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Installation shot from the exhibition "Ectopia" @ Rogaland Kunstsenter. Curated by Geir Haraldseth. jan 29 - march 1.
OSWA (OneStrokeWaterArt) w/ Uniquely Re-Purposed Optic Playback "Brush" MRI (MysteryRepeatsItself)--The World's First 'Bowhammer' Cymbalom CD On A Selfie-Stick For San Francisco BayFlare Pareidolia (SciFi, Alien, Surreal, Mythic & Celestial Faces, Figures & Abstract Form-Streams--(Real-TimeSpace Existence Duration: Less Than A Second--Cloud-Uploaded? Quasi-Permanent 'Posterity'--From Anchored Raft--L-Hand Lifting "Sumthin' In The Water Brought-To Light, R-Hand SnapShot
MAIN GALLERY CURATION IN PROGRESS (From Thousands)
Well now, here’s a little story for the all-day travelers, the dashboard drummers, the coffee-cup philosophers, and the people driving nowhere special beneath a moon or a sun that looks like it’s been up too long. Today we celebrate a kid from Los Angeles named Ritchie Valens. Oh yes, Ritchie Valens.
Now that’s not the name he was born with. Sounds like a movie star who kisses dames in alleyways while saxophones play somewhere upstairs. No. He came into the world as Richard Valenzuela, and like a lot of people, he sanded the edges off his name so it could fit easier into jukeboxes and radio introductions. The music industry has full of names shortened for the convenience of neon signs.
He was seventeen years old. Yes. Seventeen. At seventeen most people are still deciding whether they want to be cowboys, poets, mechanics, or fugitives. But this kid already had one foot in eternity and the other on a Fender guitar.
You know, rock and roll in those days was like finding electricity in the barn. Nobody knew what to do with it. It jumped fences. It scared the church people. It made your parents stare at you like you’d joined a traveling circus. And out there in California, with the airplane factories humming and the highways stretching like black rivers through orange groves, this Mexican-American kid plugged into that current.
And then came “La Bamba.” Now “La Bamba” wasn’t born in Hollywood. That song had dust on its boots long before radio got ahold of it. Folk music always travels farther than the people who own it. It crossed oceans, crossed languages, crossed kitchen tables. And Ritchie Valens took that old Veracruz folk tune and shot it into outer space on a backbeat. That record sounds young. Not immature, but young. There’s a difference. Young like chrome on a ‘58 Chevy. Young like the first Friday night after school lets out for summer. Young like somebody believing the world’s actually gonna keep its promises.
And then there was “Donna.” Not “La Bamba,” not the wild dance halls and the spinning hips and all that teenage electricity. No, “Donna” was something else entirely. A slow song. A lonely song. The kind that sits beside you after everybody else has gone.
Donna sounded like winter lights through a lonely cafe. Just a kid singing about a girl he couldn’t quite hold onto, stretching her name out like it might keep her from disappearing. And my father, well, every time he played that song, he’d change the words. Not Donna. Loana.
Oooh Loana Oooh Loana…
My name drifting through the speaker instead.
Like fathers sometimes do, quietly rewriting the world so it belongs a little more to the people they love. And for a few minutes, that old song from the fifties stopped belonging to the vinyl player and teenagers in letterman jackets. It belonged to our kitchen, our car rides, our family. That’s what songs do. They travel through strangers until they become personal. Until one day you realize somebody has stitched your own name into the melody.
Ritchie Valens’ voice had that hopeful urgency. Like he knew the clock was moving faster for him than for everybody else.
You ever notice how some singers sound like they’re singing from the middle of their lives, and others sound like they’re singing from the edge of a cliff? Ritchie sounded like the second kind.
Then came that winter tour. The buses were breaking down. Musicians freezing in the Midwest. Coins rattling in pockets. Bad food. Worse roads. The whole sad carnival of American music rolling through snowstorms trying to make enough money to stay alive another week. And somewhere in Iowa, they flipped a coin for a seat on a little airplane.
A coin toss. That’s the kind of thing fate likes. Fate doesn’t usually come through the front door. It slips in through tiny decisions. A quarter spinning in the air. And suddenly the kid was gone.
Along with Buddy Holly and The Big Bopper, lost in that frozen dark over a field that didn’t know it was about to become part of American mythology. People later called it “The Day the Music Died.” But music never dies. That’s the whole point. The people leave. The songs stay leaning against the wall waiting for the next lonely person to need them.
