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art rotterdam 2016, art fair, van nelle factory, detroit house, artist: ryan mendoza
A home from Detroit is being demolished and shipped in containers to Europe. The home will be reconstructed at the main entrance of Art Rotterdam so visitors can experience the impressive installation by visualartist Ryan Mendoza, a world première.
circa 1965, Manhattan, New York, New York, USA --- Andy Warhol Looks Adoringly at Edie Sedgwick --- Image by © Steve Schapiro/Corbis
Some exploring of the retro styles of Indian poster making.
And yes that is a Charles Bronson ticker tape down there. It's just there.
More images: Facebook page.
alternativehealing, artist, bohemian, couple, curitiba, dairyfree, digital, drawing, drinks, filmmaker, foodmedicine, foods, fruits, gypsy, healing, healingfoods, healthychoices, herbal, herbs, hippie, homecooked, homemade, hopscotchers, LOVE, lovers, naturalmedicine, naturopathy, nomads, plantbased, reviews, spices, tips, travel, travel couple, travelling, tricks, vegan, vegetables, vegetarian, videos, visual artist, witchesbrew #Insta-Posts
hopscotchers.org/vegan-mayonaise-soft-tofu-vegetable-oil-...
Curious onlookers at the python enclosure, Byculla Zoo / Rani Bagh / Victoria Gardens or as it is now known, Veermata Jijabai Bhonsle Udyan.
Other street work HERE.
1946, Tokyo, Japan --- A Japanese tattoo artist works on the back of a woman. --- Image by © Horace Bristol/CORBIS
A Glitch "Voluptas (ευχαρίστηση) ~ Ètude I
From my PhD and Research about "Artistic Practices, Digital Art in Social Networks & Net Art"
#visualartist #digitalart #digitalwork #glitchart #glitch #pixelsorting #glitchartistscollective #glitch #photo #photoart #art
"Tic-Tac" 19cm
Acrylic, mixedmedia on cork.
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Imagine a dialogue of live video art, contemporary music instruments, scent and performance art. A group of Greek artists from different disciplines come together for one single and unique performance, acting and reacting to their senses. You are invited to experience the Monologue Dialogue with your eyes, ears and nose.
www.mediamatic.net/en/page/368174/monologue-dialogue
Photographer: Margherita Soldati
Kehinde Wiley the 35 year old American portrait painter, who is known for his highly naturalistic paintings of contemporary men in heroic poses has been profiled by Ben Davis for ArtInfo as ‘How the Artist Painted Himself Into a Corner With His New Works’. Davis states “Wiley’s much-hyped… series of large oil-on-linen paintings in the same near-photorealist, mock-baroque style that made Wiley famous in the first place, though this time depicting African-American women (instead of men) who have been cast from the streets of the Bronx and Queens, each of them clad in frothy couture made for their sittings by fashion designer Riccardo Tisci, in poses inspired by works from the Louvre. …his big breakthrough during a residency at the Studio Museum in Harlem, where he decided to cast young men off the street and paint them in the heroic terms of royal portraiture. The result was a clever merger between street style and postmodern painting. It’s a good formula. Possibly too good. It suggests intelligence (in the art-historical references) and social conscience (in the focus on the African-American community), but is also neither particularly hard to digest nor particularly confrontational. …On some level, Wiley is aware that he is a prisoner of his own success. He has tried to change things up …[but] did exactly the same thing…”Inspired by Ben Davis ow.ly/bWbwm image source Facebook ow.ly/bWbuj
3 days, Aroma is here!
Hurra!
She was born on a Friday just in time for celebration and weekend for life.
Her name is Aroma because she popped out with flowers all over her, they are still growing, and she smells just like a nice warm summer day.
Mmm, I wanna go back.
She wants me to tell you that she has the ability to look at you through her flowerish eyes and see you as a big field beautiful flowers, the real you.
Aroma is a mask alive, a collector.
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big size bit.ly/1OsJ4gS
On Monday, December 19th, we partnered with Lenovo computers to build out the ultimate art-themed smackdown. Hosted at Villain in Williamsburg, guests stepped into a fully imagined warehouse art party. That night it was all about participation. We created a series of art activities to get guests making art and meeting each other. Guests captured the revelry of the night in Ventikoland’s projection photo booth. After some savory Espolón cocktails and tacos the art battle was ready to begin. 2 amazing artists competed head-to-head in a series of timed challenges and a head-to-head battle of creative awesomeness. Interludes were provided by a pop & lock round girl, battling breakdancers, and a duo of beatboxers.
