rolfe jason e (7 Ergebnisse)

Paperback. Zustand: Very Good. It's a well-cared-for item that has seen limited use. The item may show minor signs of wear. All the text is legible, with all pages included. It may have slight markings and/or highlighting.

Zustand: New. In.

Zustand: New. In.

Paperback. Zustand: Brand New. 306 pages. 7.81x5.06x0.77 inches. In Stock.

Softcover. Zustand: Sehr gut. 1. Auflage. Z : 14 x 23 cm, 144 pages, 19 b/w illustrations - For Jacques Rancière, politics is not primarily the exercise of or struggle for power, but the institution of a certain type of space and time, a mode of visibility and intelligibility that creates a tear in the consensual fabric of a given form of collective life. Art institutes just such a space and time, in which the fundamental polarities of experienceactivity and passivity, form and matter, appearance and realityare suspended and transformed. The essays collected in this volume, based on a symposium held at Art Center College of Design (Pasadena), consider the knot formed in Rancière's work between aesthetics, politics, and education. From his earliest work ("The Lesson of Althusser," 1974) to his magisterial book on the pedagogical theory of Joseph Jacotot ("The Ignorant Schoolmaster," 1981), the theme of education has been at the center of Rancière's concerns; his apparently recent turn to aesthetics, after the 1995 publication of "The Disagreement," should in turn be understood as a continuation of his studies of the aesthetic experiments conducted during the post-work nights of 19th-century proletarians ("The Nights of Labor," 1981).

Zustand: New. KlappentextOur memories are never etched in time. They are fluid and ephemeral, ever-changed by the life we ve lived beyond them, and often what may have been an otherwise pleasant moment can be poisoned by future moments. Thus killed, t.

Buch. Zustand: Neu. Neuware - Our memories are never etched in time. They are fluid and ephemeral, ever-changed by the life we've lived beyond them, and often what may have been an otherwise pleasant moment can be poisoned by future moments. Thus killed, the past becomes an imperfect ghost, haunting our memories like regret. Chased by these revenants I drove, through Plymouth and out, along the A386 toward Tavistock and gloomy Dartmoor beyond. Dartmoor, whose fogs and tors, flocks of sheep and cold stone prison lived and breathed beneath time's deceptive veil. Dartmoor, whose very existence was everything I imagined it would be and only vaguely like my memories of it. I drove on, following the Tavistock Road to Lydford and the medieval church it housed. The church, if I knew it at all, had been lost somewhere in the twenty-five years since we'd first met. I could still remember St. Michael's on the hilltop, Buckfastleigh and Charles Church in Plymouth, its husk a scar left by the Nazi blitz. Though not by name I could still recall the eight hundred year old church we'd visited one Easter morning, it's moldering scent as strong in my mind as it had been that day; but the church in Lydford escaped me. I couldn't remember following in the footsteps of its flock along the ancient Dartmoor Forest path, from their farms on the moor to the church in Lydford. They called it The Way of the Dead because it was along this sun-dappled path that they carried their dead from the rolling, craggy moors to the cemetery gate.