One Nice Bug Per Day
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Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
taylor price
Kaledo Art
Andulka
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
occasionally subtle
DEAR READER
#extradirty
pixel skylines
tannertan36
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Product Placement
shark vs the universe
Jules of Nature
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@futuristicallytenaciouscollector
In the Pause between the Ringing, is now Live on Steam!
You can play it for free on Windows, Mac and Linux :
https://store.steampowered.com/app/1048570/In_the_Pause_Between_the_Ringing/
Originally built for #designplaydisrupt at V&A, it is a ghost story about telephone mining in colonial India.
Announcing a new story from Somewhere!
Our latest game, In the Pause Between the Ringing will be playable at the Design Play Disrupt exhibition, at V&A on Friday the 25th January.
https://www.vam.ac.uk/articles/play-videogame-commissions
The telephone rings in many languages. [Or a brief note on the translation of unspoken words.]
The whole of Agra smelt of cheap adhesive gum, for the ancient walls of its Katras had been plastered over with posters and declarations in anticipation of a protest march. No surface remained bare and no wall untended by splatterings of glue and newsprint flyers that leaked saffron ink onto the surfaces they were stuck to.
This bleeding and oozing spectacle of leaflets was the signal for shopkeepers and guides, trinket sellers and merchants to wind their wares and storefronts, and find refuge in barricaded shops and houses. A signal of their exit from stage leaving the streets momentarily empty, in deference to the impending violence.
I stood outside Mehran Kitab Ghar, bewildered by the sudden evacuation of the lane. A liquid fear curling in my belly. And here deep within the heart of Sikandar Lodi’s capital, where the air was stretched taut with the promise of a riot, I discovered the writings of Mir UmarHassan.
Left besides a runnel abutting the bookshop, along with broken tubelights, sheets of tarpaulin and old periodicals, was a stack of thin freshly printed books. Perhaps it was the crisp lettering and careful print in defiance of the shoddy posters that decorated the walls around me; or perhaps it was simply an irrational lunge at whatever lay at hand amidst my blinding fear. But I scooped up the books in my arms and hammered at the door of the bookstore begging them to let me in. ‘Let me in I am carrying books you forgot outside, books of great value.’ I shrieked 'You will rue the day you discarded such precious fare’ I cried not knowing what I was holding in my hand, simply convinced of its inherent value.
’Chodo usee Sahib raddi hai (Leave them be Sahib they are worthless) cried someone from inside before hauling me bodily into a narrow doorway. I let the books fall in a cascade and slumped on the floor. By now I could hear the strident drumming of footsteps and the forerunners of the mob on motorcycles.
As I lay awake listening to the sounds of the riot that day, I read the book I had rescued from the street,
A collection of historical essays, by Mir UmarHassan. And it began with a remarkable passage. that even as I read, in a desperate attempt to keep the desolation of the riot at bay, echoed longer and more plaintively than any wailing that emanated from the door besides which I crouched in fear that night.
To be complete is to be enclosed. To find yourself contained within the margins of your own body and the boundaries of collective reason. To be complete is to be able to see an edge to history.
Mir UmarHassan sought completion and it defied him. His search for the territorial boundary of time so polluted his ability to tell stories that they all remained mere fragments, some long, some short and some just shards of text hastily written to subsist.
Broken essays in tawdry paperbacks and patrikas. Incomplete novels which his exasperated editors, wrote various endings to. Newspaper articles and radio plays, dialogues in scripts for disreputable films and slogans for street plays and advertisements. Such is the oeuvre of UmarHassan. A legacy of fragments in defiance of the unifying mandate of his time, or perhaps a reflection of the fissures beneath this mandate.
The project therefore of reclaiming his works for consumption by people confident in their own boundaries, and satisfied by the definite shape of their bodies and their countries - has inevitably proven difficult.
Scattered across languages, translated and polluted, copied and reprinted the various writings impose such a burden of discovery on the intrepid researcher or translator, let alone a pair of videogame authors - that we have only been able to piece together a minor handful of essays in the time we have spent collecting his writings.
Moreover, of these restorations, much is invented.
Details that were lost to time or circumstance have had to be recreated. Authors for languages we are not proficient in have had to be entrusted with conveying to us, (like a strange continent spanning game of telephone), what a particular passage means. Alternate texts have had to be ruthlessly discarded and often an arbitrarily assigned original copy must be assembled from material that has evidently lost any flavor of authenticity.
