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04 2019

The City of Attractions

Kike España and Gerald Raunig

The territory of the city is becoming a battleground of urban competition. Its effects: touristification and museification, gentrification and speculation, the destruction of evolved infrastructures and the displacement of residents, skyrocketing numbers of overnight stays and a worsening of labor conditions in the hotel industry, Airbnb fortresses and cruise ships that want to be cities and destroy cities. No longer just alienation in the society of the spectacle, but myriads of competing cities of attraction.

The city has always been the showcase of experiments with governmental forms. The name of the city is intertwined with rule over the condensed many, in different forms at different times and in different places.[1] In machinic capitalism, it is the government of machinic subservience, voluntary self-control, willing exploitation even of the last resources, not lastly of privacy and living space.[2] The territory of densified relationships is taken into service, valorized and made compliant. Up to the point that “the city is where life escapes.”[3]

But in the same cities or underneath/above them, there are also subsistential territories—territories in which things, machines, animals, and people actually ek-sist alongside one another and live together. They subsist in the subsistential territory. Sub-, as vague and diffuse as the Latin prefix. As dangerous and monstrous as the Underground Railroad or the subaltern. As subversive as Sub-comandante Marcos or the Under-commons. Beneath and around the subservient, valorized, compliant city, the subsisting will always have been. Something that subsists and is simultaneously resistant, refractory, incompliant.

And once we look more closely, the issue of attraction becomes ambivalent, too. Subsistential territories of all kinds, from the collective use of a casually repurposed park bench to the social machine between the balconies of buildings facing one another to the rhythm of the sociality of whole barrios: and while tourists and stereotype-people from “better” parts of the city, be they ultraconservative aesthetes or neoliberal “plastic people with plastic minds,”[4] disqualify entire neighborhoods as unattractive, shabby, or dangerous, things appear quite different for the residents.[5] In a chapter of Black and Blur entitled “Collective Head” (referring to Lygia Clark’s work under the same title), Fred Moten raises the question as if he were proceeding from outside: “How do people live in the absence of any point of attraction?” and then, “Is there something on the order of a life of attractions, which might be thought in relation to an architecture of attractions, a life and an architecture of attractions in the absence of any point of attraction?”[6] A life of attractions, an architecture of attractions underneath the city of attractions? Here, attraction indicates something quite different than the postmodern version of the totalizing image of the society of the spectacle: as that which is initially seen to be unattractive, repulsive, lacking any aspect of attraction, and which at the same time appears to its residents, precisely in the absence of attraction, why not: attractive.[7] As in Fred Moten’s reflection of Masao Miyoshi’s reflection on “the (anti-)aesthetic experience” of the peripheries of Taipei, Tokyo/Yokohama, and Seoul: they are “monuments to an accumulative drive that marks the derivation of the proper from the commune.” While a superficial gaze sees them as “drab, sprawling, unattractive working- and middle-class slums” they are at the same time “before that, in the double sense of before, the thing that underlies and surrounds enclosure.”[8] Outside of the urban enclosure, valorization, and appropriation, and in the absence of attraction, there is a dis/semblage of attractions that undergirds and surrounds the city of attractions. That is, as Fred Moten writes, “the city’s underconceptual, undercommunal underground and outskirts.”[9] Before and before, a sub-urb that was always already there and always already underneath and around the city, before and before the city.

In the subsistential territory our lived wealth is not valorized in that way, not appropriated in that way, not made compliant in that way. Our lived wealth, which is our common laughter, our heated discussions at the local bar, our careful listening, watching, sensing, with Marx, “all the capacities, pleasures, productive forces, etc. created through universal exchange.”[10] Or perhaps better phrased (sorry, Karl): through transversal exchange of similarly transversal intellects and affects. For us, in our lives, which are neither ubiquitous nor quotidian, but rather quotinocturnal, the mani-folded stirs every night. Something that—underneath and around it—subsists, insists, remains resistant, persistent.

