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I'm a Dutch guy from the South Side of Chicago, and I am turning into a reptile day by day.
Gallery www.justanobserver.com/
Blog www.juzno.com/
© 2014 Rob Castro
Model: BMG Vancouver - Brittney A
Assistant: Janaye K
Hair & Make Up by Me
Styling & Creative Concept by Me
Photography & Post Processing by MeFollow me on Twitter : www.twitter.com/flo_bela
FFX 2008 © florbela's fotographix
Each time an inspiratior of mine celebrates birthday or dies I make them a portrait.
Felicidades Frida Kahlo July 6, 1907 – July 13, 1954
Watercolor, embroidery, collage on paper 29cm x 49cm
intagram loanaibarra
facebook www.facebook.com/LIM.LoanaIbarraMazari
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
of a leaf - the smaller things in a big city.
Seen on Pali Hill, Bandra.
Other infrequent, moody, temperamental uploads here.
One of the most amazingly peaceful places I've visited. I was initially skeptical about going there because it seemed over-hyped and tourist-y; but the relaxed atmosphere and sparse crowd (during the off season, winter) was great. Spent the afternoon shooting there. It is remarkable how important the area still is on the hippie trail; evident by the large numbers of westerners dressed in that fashion. I did think that I too was attracted to the place for the same reasons that brought them there: just a very calm, easy place to experience. And the accessibility from Dehradun is great: a 1.5 hrs drive.
Photo info: HDR from 3 exposures, hand held.
More images: Facebook page.
Each time an inspiratior of mine celebrates birthday or dies I make them a portrait.
Emiliano Zapata 8 August 1879 – 10 April 1919
Watercolor, embroidery on paper 29cm x 49cm
intagram loanaibarra
facebook www.facebook.com/LIM.LoanaIbarraMazari/
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
Hasselblad 500 CM + Planar 80mm + Kodak Portra 800
© Luís Campillo 2015
Model Vanesa García. www.facebook.com/vanesagarcia.artistavisual
There are writers who describe the world, and then there are writers who quietly replace it. Jorge Luis Borges belonged to the second kind.
You could say Borges was born in Buenos Aires, but that would only be the beginning of the story. He was born again in every library he entered, every mirror he distrusted, every labyrinth that refused to lead anywhere except back to the reader. He understood something that our age has tried very hard to forget: that art does not need to shout in order to exercise power. Sometimes a sentence is enough. Sometimes a footnote is enough. Sometimes a man invents a book that never existed, and suddenly the real books look suspicious.
Borges liked the infinite, but he didn't worship it. He examined it like a jeweler examining a counterfeit diamond.
Take the labyrinth.
Everyone loves a labyrinth because everyone likes to imagine that somewhere inside it there is a secret. But Borges understood the more disturbing possibility: perhaps the labyrinth is the secret. Perhaps there is no center. Perhaps the desire to arrive at the center is simply another trick played by the architecture.
And then there are the mirrors.
Borges didn't trust mirrors because mirrors are too confident. They tell you, This is you, when all they really know is how light behaves. Art can do the same thing. It can present an image and call it truth. It can give us a beautiful surface and ask us not to look underneath.
Borges looked underneath. He also looked sideways, backwards, through the corner of his eye. He knew that a story could be more truthful when it pretended to be a lie. He knew that a fictional encyclopedia could tell us more about the world than an encyclopedia pretending to be objective. He knew that a library could contain every possible book and still fail to contain the one sentence we actually needed.
That's the joke of infinity: it gives you everything and guarantees nothing. And Borges, who became blind, spent his later years inhabiting perhaps the most Borges-like condition imaginable. The man who had written about infinite libraries could no longer read them. The keeper of mirrors could no longer see his reflection. The cartographer of labyrinths had to navigate by memory. But blindness did not make Borges less visual. It made the imagination more dangerous.
There is a tendency to turn Borges into a monument: the distinguished old photograph, the silver hair, the serious expression, the respectable Argentine genius. But monuments are another kind of labyrinth. They freeze the artist into something harmless. Borges was never harmless. He proposed that authorship itself might be unstable. He made Shakespeare, Cervantes, Dante and imaginary scholars appear like characters in the same enormous conspiracy. He treated literary history not as a museum but as a hall of mirrors, where influence could travel backwards and the dead could somehow write the living. This is where Borges becomes especially uncomfortable for the contemporary art world. Because contemporary culture often insists upon novelty while producing variations of the same object. Newness becomes a credential. The artwork arrives carrying its own explanation, its own theory, its own certificate of importance. We are told what it means before we have had the chance to discover whether it means anything at all.
Borges would probably have enjoyed the joke.
He knew that the label can become more elaborate than the thing being labeled. He knew that commentary can consume the object it claims to illuminate. He knew that a bibliography can become a work of fiction. But he also understood that beauty does not require permission from theory.
A knife in a tango. A street at dusk. An old map. A tiger. A courtyard. A remembered face. These things can contain more mystery than a thousand declarations of conceptual importance.