Event Design by Adam Aleksander Presents
Photography by Lukas Maverick Greyson
A Glitch "Prodigiosum Contortion(σύσπαση) ~ Ètude V”
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
~ FOLLOW ME & SUBSCRIBE ~
Instagram ~ louismontielt
Facebook ~ Louis Montiel
YouTube ~ Louis M o n t i e l
Vimeo ~ Louis M o n t i e l
#visualartists #glitchart #glitch #glitché #pixelsorting #glitchartistscollective #glitchvideo #datamosh #digitalglitch #nfts #hyperspektiv #minimalart #videoart #dfkt #pixelsorter #artistsvisual #nftart #glitchartscollective #glitcharts #nftartist #glitchartwork #glitchartisdead #glitchartists #nftcommunity #nft #glitchartist #pixelsortingart #nftartists #creativecodeart #glitchportrait
I spent 10 days in Berlin ( late 2021). It was INCREDIBLE. So much brilliant and powerful street art.
D607_148
26/09/2011 : Jersey City, NJ, Liberty State Park: Empty Sky (New Jersey September 11th Memorial) (Jessica Jamoz, Frederic Schwartz, 2011)
D843_013
08/04/2017 : Le Puy-Sainte-Réparade, Château La Coste : exposition Mountains and Seas (Ai Weiwei)
All Fingers Must Point Down
"*!\SERIOUSLY/!*EXCEED The "Courage" Of Your Restrictions. Your Own Inner Light Alone Is The Only KEY. Shine Through, Shine oN. Early Adopter, Late Bloomer--DON'T Let THIS NAO PASS Into Never SAW What It Came To MEAN...That You Completely SEE..."--Wyatt Matturs--(OneStrokeArtWater) MRI (MysteryRepeatsItself) The World's First Bowhammer Cymbalom CD "Radically Repurposed" For Surreal Form, Spectral Figure, & Haunted Face-Lift From 'Flared' Bodies Of Water (Sea, Lake, Creek, Puddle) StillorMoving
MAIN GALLERY CURATION IN PROGRESS (From Thousands)
Meyer's description of the creative process behind Adam and Eve and Friends. Full story found at www.jennycutlerlopez.com
Javier Sicilia the 56 year old Mexican poet, journalist and activist who launched a grassroots movement with aims to end the ‘War on Drugs’ after his 24 year old son was murdered by a drug cartel, has been interviewed by Connor Guy and Umar Farooq for The Nation magazine. Sicilia states “Cartels have a lot of bosses. We are talking now about fifteen cartels [in Mexico]. And they have multiplied since President Calderón’s [2006 military] strategy to make war on them. …A path to peace is to change the national security law to a human law for peace. And the allowance of regulated drug use, because its not a national security issue, it's a public health issue, and attacking drug abuse is causing a tremendous harm to the country. …The US has forbidden drug use, which should be a public health issue. And then they set up for us this war. Over $2 billion have been invested in this war [on drugs]—mostly for guns, for weapons and military intelligence. …if we can get support from the media, we would be able to put this on the politicians’ agendas, because it’s a problem in the US and Mexico. It’s a bi-national problem. Not only that, it is a continental problem, and if we are really serious, it is a world problem.” Inspired by The Nation ow.ly/bJ8I6 image source Twitter ow.ly/bJ8Gb
LIfe Through the Glass by Charlotte Hughes-Martin
Residency:
Corbett Hospital
Stourbridge
Maker: Charlotte Hughes-Martin
The Stourbridge residency took place at the Corbett
Hospital, named after the original benefactor William
Corbett, the glass manufacturer. Glass artist Charlotte
Hughes-Martin collected family memories of the local
glass industry from visitors to the hospital and then
engraved them onto glass objects which they could take
away. She and Robyn Smith also taught engraving skills
to members of the public.
Making Moves, Creating Futures for Craft
Making Moves is a West Midlands craft development initiative
involving four regional partnerships, led by Staffordshire County
Council and Craftspace, a Birmingham based craft development
organisation. The project consisted of nine craft residencies
which took place in community settings between September
2011 and July 2012, culminating in a touring exhibition.
The nine makers were challenged by residencies in unusual
workspaces - including a hospital, a pub and a park visitor
centre - which acted as sources of inspiration to develop ideas
for new work. They worked with local communities, offering
making workshops that were high quality, inspirational and in
some cases, life-changing. The exhibition showcases new work
by the makers in response to their residency setting, as well
examples of tools, materials and work created in the community
sessions.
The project also provided opportunities for nine crafts graduates
who supported the community making sessions as well as
receiving mentoring from the resident maker. They were given a
small bursary towards the development of their practice and
have also created new work for the exhibition.
