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Alex Quicho
Alex Quicho is the author of Small Gods (Zero Books, 2021), a book on the terror and transcendence of drone technology. She has written for the White Review, the New Inquiry, Wired, Vogue, Bookforum, and others, and worked with institutions including Singapore Art Museum, Power Station of Art (Shanghai), Julia Stoschek Collection (Berlin), Somerset House (London), Rennie Museum (Vancouver), and Nationalgalerie (Berlin). She is an associate lecturer in speculative futures at Central Saint Martins.

Articles Available Online


Without World

Essay

June 2023

Alex Quicho

Essay

June 2023

‘I had to create a world of my own, like a climate, a country, an atmosphere in which I could breathe, reign, and recreate...

Art Review

December 2020

End Times: Heather Phillipson’s ‘The End’

Alex Quicho

Art Review

December 2020

A huge swirl of whipped cream, garnished with a drone, a fly, and a maraschino cherry: so insistent that...

there is no meaning Hanging a picture on the wall I           give           a little too much force to my thumb skin breaks under pressure an orb of blood      red        red to dark red       to dry red       to skin       to iron       to rust      to heat        to sweat        to yesterdays as we move, we move Tuesday Going into the city with the rest of them sliding down the greased pole of means become ends Let me tell you I slipped and travelled against the sharp grain of escalator, one flight of metal before I hit flat floor and crack, to the back of my head I cried like a child oh I oh I said me        am in pain   I was at work by the afternoon At home by early evening feeling burning scratches on the backs of my legs and the bruised curve of my head My mind curved bruised   In bed, the sheets scraped and tugged me sore any way I tried to lie I     face down, looking for a cool place, stretched out an arm and all that was solid dematerialised I     a nothing slipped into water Water, as pressure I felt the water as pressure I’d always thought of pressure as a pushing down     oh      it was every drop of water for miles working into me There was nothing to my fingers, no weight, no force on the pads of my feet, no cold draught wafting past the hairs of my skin, no sound, no sight I couldn’t set my watch to nothing   I waited I couldn’t scream, unaware of mouth or lungs to do so not breathing, not dead, not alive No fear Not yet Eyes wide open into dark, and no sense Unsayable   The Friday, I dropped in on Uncle Padana It was early summer: shadows fold neatly round corners, light warms the backs of the hands until four and cools before six He answered the phone in a lady voice as I stood outside his consulting room door, then buzzed me in, He’s ready for you now He was sitting behind his desk, leaning back in his chair, looking boyish, expectant, tired A Ceropegia hung from the bookshelf and fondled

Contributor

July 2018

Alex Quicho

Contributor

July 2018

Alex Quicho is the author of Small Gods (Zero Books, 2021), a book on the terror and transcendence of...

Emily Pope, The Sitcom Show

Art Review

July 2018

Alex Quicho

Art Review

July 2018

Emily Pope’s five-part web series, The Sitcom Show, is a throwback to the chameleonic class-consciousness and wry pessimism-as-realism embodied by the vein of British pop culture...

READ NEXT

feature

September 2015

Immigrant Freedoms

Benjamin Markovits

feature

September 2015

My grandmother, known to us all as Mutti, caught one of the last trains out of Gotenhafen before the...

fiction

April 2015

Heavy

Chris Newlove Horton

fiction

April 2015

It is a two lane road somewhere in North America. The car is pulled onto the shoulder with the...

Interview

March 2013

Interview with Billy Childish

José da Silva

Interview

March 2013

Buzzed in through the red metal door and down the stone steps into the bunker that is L-13. The...

 

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