Until we are almost certain that we have inevitably created a Mir UmarHassan of our own.
A coherent author who nonetheless so differs from the actual that he has become a character subject to his own writings. In many ways it is this fictitious UmarHassan that we have come to regard as the original author of the works we are translating, whose writings we find meaning in and whose history we plumb for profundities.
It is also perhaps this UmarHassan, this artificial interlocutor, that we are adapting here.
A phantom text written by the memory of an author who does not exist.
For it is always in the act of such hauntings that the enterprise of retrieval and translation is conducted.
Like an an illegal crossing of body and language across territories and time. A process that often leaves us porous and susceptible to the various histories of our lives.
Studio Oleomingus,
January 2019.
Announcing a new story from Somewhere!
Our latest game, In the Pause Between the Ringing will be playable at the Design Play Disrupt exhibition, at V&A on Friday the 25th January.
https://www.vam.ac.uk/articles/play-videogame-commissions
The telephone rings in many languages. [Or a brief note on the translation of unspoken words.]
The whole of Agra smelt of cheap adhesive gum, for the ancient walls of its Katras had been plastered over with posters and declarations in anticipation of a protest march. No surface remained bare and no wall untended by splatterings of glue and newsprint flyers that leaked saffron ink onto the surfaces they were stuck to.
This bleeding and oozing spectacle of leaflets was the signal for shopkeepers and guides, trinket sellers and merchants to wind their wares and storefronts, and find refuge in barricaded shops and houses. A signal of their exit from stage leaving the streets momentarily empty, in deference to the impending violence.
I stood outside Mehran Kitab Ghar, bewildered by the sudden evacuation of the lane. A liquid fear curling in my belly. And here deep within the heart of Sikandar Lodi’s capital, where the air was stretched taut with the promise of a riot, I discovered the writings of Mir UmarHassan.
Left besides a runnel abutting the bookshop, along with broken tubelights, sheets of tarpaulin and old periodicals, was a stack of thin freshly printed books. Perhaps it was the crisp lettering and careful print in defiance of the shoddy posters that decorated the walls around me; or perhaps it was simply an irrational lunge at whatever lay at hand amidst my blinding fear. But I scooped up the books in my arms and hammered at the door of the bookstore begging them to let me in. ‘Let me in I am carrying books you forgot outside, books of great value.’ I shrieked 'You will rue the day you discarded such precious fare’ I cried not knowing what I was holding in my hand, simply convinced of its inherent value.
’Chodo usee Sahib raddi hai (Leave them be Sahib they are worthless) cried someone from inside before hauling me bodily into a narrow doorway. I let the books fall in a cascade and slumped on the floor. By now I could hear the strident drumming of footsteps and the forerunners of the mob on motorcycles.
As I lay awake listening to the sounds of the riot that day, I read the book I had rescued from the street,
A collection of historical essays, by Mir UmarHassan. And it began with a remarkable passage. that even as I read, in a desperate attempt to keep the desolation of the riot at bay, echoed longer and more plaintively than any wailing that emanated from the door besides which I crouched in fear that night.
To be complete is to be enclosed. To find yourself contained within the margins of your own body and the boundaries of collective reason. To be complete is to be able to see an edge to history.
Mir UmarHassan sought completion and it defied him. His search for the territorial boundary of time so polluted his ability to tell stories that they all remained mere fragments, some long, some short and some just shards of text hastily written to subsist.
Broken essays in tawdry paperbacks and patrikas. Incomplete novels which his exasperated editors, wrote various endings to. Newspaper articles and radio plays, dialogues in scripts for disreputable films and slogans for street plays and advertisements. Such is the oeuvre of UmarHassan. A legacy of fragments in defiance of the unifying mandate of his time, or perhaps a reflection of the fissures beneath this mandate.
The project therefore of reclaiming his works for consumption by people confident in their own boundaries, and satisfied by the definite shape of their bodies and their countries - has inevitably proven difficult.
Scattered across languages, translated and polluted, copied and reprinted the various writings impose such a burden of discovery on the intrepid researcher or translator, let alone a pair of videogame authors - that we have only been able to piece together a minor handful of essays in the time we have spent collecting his writings.