And somewhere today, somebody’s hearing “La Bamba” for the first time. Maybe at a wedding. Maybe from a passing car. Maybe through a kitchen radio with bad reception. And they don’t know they’re listening to a seventeen-year-old kid who never got to grow old enough to hear the legend people made out of him.
Funny thing about rock and roll — sometimes the shortest echoes last the longest.
watercolor, ink on paper
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
Ann investigates visual memory and the traces of human activity embodied within objects. In creating this installation she has deconstructed the elements that dominated her previous wall paintings and re-imagined them in contrasting sculptural forms that have a solid, physical presence free of constraint. The whole is presented as a puzzle challenging our visual perception.
mail@amsutton-visualartist.com
We're proud to be part of Mogo's artist series cards. The Mogo Card is a load up and use credit card to help people control their spending. We've created two illustrations for Mogo. The whole process took over a year because of our work load and timing. The artist series cards are a limited run of only 5000 per card so get yours today.
My interview with Mogo VISA:
blog.mogo.ca/chairman-ting-interview-mogo-card/#.UyQPrWRdViz
March 14 2014
Franklin Edward "Frank" Kameny a US gay rights activist and deemed one of the most significant figures has died at the age of 86. Kameny was dismissed in 1957 from his position as an astronomer in the Army Map Service because of his sexuality, leading him to begin "a Herculean struggle with the American establishment" that would "spearhead a new period of militancy in the gay rights movement of the early 1960s". Kameny protested his dismissal and argued this case to the United States Supreme Court in 1961. Although unsuccessful in his petition, it was notable as the first civil rights claim based on sexual orientation. In 1963 Kameny launched a campaign to overturn sodomy laws and became the first openly gay candidate for the United States Congress, personally drafting a bill that finally passed in 1993.
A Glitch "Stuprum Maleficis (μάγισσες) ~ Ètude II”
This art piece were created for my PhD and based on a Digital and Analog Aesthetic Research on "Artistic Practices, Digital Art in Social Networks and Net Art", some digital techniques used of artistic diversity, such as the re-mixed appropriation of image or video, also work conceived as original data work called creative altered binary code, datamoshing, generative art and glitch art worked in all its forms and expressions; works of art with a strong focus decoding the i-frames of images and videos (also known as key frames and altered or distorted creative binary code) mixed with seductive techniques of Pixelsorting Art; making it seem extremely sensitive and abstract; created exclusively for the virtual gallery on-line.
by ™℗®© Louis M o n t i e l
NFT Crypto Digital Art
Marketplace on qurable.co : Buy, Shell & Explore Digital Assets
app.qurable.co/c-louis-montiel
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Steve Chapman the 58 year old American columnist on National affairs published an article on Reason Magazine titled ‘Chinese Communists No Longer Put Much Stock in Communism - China has gone from Mao to 'money worship.' In the article Chapman states “Mao was dedicated to class struggle and the elimination of property. He created a totalitarian society in which everyone wore the same clothes, chanted the same slogans and—as far as anyone knew—thought the same revolutionary thoughts. Mao's "new man" was barely recognizable as human. Purported to be selfless, tireless, austere and indifferent to pleasure, he lived for the revolution alone. Skeptics mocked these subjects as "blue ants," for their drab, uniform dress and unquestioning obedience. But that way of life is extinct and apparently un-mourned… Not that communism is entirely dead. The party remains in firm control of the government, and many enterprises are partly state-owned. Party committees operate in corporate workplaces, where they play the odd role of celebrating those who diligently serve the interests of shareholders. …Even Communists no longer put much stock in communism. Today, it's the consumer who rules, and it's buying and selling that dominates economic life. Mao's visage still dominates Beijing's Tiananmen Square, but his people seem to have more in common with Calvin Coolidge. …it's clear that the business of China is business.” Inspired by Reason ow.ly/bzGhP image source Washington Examiner ow.ly/bzFYH
Paul McCartney.
Some people arrive at the station, and some people build the tracks. Paul McCartney was one of those guys laying down rails while everyone else was still arguing about where the train ought to go.
You hear a lot of things said about him. Folks call him a craftsman, a perfectionist, a melody merchant. Sometimes they say it like it's a compliment, sometimes they say it like it's an accusation. There was a time (about 32 years to be exact) I wasn't sure what to make of him myself. From a distance, he seemed almost too polished, too certain of his gifts, too eager to steer the ship. The kind of guy who always had an answer before anyone else had finished asking the question. Maybe that's why I thought he was pretentious.