Málaga Ciudad Genial, Compliant City

“Picasso is reinventing Málaga”—this is the local newspaper headline with which Rogelio López Cuenca began his talk at Casa Invisible, the self-managed social and cultural center hosting the conference “Picasso en la institución monstruo” (Picasso in the Monster Institution), of which the talk was part, in March 2017. This headline, from 2004, indicates the first effects of an operation of the compliant city, which consisted of constructing the “Málaga brand”—and later Málaga ciudad genial, or Málaga, the brilliant city—and began with the appropriation of the figure of Picasso by the city government and local agencies. Over the course of the next fifteen years, the brand would become the economic motor of all aspects of the city’s touristic attractions and the leitmotif of restaurants, bars, souvenir shops, real estate companies, and so forth. The image of the city was reconstructed with Picasso: the Málaga fair, the Holy Week, the bullfights, the university—Picasso now appeared in every emblematic location. The city’s efforts extended so far as to sell itself as a religious experience: a visit to Málaga should be a stroll into the artist’s innermost genius. The Picassification of Málaga and the Malaguenization of Picasso. Picasso as attraction and the city as amusement park.

This reinvention of Málaga is now reality, and it is clear that it neither started only in Málaga, nor just in 2003 with the inauguration of the Picasso Museum there. It is an enormously complex, long-term process, the current meaning of which is based on the important role that territory, the space of the state, had for the European and global tourism industry in the middle of the twentieth century, as well as the implementation of democracy, foremost in Spain but also elsewhere. Tourism as a mode of accumulation[11] was first developed by the dictatorship and then further advanced by the new geopolitical role of Spain in relation to the United States after the fall of fascism in the rest of Europe. The space of this new economic game was the entire state. The strategy of creating spaces for tourism accelerated with the beginning of democracy and the neoliberal project, as well as with entry into the European Union. This went hand in hand with the destruction of traditional industry and the implementation of the culture of financial and real estate profits, which the land liberalization law of 1997 and the new panorama of global financialization intensified. Cities and municipalities competed for increasing numbers of visitors, large construction projects, macro-events, touristic residential developments, and resorts, with all kinds of strategies that shape the network of political and private sector corruption as we know it today.

The urban consequences were enormous. The city became an additional commodity: the city as brand. In 2008, the intensity of construction and urban transformation was greater than ever before, and the highest numbers of visitors were reached. Then came the global crisis and the bursting of the financial-real-estate bubble, which swept through the social body and destroyed landscapes and lives throughout the country: zombie residential areas, real estate cadavers, cities without life. In the face of this bleakness, the financial vultures came back with more force, the ghosts of the past returned, but this time focusing the terror of profit maximization on rents rather than sales. These vultures used the absence of life to consolidate the creation of spaces for tourism, compulsory beautification for commercial purposes, the establishment of pedestrian zones as a lubricant mechanism for gentrification and redevelopment (or, more accurately, the destruction of everything that was old, which needs to give way for the new) of old and dilapidated buildings, which needed to make room for rental apartments for tourists: the model of compliance with the brilliant city has prevailed. Promising a unique experience to attract visitors, the tourist city becomes a shopping center (“mall-aga”),[12] and its products—the museums and Picasso—are a further piece of this whole infrastructure of touristic accumulation. The subtitle of the headline that Rogelio López Cuenca used for the opening of his talk clearly states, “The city center is turning into a ‘macro museum’ under the open sky.”[13]

The Picasso Museum was the first, but it was by no means the only one. A long list of openings followed, and what was opened here in truth was a subtle, devious, and simultaneously asocial mode of gentrifying entire city districts through the image of a cultural and modern city. These new cultural institutions functioned symbolically as the headquarters of the various real estate agents, as pilot-project museums in which the profitability and attractiveness of the neighborhood rather than the space of the museum building itself was the object of discussion. The most evident case is the opening of the Centro de Arte Contemporáneo de Málaga (CAC) in 2003, which served as the catalyst for “Operation Soho,” a process of planned gentrification that drew in a large number of well-known street artists who, in return for pay, contributed to the appreciation of the area and the displacement of residents who could not keep up with the heavily increasing rents. Today, Ensanche Heredia, which was renamed “Soho, Barrio de los Artes,” is the most expensive and inaccessible part of Málaga, which simultaneously tries to give the area a carefully luxurious image. This operation not only displaced former residents of the neighborhood, it also pushed out the entire social assemblage of sex workers who populated its streets. In the words of the mayor, Francisco de la Torre, who oversaw the operation, “The goals are to expand the Heredia port area into a space of cultural, business, and entertainment attractions for citizens and tourists, the extension and ease of access for pedestrians, the creation of alternative entertainment paths, and the transformation of the neighborhood’s image by creating a unique character.”[14]