Moreover, of these restorations, much is invented.
Details that were lost to time or circumstance have had to be recreated. Authors for languages we are not proficient in have had to be entrusted with conveying to us, (like a strange continent spanning game of telephone), what a particular passage means. Alternate texts have had to be ruthlessly discarded and often an arbitrarily assigned original copy must be assembled from material that has evidently lost any flavor of authenticity.
Until we are almost certain that we have inevitably created a Mir UmarHassan of our own.
A coherent author who nonetheless so differs from the actual that he has become a character subject to his own writings. In many ways it is this fictitious UmarHassan that we have come to regard as the original author of the works we are translating, whose writings we find meaning in and whose history we plumb for profundities.
It is also perhaps this UmarHassan, this artificial interlocutor, that we are adapting here.
A phantom text written by the memory of an author who does not exist.
For it is always in the act of such hauntings that the enterprise of retrieval and translation is conducted.
Like an an illegal crossing of body and language across territories and time. A process that often leaves us porous and susceptible to the various histories of our lives.
Studio Oleomingus,
January 2019.
Reworking an old game of ours (Menagerie) for display. This new version is called Bol.
Our next story from the world of Somewhere is called :
Under a Porcelain Sun.
And we are delighted to announce that it is being published by Irregular Corporation, and will be released on Steam later this year.
Meanwhile you can add the game to your wishlist : http://store.steampowered.com/app/532230/Under_a_Porcelain_Sun/
Our new game, about dismantling observatories is called An Indivisible Margin of Error. It will be playable at the When is Space exhibition at Jawahar Kala Kendra, Jaipur for the next three months.
Do come and visit if you are in town.
We just released a new game, It is called “a Museum of Dubious Splendors” .
You can play it for free on itchio :
https://studio-oleomingus.itch.io/a-museum-of-dubious-splendors
a Museum of Dubious Splendors, is a storybook from the world of Somewhere.
It is an adaptation of a series of essays written by Mir UmarHassan, a Gujarati poet whose works have proven notoriously difficult to translate because of the mellifluous use of Urdu and Hindi in his compositions.
We first encountered the writings of Mir UmarHassan in the archive room of the Sanghralaya at Matsyapur. Copies of his essays were bound together in ledgers and stored there, evidently unused and unread.
Of all his writings that we have assiduously collected over the past decade, it is his chronicle of Ruhan Nissa Parkes that fascinates us the most.
These stories entitled “in Dubious Splendor”, were written (in Gujarati) in nineteen sixty two for the Malwa Chronicle, but were mangled and edited without the author’s permission prior to their publication in serialized form. The collection of stories, became momentarily infamous as the subject of the first court case to arbitrate authorial ownership in Independent India.
Even today, despite countless restorative efforts by scholars, it cannot be said with with any certainty that the text that we used for this adaptation was the original as written by UmarHassan.
Hello! We are releasing a new game tomorrow. It is called :
a Museum of Dubious Splendors.
Hello! We are releasing a new game tomorrow. It is called :
a Museum of Dubious Splendors.
In the month of May in the year 1603, under the shadow of an annular eclipse, there occurred a strange gathering of astronomers. The purpose of this conference was to divine the cause of an inscrutable error that had plagued the celestial observations of those who had gathered.
Here, after much debate, it was decreed that nine observatories would be built. Each to a different scale and each adorned with different instruments of cosmic inquiry. Nine custodians were appointed, one for each observatory and they embarked upon the search for the smallest viable measure of an error. An unwavering quantum capable of retaining its innate algebraic property across subdivisions. A measure, or so they believed, of the building block of the universe itself.
This infinitesimally small measure, they called : truti.
Of the nine Observatories built, five were hidden amidst the Yantras of Maharaja Sawai Jaisingh’s creations, three others have been found in various states of decay, scattered across museums and places of worship. Only one remains unrecorded, the ninth and the largest Observatory.
It is this observatory that we search for on the plains of Nanku.
(Shajie)
We were teaching a course on games geographies, at School of Environment and Architecture (Mumbai), this last week. Here are some screens from the builds that we created there.
Built using : Sketchup + Unity.
(via https://soundcloud.com/shamoonismail/basanti?utm_source=soundcloud)