And so, somewhere today, Borges is still walking. Perhaps he is walking through a library with no exits. Perhaps he has found the book that contains every book. Perhaps he has opened it and discovered, on the final page, a sentence describing a blind Argentine writer sitting alone in a room, imagining a reader who would one day come looking for him. And perhaps that reader is you. The record ends.
The labyrinth doesn't.
ink, watercolor on marbled paper
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
—
1964
I
Ya no es mágico el mundo. Te han dejado.
Ya no compartirás la clara luna
ni los lentos jardines. Ya no hay una
luna que no sea espejo del pasado,
cristal de soledad, sol de agonías.
Adiós las mutuas manos y las sienes
que acercaba el amor. Hoy sólo tienes
la fiel memoria y los desiertos días.
Nadie pierde (repites vanamente)
sino lo que no tiene y no ha tenido
nunca, pero no basta ser valiente
para aprender el arte del olvido.
Un símbolo, una rosa, te desgarra
y te puede matar una guitarra.
II
Ya no seré feliz. Tal vez no importa.
Hay tantas otras cosas en el mundo;
un instante cualquiera es más profundo
y diverso que el mar. La vida es corta
y aunque las horas son tan largas, una
oscura maravilla nos acecha,
la muerte, ese otro mar, esa otra flecha
que nos libra del sol y de la luna
y del amor. La dicha que me diste
y me quitaste debe ser borrada;
lo que era todo tiene que ser nada.
Sólo que me queda el goce de estar triste,
esa vana costumbre que me inclina
al Sur, a cierta puerta, a cierta esquina.
//1964, Jorge Luis Borges
—
1964
I
The world is no longer magical. They have left you. You will no longer share the clear moon
nor the slow gardens. There is no longer a
moon that is not a mirror of the past,
a crystal of solitude, a sun of agonies.
Farewell to the hands that were once joined, and the temples that love brought close together. Today you have only faithful memory and deserted days.
No one loses, you repeat in vain,
except what he does not possess and has never possessed, but it is not enough to be brave to learn the art of forgetting.
A symbol, a rose, tears you apart,
and a guitar can kill you.
II
I will no longer be happy. Perhaps it does not matter.
There are so many other things in the
world; any random instant is deeper
and more varied than the sea. Life is short,
and although the hours are so long, a
dark wonder lies in wait for us,
death, that other sea, that other arrow
that frees us from the sun and the moon
and from love. The happiness you gave me
and took away must be erased; what was everything must become nothing.
Except that I am left with the pleasure of being sad, that vain habit which inclines me
toward the South, toward a certain door,
toward a certain corner.
//1964, Jorge Luis Borges
Self Portrait - Pieces of Me
Photography, MAU, Hair & Post Processing Done By Me - Florbela : FFX © Florbela's Fotographix
Roughly 18"x 18". Prismacolor Colored pencil, Liquitex black gesso, Golden CP Cadmium Red Dark Acrylic on Light purple Fabriano Tinzano paper.
"Juana la Loca. Johanna den vansinniga. Joanna the Mad. Loana la Loca"
100cm x 112cm
Painting on canvas. Acrylic, collage, embroidery, mexican oilcloth. Gold and silver details shining and making new patterns according to where the viewer stands.
So, who's Juana la Loca?
Juana of Castile a/k/a Juana la Loca, known as Joanna the Mad (November 6, 1479 -April 12, 1555) was Queen of Castile 1504-1555. Juana became a widow at 26 and remained in captivity until her death. Juana's "madness" has often been disputed; she may have been locked up for political reasons only. Either way, she was a passionate woman, who fell madly in love with her handsome husband "Felipe el Hermoso" and continued to caress him even after his death. It is told she refused to hand over the coffin with Philip's corpse, which she regularly opened to ascertain that Philip just slept. She did not speak to anyone for 46 years. Juana died at the age of 75. She became unusually old for her time.
Juana y Loana bit.ly/1adz9ok
Why the Jaguar?
The jaguar, also called Felis Onca, was one of the most important animals in the Hispanic worldview. Since ancient times the Aztecs, Mayans, Olmecs represented men with characteristics of felines. One of the most respected and revered animals of ancient Mexico, was the jaguar, this carnivore, for its strength, beauty and presence shocked the ancient peoples. In the Mayan culture, the jaguar was named Balam, or Chac Chac Mool and was a symbol of power. People who used jaguar clothing was a person of authority in society, usually represented in the codices. The Sun God (Ak Kin), was transformed into a jaguar to travel at night through the world of the dead. The mottled skin of this beautiful feline represents the stars.
The Doors third studio album released 1968 “Waiting for the Sun” doesn't carry the apocalyptic fever dream of “Strange Days”. Instead, it settles in quietly, almost deceptively, asking you to notice the spaces between the notes as much as the notes themselves.
Funny thing about the sun. Everybody spends their lives waiting for it, but once it shows up they start looking for shade. That's how this album feels. The title promises daylight, but most of these songs happen somewhere between dawn and dusk, when shadows still have something to say.
By the summer of 1968, rock music had become crowded with prophets. Every band seemed determined to explain the universe in four minutes or less. The Doors took another route. They made uncertainty sound seductive. Jim Morrison wasn't simply singing songs; he was playing the part of a wandering narrator who'd read too much poetry, stayed awake too many nights, and found that dreams often made better maps than facts.