A further example is the opening of the Museo Carmen Thyssen in March 2011 and the “Operation Entorno Thyssen” that accompanied it, whose clearest components had less to do with the museum than with an image campaign “for” the neighborhood surrounding the museum, which is directly in the city’s historical center. This was historically one of the least attractive areas of the city center: it had long held the image of a dilapidated zone, with all of the classic stereotypes of drug trade, prostitution, and danger. At the same time, it was an area full of neighborhood life, of local shops where unexpected encounters took place, a place for the curmudgeon, for people who usually don’t have a place, where an apartment was affordable, where it was possible to live. The campaign filled the area around the Thyssen Museum with pink flags featuring the museum’s logo and three words precisely illustrating the local government’s aims: “commerce, culture, tourism.” In little time, thanks to a number of subsidies for renting spaces (without necessarily having to do with art or culture), the area’s image completely changed, as if the cafeteria and souvenir shop of the museum were not enough to make the presence of the Baroness Thyssen’s collection profitable, as if it needed to be extended into its environment and the district needed to be transformed into a brand, into an additional part of (the image of) the museum. Art and culture were used in turn as attractors, mechanisms of the reinvention of the image of the city, which purify all of the life and its discontents and clear the way for accumulation.

The operations of attraction are becoming more and more diverse. “Operation Carretería”[15] and “Operation Lagunillas”[16] are in full swing with the aim of expanding the compliance of attractions into all corners of the city. This form of expanding compliance, which is always presented as necessary for the brilliant city, is an infinitely expandable list not only of museums but also of distractions, of amenities, in order to create endless attraction (endless appreciation, endless indebtedness, endless antisociality).

La Invisible as Unattractive Attraction, as Surround and as Real Assembly

Is there something beneath this image of the city? How can we intervene into this image of the city? Or, with a question Fred Moten has asked, “How do people live in the absence of that infinitely expandable list of ‘amenities’ figured as ‘necessary’?… What is this image of the thing [that is before the city] that happens when a limited form (the city of attractions and its attendant, etiolated notion of wealth and necessity) is stripped away?”[17]

That which subsists underneath the city, under the banner of the ciudad genial, takes place in many measures. In the middle of the development of new forms of domination in/of the city, parallel to or before and before its antisocial effects, social assemblages of all orders of size develop in the surround and from it. One example is La Invisible, for eleven years a self-managed sociocultural center in an occupied building in the middle of the thoroughly touristified, thoroughly museified center of Málaga, in the middle of the “Operation Entorno Thyssen” area. It is also a subsistential territory that was gravely threatened by the municipality this year with eviction.[18] What follows contains an attempt at collecting the conceptual components that together make up the unattractive attraction in the case of Casa Invisible:

1. “it effects a kind of inhabitation”[19] Even if it is practically impossible to live in La Invisible, it is the location of a form of dwelling, inhabiting, residing. Not living in individual houses, in isolated apartments, in rooms with no view, but living in a relocated living room where the common takes place, finds its place, becomes dense. La Invisible assumes the qualities of a living room that is neither private nor the fenced-in property of a community. An unraveling living room in the middle of the surround, an “(under)commune, against and outside and before the city.”[20] Living outside of the home means the reinvention of common “living,” an undercommon living, which extends beyond and beneath the form of collective living of the 1960s and 70s called the commune. Whereas in most experiments of that time the singularities were overruled by the totality (and sometimes by totalitarianism) of the community, the singularities in the particular inhabitation of Casa Invisible need not give up a thing. The space of in-habiting is an invisible outside of the city in the middle of the city, which can be characterized with Masao Miyoshi as “outside architecture,”[21] “an architecture outside of architecture.”[22]

2. At the same time, the “outside architecture” of La Invisible is an architecture of outsiders. “Outside as in before, of the attraction against attractions and amenities, of attraction in the supposedly unattractive, whose music is discomposed by the curmudgeon, the outsider, the metoikos, the fugitive, the exile, the hermit, the complainer.”[23] That is the second level of resistance against the city of attractions, against entornification—the mode of subjectivation that never allows itself to be content, that rebuffs, stands up and can gladly be unattractive: the grouch, the crab, the parrhesiast. Always complain, as Moten repeats Miyoshi’s motto, and especially when authority attacks you. And since the threat of evicting Casa Invisible was made, enough curmudgeons have stood up and affirmed the significance of the social center or personally called the mayor’s attention to it. It was sometimes a discomposed music that Francisco de la Torre was made to listen to, a droning groan, a clanking shrillness, a dysphonia, in which the grouches let out high tones.[24]