Then I watched “Get Back”. And suddenly the picture changed. There he was, not sitting on a throne, not handing down commandments from a mountain, but standing in a room full of uncertainty, half-finished songs, cold mornings, cigarettes, jokes, and deadlines. While everyone else seemed lost in the fog, McCartney was the one striking matches.
You can actually see it happen. The engine sputters, the wheels hesitate, and he's the one leaning forward, hand on the controls, putting gas on the pedal. Not because he wanted to dominate the band, but because somebody had to keep the thing moving. Somebody had to believe there was another song on the other side of the silence.
It's easy to mistake momentum for ego. But watching those sessions, what looked from afar like control started looking more like responsibility. The burden of being the guy who couldn't stop caring. The guy who woke up every morning determined to drag a miracle into existence, whether anyone else felt like making one that day or not. And maybe that's one of the lonelier jobs in music.
The Beatles weren't just four musicians. They were four directions of the compass pulling against each other. John had the storm clouds, George had the horizon, Ringo had the heartbeat. Paul was the engine room. The rhythm of work itself. The belief that inspiration isn't something you wait for—it's something you chase down the street until it finally turns around and introduces itself. That's what I saw in “Get Back”. Not a pretentious man. A working musician. A believer in songs. A guy trying, sometimes desperately, to keep the lights on in one of the greatest bands the world has ever seen. And when you watch closely, you realize that some people aren't pushing because they want attention. They're pushing because they can already hear the music coming down the tracks.
That’s McCartney.
ink, watercolor on paper
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
A rare exquisite piece of art in the the sky that evening at Carter Road, Bombay.
See more panos on my Facebook page - Vivek R. Singh: Visual Artist.
A Glitch "Izanami(イザナミ)(deam morte) ~ Ètude I”
by ™℗®© Louis M o n t i e l
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My processing skills are a lot better than they were a couple years ago; so I worked this old one over for a better result.
The original upload from June 2010 below for comparison.
More images: Facebook page.
Portrait Andreas B. Vornehm: Autor, Betreiber des des Kreativbüros für Texte und visuelle Kommunikation "MINI-KASHUGI", Grafik-/Webdesigner, Herausgeber des Berlin Kurzgeschichtenheftes "Storyatella"
©crazyneopop All Rights Reserved. This image is not available for use on websites, blogs or other media without explicit written permission
© crazyneopop Alle Rechte vorbehalten. Dieses Bild ist nicht für den Einsatz auf Websites, Blogs oder anderen Medien ohne ausdrückliche schriftliche Zusage
Original Caption: 2/26/27-New York: Photo shows Marcel Duchamp well known artist who is taking back to Paris the sculptures by Constantin Barcusi which the Federal Customs appraisers recently declared were not art and therefore taxable for 40 0uty. BPA2 #1832
Portrait of Henri Matisse (1869-1954), French painter and sculptor whose works include the mural Dance II at the Barnes Foundation in Pennsylvania.
You know, applause is a funny thing. It arrives all at once and disappears just as fast. Like summer rain on hot pavement. Like a flower scent fading into the night. Like the final class of flamenco before the long dry season.
The guitars have gone quiet now.
For months, there were three days every week marked by the steady beat of heels on wood. Three days a week, about seven hours of practice, compás, sweat, frustration, triumph, and the eternal search for that one turn that always seemed to arrive a fraction of a second too late. And then suddenly, the last class. The last braceo. The last "otra vez." The last glance in the mirror. The last applause. Not the thunderous applause of a sold-out theater. No, something rarer. The applause of fellow dancers and your own. People who know exactly how many repetitions, sore muscles, missed concerts, and stubborn corrections are hidden inside a single minute of dance. The season closes its curtain.
Yesterday there were seven hours a week. Today there are zero. Zero hours. Zero classes. Zero excuses to wear the shoes that somehow know more secrets than the feet inside them. Until September. September! A month hanging out there on the horizon like a distant town seen from the window of a slow-moving train. Between now and then lies a strange territory. A wilderness of Tuesdays without alegrias. Thursdays without farrucas. Weekends without hearing someone say, "Harder! Slower! Clean it up."
Some people call it summer. For a flamenco student, it feels suspiciously close to hell. Not the fiery kind. The quieter kind. The kind where you hear phantom palmas in the supermarket and start marking footwork while waiting for the kettle to boil. But that's how these things go. The applause fades. The studio empties. The dust settles. And somewhere beneath the silence, the rhythm waits. Because compás is patient. September will come. The shoes will come out of the closet. The guitars will wake up. And the first class back will feel like finding an old friend standing exactly where you left them. Until then, I hold on to that final applause. It wasn't goodbye. I guess it was simply an intermission.