The remarkable thing is how democratic the band had become. Ray Manzarek's keyboards no longer serve merely as atmosphere; they become architecture, building cathedrals from electric organ tones. Robby Krieger contributes some of his finest songwriting, offering melodies that soften the band's darker instincts without diminishing their mystery. John Densmore plays like a jazz drummer who wandered into a rock band and decided not to tell anyone. His restraint is often the loudest thing on the record.
"Hello, I Love You" is usually remembered as the hit, and fair enough. It's bright, immediate, and impossible to shake once it gets into your head. But history sometimes mistakes popularity for importance. The deeper rewards lie elsewhere. "Love Street" opens a window onto a quieter Morrison than legend would have you expect. It is domestic without becoming ordinary, romantic without collapsing into sentimentality. "Summer's Almost Gone" drifts like the last warm evening before autumn, while "Wintertime Love" compresses melancholy into barely two minutes, proving that brevity can sometimes leave the deepest impression. “Not to Touch the Earth” well, what can I say? Run with me (if you dare). "Spanish Caravan” by Robby Krieger has an outstanding flamenco guitar intro which showcases his talent on the flamenco guitar, an instrument he started playing when he was 17. Then there is "The Unknown Soldier." Like a Goya painting. Few rock singles of its era dared to stage war as theatre, complete with execution, silence, and resurrection. Released while television brought Vietnam into the U.S.A’s living rooms each night, the song blurred the line between protest and performance. Rather than lecture, it unsettled. And then comes "Five to One." If there is a storm gathering on this record, that's where the clouds finally break. The riff is primitive and relentless, Morrison's vocal half sermon and half street-corner challenge. In retrospect, it sounds less like the end of an album than the opening chapter of the harder, blues-driven direction the band would pursue afterward.
From a historical standpoint, “Waiting for the Sun” occupies an unusual place in The Doors' catalogue. Critics have often treated it as a transitional work, neither as revolutionary as the debut nor as unified as “L.A. Woman”. Yet transitional records are frequently where artists reveal themselves most honestly. They're caught between identities, trying on new clothes while still wearing yesterday's shoes.
What gives this album its lasting power is its refusal to settle into a single mood. Psychedelia brushes against pop craftsmanship. Blues meets chamber-like delicacy. Romance sits beside anxiety. The music never quite decides whether it's celebrating the moment or mourning its passing. That's probably why it still feels alive. Great albums don't freeze time—they remind us that time keeps moving. Every summer eventually becomes almost gone. Every parade disappears around the corner. Every revolution becomes somebody's memory. But every so often, you pull a record from the shelf, lower the needle, and discover the sun was never really the point. It was always the waiting, the anticipation, the long stretch between darkness and light where imagination does its best work.
And maybe that's the quiet triumph of “Waiting for the Sun”. It isn't the loudest statement The Doors ever made. It doesn't need to be. Like the best conversations, it reveals a little more of itself every time you come back, years later, wondering if the music has changed, only to discover that it's you who has.
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Self Portrait - Pieces of Me | Photography, MAU, Hair & Post Processing Done By Me - Florbela : FFX © Florbela's Fotographix
Follow me on Twitter www.twitter.com/flo_bela
Facebook www.facebook.com/pages/FFX-Florbelas-Fotographix-/6386064421
CUEVA 2022 @ AES (MetzeSchmelz) - Chiara Dahlem
The Cueva collective has as line of conduct, to artistically occupy places, intended to demolition or rehabilitation.
The invited artists have total freedom in their expression.
This year, 32 artists have invested the main alley of "Metzeschmelz" and will revive this former steel plant, closed since the end of 2012.
Chiara Dahlem: www.chiaradahlem.com/
Metze Schmelz: lb.wikipedia.org/wiki/Metze_Schmelz
ARBED-Esch-Schifflange (AES): www.industrie.lu/UsineEschSchifflange.html
ARBED: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ARBED
Peter Hudson, a featured visual artist at Phases of the Moon Music and Art Festival, created Charon. Charon is a life-sized three dimensional stroboscopic zoetrope focusing on the last rite of human passage, death. It features a gigantic spinning wheel with posed human skeletons mounted on its inner edge.
Touring the patagonia... on Route 40 heading for Calafate we came across a beautiful valley with an amazing sunset. Taken in Argentina near the end of the world.
Model: Alba Hervás
All photos by Marta Nørgaard ©
www.facebook.com/martanorgaardphotography - www.instagram.com/martanorgaard
In the end, when all the despair, anger, grief, tears, anxiety has been released, finally, I find the energy to remind myself:
“Nothing external to you has any power over you.”
― Ralph Waldo Emerson
Neither does my past and all the abuses.
www.facebook.com/michelle.robinson.images.and.art/
IG @ @simply.mich.robinson / @mich.robinson
i really like these bears
i tried to keep them simple and the texture on the leaves helps the bears stand out
i love animals and nature and cant wait to share some new illustrations with everyone on flickr