3. But the grouch is a much too individual figure of subjectivation; the richness of life in the subsistential territory is by no means individual aptitude, characteristic, property. The dividual production of desire is always before the production of individuals. It is exuberant, unwinding, overflowing; not limiting or referring to identity and fixed groups or communities: “The attraction of the unattractive moves in another ecology.”[25] What seems attractive is not in the eye of the observer, the attraction of the unattractive is not only a question of perception. It is about a relational form of attracting, of machinic envelopment, a totally different ecology. It traverses the mechanisms of brands and marketing, image and branding; it doesn’t comply with designated paths and zones, but rather creates its own channels according to its incompliant sociality. Dis/semblage is both: disobedience vis-à-vis the compliant city of attractions, and the new assemblage and its dividual lines of unattractive attraction.

4. The surround does not surround something, be it its identitarian-marketable core (Entorno Thyssen) or its adversarial fort (the municipality that besieges La Invisible, that shuts off the water, that threatens more and more with eviction). It goes through everything, it is transversal, enveloping. The surround is invisible, but sometimes its concrete traces and peaks can be seen. The surround of Casa Invisible recently proved itself, quite convincingly, in two large protest demonstrations in March and July 2018, which were impressive in quantitative terms (and this highlights not only the spatial aspect, but also an additional social surround), but even more so in quality and performative intensity, even in the midst of the flooding from the storm that surprised the first of the two. And the many small activities and actions and attractions of the last year were by no means limited to a core of activists. The diffuse surround of the subsistential territory comes together most densely with its infinite multiplicity, however, in the assembly: “the real assembly or assemblage that is present outside and underneath the city’s absence.”[26] When the city is absent or only becomes visible as a city of in/exclusion via citizenship, as a compliant city, as a city of attractions, the presence of the dis/semblage is actualized primarily in the assembly, the real assembly, as Marx already called it[27]—concretely, in the hundreds of assemblies that took place throughout 2018 at La Invisible. There, in patient dealings and encounters, in the middle of radical inclusion, affirmative gestures, emotional involvement, patience and a capacity to insist, the surround unfolds above, below, and around the city of attraction.

Surviving/Subsisting under the Everyday Image of the City

In Málaga, the image of the city is (the image of) Picasso. Rogelio López Cuenca’s and Elo Vega’s processual work Surviving Picasso shows this very well. The official narrative is so strong that the everyday of the city and its image has not only taken on the attractions of the brilliant city and its endless amenities; it has also given rise to a dimension of precarity in the everyday that touches on existence as survival/experience. Survival/experience as the neoliberal prerogative of “every man for himself whatever the cost,” and at the same time as an existence that feeds on specific experiences, on experiences that can be consumed on the market offered by the (image of the) city.

Beneath this image, deep below, in contact with the shade and the chiaroscuro of every bar that closes,[28] every neglected neighborhood, every night that grows late, every morning when one wakes at night, moving through all of this light-and-dark there is another everydayness that is endured not thanks to the hard light of day and its breathtaking attractions, but rather subsists in the softness of the night, in the queer-feminist care of the undercommons, in the sociality of the surround, in the “nightlife which ain’t no good life,”[29] in the everynight life. This everynightness has to do with the night, with every night, with everynight life, but it is not only to be understood as a question of the time of day or the amount of light. It has more to do with another way of understanding time, presence, and clarity. It is those who invisibly preserve the streets and their lives before the day begins, but also those who conspire in the background when the night breaks in, in order to subvert it. Everynight life surrounds the false image of the city in order to unsettle it. It is always there, before and before the city, around the attractions that attempt to destroy it.

