la tierra,
que yo te escribiré.

Ayer se quedó una carta
abandonada y sin dueño,
volando sobre los ojos
de alguien que perdió su cuerpo.
Cartas que se quedan vivas
hablando para los muertos:
papel anhelando, humano,
sin ojos que puedan verlo.

Mientras los colmillos crecen,
cada vez más cerca siento
la leve voz de tu carta
igual que un clamor inmenso.
La recibiré dormido,
si no es posible despierto.
Y mis heridas serán,
los derramados tinteros,
las bocas estremecidas
de rememorar tus besos,
y con su inaudita voz
han de repetir: te quiero.
- Miguel Hernández
 ·  Translate
1
Add a comment...

Nicolas Holzheu

Shared publicly  - 
 
Reading an article in Die Welt where the author argues against an entitlement of same-sex couples for (civil-)marriage substantiating his opinion by an appeal to natural law calling a relationship that doesn't allow for offspring as defective in the first place ergo against nature and therefor unmoral and consequently forfeiting any claim to legal recognition. 
This chain of reasoning is brittle on more then one link, providing with a plethora of targets. Alas I was primarily reminded of John Stuart Mill's deliberations on the fallaciousness of the concept of a moral (prescriptive) Natural Law itself as summarized in H.L.A. Hart's The Concept of Law:

"It is in this way that John Stuart Mill dealt with Montesquieu, who in the first chapter of the Esprit des Lois naively inquires why it is that, while inanimate things such as the stars and also animals obey 'the law of their nature', man does not do so but falls into sin. This, Mill thought, revealed the perennial confusion between laws which formulate the course or regularities of nature, and laws which require men to behave in certain ways. The former, which can be discovered by observation and reasoning, may be called 'descriptive' and it is for the scientist thus to discover them; the latter cannot be so established, for they are not statements or descriptions of facts, but are 'prescriptions' or demands that men shall behave in certain ways. The answer therefore to Montesquieu's question is simple: prescriptive laws may be broken and yet remain laws, because that merely means that human beings do not do what they are told to do; but it is meaningless to say of the laws of nature, discovered by science, either that they can or cannot be broken. If the stars behave in ways contrary to the scientific laws which purport to describe their regular movements, these are not broken but they lose their title to be called 'laws' and must be reformulated."
1
Add a comment...

Nicolas Holzheu

Shared publicly  - 
 
C. in Munich/Germany, January 2014 
© Photo by Nicolas Holzheu
1
Add a comment...

Nicolas Holzheu

Shared publicly  - 
 
The call for 'positive images' of minorities (of class, gender, sexuality, ethnicity) debunked as trojan horses of subjectivation. 
By promising symbolic legitimacy on the condition of subjugation to the Weltanschauung (worldview) of the hegemonic group disciplinary power operates as a "grid of intelligibility of the social order".

Marlon Riggs speaking about his documentary film Color Adjustment (1992):
The call for 'positive images' of minorities (of class, gender, sexuality, ethnicity) debunked as trojan horses of subjectivation. By promising symbolic legitimacy on the condition of subjugation to the Weltanschauung (worldview) of the hegemonic group disciplinary power operates as a "grid of intelligibility of the social order". Marlon Riggs on his documentary film Color Adjustment (1992). For a review of the movie see: http://www.mip.berkeley...
1
Add a comment...

Nicolas Holzheu

Shared publicly  - 
 
Achmed K. asked me for a cigarette and the where-abouts of his friend. He is one the one-hundred-something patients of the mental asylum located till early January at the contested Aleppo airport that has been evacuated since twice. First to a former cancer hospital in Hanano District where they got bombed in the first night after their arrival and then on to an undisclosed location. 
Achmed K.'s friend got killed two days before by mortar shrapnel... 
 - Aleppo, Syria - 10th of January 2013
© Photos by Nicolas Holzheu
1
Add a comment...

Nicolas Holzheu

Shared publicly  - 
 
Destination ALEPPO/SYRIA once more... departure scheduled for 31.12

"Ich geh nochmals raus... zu den Menschen die nicht wissen dass Stanley [Greene's] Katze Hunger hat...."

(Photo by me in Tareeq al Bab/Aleppo, Syria - 11th of November 2012)
 ·  Translate
1
Add a comment...

Nicolas Holzheu

Shared publicly  - 
 
With tv-news on Gaza blaring in the background I read an article from 1965 by poet and social critic James Baldwin in the lobby of my hotel. He writes:

"People who imagine history flatters them (as it does, indeed, since they wrote it) are impaled on their history like a butterfly on a pin and become incapable of seeing or changing themselves, or the world." 

Giving his background he was alluding to 'white people' in the US obviously. So he goes on: 

"This is the place in which, it seems to me, most white Americans find themselves. Impaled. They are dimly, or vividly, aware that the history they have fed themselves is mainly a lie, but they do not know how to release themselves from it, and they suffer enormously from the resulting personal incoherence." 

But doesn't this hold true for most Israelis as much?

(Image taken from Joe Sacco's 'Footnotes in Gaza')
1
Add a comment...
Links