In Rogelio López Cuenca’s and Elo Vega’s work, surviving is not only a question of survival/experience. It is much more. Surviving here is connected to that which subsists and is simultaneously resistant, insistent, and persistent in relation to the city and the city’s image. Surviving Picasso means going beyond and beneath (the image of) Picasso, before and before the city, to move with that which subsists underneath the attraction of the survival/experience of Picasso. Everynight life is that which survives everydayness, the dazzling clarity of the brilliant city. “Operation Soho” was a clear and unequivocal attempt to eradicate everything that did not fit into the image of the brilliant city. The sex workers were enemy of the state number one, the city government issued a municipal order against them and banned street prostitution, displaced them into the suburban commercial areas, criminalized their activities and marginalized them more and more. Rogelio López Cuenca and Elo Vega composed an intervention around the narrative of the city and its image informed by (the image of) Picasso with reference to Picasso’s Les Demoiselles d’Avignon of 1907, a work that had become famous as a representation of the marginality of prostitution and its dark sides. The poster created in connection with this, featuring some of the Demoiselles d’Avignon and the slogan “Spantalo, because you deserve it,” referred to the brothel “Scandalo” and its well-known slogan “because you deserve it”: the brothel that is frequented by “honorable men” who don’t want to be seen drew the hypocrisy of their actions against the sex workers into the foreground of public discussion, where the mere presence of sex workers appears grotesque to those same “honorable men.” “The old source that never runs dry: the exploitation of the image of the excluded … the whore we only want when she is frozen in the frame of the museum, silent, passive, turned into a topic by the artist and his genius.”[30] The next and even more interesting stage of the intervention involved a protest by sex workers in which they used the faces of the Demoiselles d’Avignon as masks and underscored that Picasso had not hesitated to take a stand for their cause. The action undermined the settled discourse (of the image) that judges them for making life down below unsettled, for their everynight life. At the same time, they deployed the body in their intervention by day, showed the faces that were otherwise not visible outside of the museum and the brothel. The everynight scandal went out into the street in the form of horror—a dis/semblage in normalized everyday life.

Everynight life subsists under the false image of the brilliant city, the vulnerable sociality of night workers who take on a risk not only because they expose their bodies every night on the street, but also because they are followed by the police who watch over every flight from normalized everyday life. The night workers are an expression of the undercommons, attacked by the hardness of the everyday (image of the) city, because they attempt to survive/subsist the everydayness of the brilliant city. An unending multiplicity of social machines join them, which subsist in everynight life—as the Zapatistas remind us, anonymous life that comes from afar but has no future, dispossessed in the surround of every night. Everynight life inhabits a rebellious subsistential territory, it wants everything for everyone, and at the same time it wants to have nothing, as in the words of Subcomandante Marcos during the long night of 500 years: “We were born of the night. We live in the night. We will die in her.… For us pain and anguish, for us the joy of rebellion, for us a future denied, for us the dignity of insurrection. For us nothing.”[31] Self-dispossession as an antidote not only against dispossession but also against self-possession, against any production of the own, the proper, from property to identity. That is, once again with Fred Moten, “the critique of possession that only the dispossessed can make,”[32] and which we can recognize even in Picasso’s painting, surely not because of his genius, but because a reappropriation of subsistent everynightness and its image flashes through it, which is present every night in the streets, around and beneath and before and before the city of attractions.



[1] For this reason it is probably also advisable to not speak too euphorically about reclaiming the city (consider the praiseworthy movement for the “right to the city,” whose name, however, is doubly problematic—in its focus on the juridical as well as in the uncritical uptake of the construct of the city).

[2] Consider the practice of the partial giving-up and pulling-back from the private apartment in the business model of Airbnb. See, for example, Christian Berkes, ed., Welcome to Airspace (Berlin: Boto Press, 2017).

[3] Fred Moten, Black and Blur, (Durham: Duke University Press, 2017), 191.

[4] Thanks to Gil Scott-Heron for this fitting phrase—today even more so than in the 1970s. And it still rings true: “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised.

[5] For real estate speculators, the same parts of the city can be the hottest financial attractions.

[6] Moten, Black and Blur, 188.

[7] For another diverging interpretation of attraction in the context of the Soviet avant‑garde of the early 1920s (especially Sergei Tretyakov and Sergei Eisenstein, “Theater of Attractions” and “Montage of Attractions”), see Gerald Raunig, Art and Revolution (Los Angeles: Semiotext(e); MIT, 2007), 149–62: “Theater Machines against Representation: Eisenstein and Tretyakov in the Gas Works.”

[8] Moten, Black and Blur, 187.

[9] Ibid.

[10] Cited in ibid., 185.

[11] Ivan Murray, Capitalismo y turismo en España. Del “milagro económico” a la “gran crisis (Barcelona: Alba Sud, 2015).

[12] Gerald Raunig, “Casa Invisible Is Here to Stay,” Transversal (blog), July 2018,

[13] This isn’t far from Brian Holmes’s illustration of the last of three steps by which the museum expands into the city nearly fifteen years ago. See Brian Holmes, “A Rising Tide of Contradiction. Museums in the Age of the Expanding Workfare State,” Transversal (blog), April 2004, “Imagine a six-story multiplex with reception and ticketing facilities, cinemas, conference and performance halls, media and information centers, libraries, book and gift shop, cafeteria, restaurant/bar and, of course, exhibition galleries: it's the Pompidou Center in Paris. Distribute these functions inside a huge enclosed courtyard, with multiple buildings and all the attractions of an architectural promenade: it's the MuseumsQuartier in Vienna. Scatter them further within a renovated city whose traditional festivals and contemporary intellectual life can be reprogrammed as events in a tourist calendar: it's the entire municipality of Barcelona. The welfare states may be shrinking, but certainly not the museum. The latter is rather fragmenting, penetrating ever more deeply and organically into the complex mesh of semiotic production.”

[14] “El Soho de Málaga, más cerca,” La Opinión de Málaga, February 10, 2011,

[15] The calle Carretería is where the effects of the professionalization of Airbnb can best be seen (Raul Sánchez and Ana Ordaz, “Un tercio de la oferta de Airbnb en España está en manos de propietarios y empresas con más de 5 pisos,” El Diario, August 26, 2018, This has occurred as financial-real-estate companies purchase entire buildings in order to put them to use for tourism, and as a heterogeneity of local businesses is replaced by the plastic homogeneity of the infrastructures of touristic accumulation (luggage lockers, segways, laundromats, muffins, etc.). Touristic exploitation is not only the vacating of residencies (replaced by touristic living spaces) but also the exploitation of labor as labor rights are vacated and precarity is extended—as, for example, presented here: SOV-Málaga, “El conflict laboral con la empresa Brunch,” CNT Málaga,

[16] In the case of the Lagunillas operation, we can observe a more classical process of gentrification, in which an area is not maintained, allowing it to deteriorate and attract the creative classes to revalorize the territory, and later expelling those who revalorize the land. Although in this instance, it is not exactly the case that the creative classes have been drawn in directly, but rather the existing community has expressed itself on the neighborhood walls, and as the speculative pressure has risen, the messages have become more and more politicized. See Álvaro Ruiz, “Barrial Geographic: Technecology and parody in practices of resistance against gentrification in Lagunillas (Málaga),” Transversal (blog), March 2018, and Gerald Raunig, “Technecologies: Milieus, Midstreams, Subsistential Territories,” Transversal (blog), March 2018,

[17] Moten, Black and Blur, 188.

[18] See Raunig, “Casa Invisible”; “La invisible se queda” (communiqué), La Invisible, October 28, 2017,; Amanda Romero, Eduardo Serrano, Ignacio Wilson, and Kike España (La Invisible), “Invisibilizar la censura y otros peligros,” Diario Sur, July 15, 2018,; “¡Se paraliza el desalojo, se abre una vía de diálogo!,” La Invisible, n.d.,

[19] Moten, Black and Blur, 190.

[20] Ibid., 191.

[21] Ibid., 190.

[22] Ibid., 191.

[23] Ibid., 191.

[24] Performative intervention by Casa Invisible during the closing ceremony of the Málaga Film Festival in April 2018 with the song “Gallo negro, gallo rojo” (Black Rooster, Red Rooster) by Chicho Sánchez Ferlosio: Public shaming of the mayor of Málaga at the convention center in August 2018: Fandango by the “invisible superheroines” at Málaga City Hall during a protest demonstration against the eviction on June 19, 2018:

[25] Moten, Black and Blur, 191.

[26] Ibid.

[27] Cited in ibid., 185: “the commune, on the one side, is presupposed in-itself prior to the individual proprietors as a communality of language, blood, etc., but it exists as a presence, on the other hand, only in its real assembly for communal purposes.”

[28] Isabel Bellido, “El declive de la noche alternativa en Málaga,” Diario Sur, August 5, 2018,

[29] Moten and Harney, The Undercommons, 19.

[30] This text is part of Rogelio López Cuenca’s and Elo Vega’s project Surviving Picasso.

[31] EZLN, Fourth Declaration of the Lacandon Jungle, January 1996:

[32] Moten, Black and Blur, 192.