Making Moves aimed to provide valuable opportunities for
learning. Makers gave masterclasses and lectures to Higher
and Further education institutions as well as talks to the wider
community. They wrote about the residency experiences on a
project blog, as well as coming together for regular networking
sessions.
To find out more about the project visit www.makingmoves.org and the
Makers’ Residency Blog www.makingmoves.posterous.com
Photos by Becky Matthews
Jean Cocteau was the kind of man who treated reality as if it were a hotel lobby: pleasant enough, but not somewhere you'd want to spend the night. Some people make paintings. Some people write poems. Cocteau seemed to wake up each morning wondering how many art forms he could inconvenience before lunch.
There's an old rule that if you do too many things, history won't know where to shelve you. Cocteau answered by setting fire to the library. He drew with the confidence of someone signing a check on another bank. He wrote novels that dreamed they were mirrors. He made films where statues breathed, mirrors liquefied, and death behaved less like an ending than a maître d' showing guests to another table. Today we'd call it multimedia. Back then it was simply refusing to stand still long enough for critics to pin a label on him. The twentieth century loved artists who suffered publicly. Cocteau preferred immaculate suits. That alone made people suspicious.
Modern art often survives by persuading you that confusion is depth. It erects a monument to ambiguity, hires a publicist, and invoices the taxpayer. Cocteau played a different game. He understood that mystery is not the same thing as obscurity. A magician who spends twenty minutes explaining that his trick cannot be understood is probably hiding empty sleeves. That's the difference between enchantment and institutional prestige.
Cocteau knew style was not decoration; it was velocity. A line drawing by him arrives before you've finished looking at it. It doesn't ask permission from theory. It doesn't require a curator to translate it into sociology. It either lives or it doesn't. Today, that confidence can seem almost offensive. Somewhere along the road, art criticism decided that beauty was naïve, craftsmanship was suspect, and intention mattered less than political utility. The artwork became an excuse for the wall text. If the explanation is better than the object, you've entered the museum gift shop of ideas. Cocteau would have smiled at that. Not because he rejected intellect. Quite the opposite. He distrusted the bureaucracy of interpretation. He knew symbols should travel light. Once they require committee approval, they stop being symbols and become paperwork. His collaborations tell their own story. Give him dancers, composers, actors, aristocrats, boxers, addicts, saints, opportunists—he found use for everyone. The twentieth century often looked like a masquerade. Cocteau understood the masks better than the faces. Maybe that's why his work still feels strangely alive. It doesn't explain itself. It seduces, disappears around a corner, leaves a cigarette burning in an ashtray, and expects you to follow. There's something almost unfashionable about that now.
We live in an age that demands artists provide user manuals. State your position. Announce your moral credentials. Declare your trauma. Publish your methodology. Include references. Cocteau simply handed you a key and pointed toward a mirror. Whether you walked through it was your responsibility. That's a dangerous proposition. Not politically dangerous. Imaginatively dangerous. Because imagination can't be audited. And perhaps that's why Jean Cocteau remains difficult to classify. He wasn't building a movement. He wasn't manufacturing theory. He wasn't auditioning for sainthood. He was making beautiful traps—objects designed to catch the moment when certainty slips and wonder sneaks in through the side door.
Some artists leave masterpieces. Cocteau left a passport.
ink, watercolor on paper
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Well now, settle back in, because today we celebrate a mixed up story. Jean Genet. He didn’t just come out of nowhere, he came out of orphanages, reform schools, prison yards, and borrowed rooms where the wallpaper knew more secrets than the neighbors ever would. France tried to erase him early on, but Genet took that erasure and turned it into ink. He wrote like a man carving his name into a cell wall, slow and deliberate, knowing the guards would read it later. He had a way of crowning the uncrowned. Thieves, traitors, hustlers, sailors leaning on the rail at dawn, Genet looked at them and saw ceremony. Not the kind with flags and brass bands, but the kind that happens when two people recognize each other in the dark. His novels and plays don’t clean anyone up. They make dirt sacred, make shame glow. That’s why they still feel dangerous. Genet didn’t want justice; he wanted intensity. He wanted to go all the way to the edge and lean out just far enough to describe the view.
Somewhere along the road, Genet crossed paths with Alberto Giacometti, another man obsessed with the human figure, but for different reasons. Genet wrote The Studio of Alberto Giacometti like it was a love letter slipped under a locked door. He didn’t talk about sculpture the way art critics do, measuring angles and influences. He talked about Giacometti the way you talk about a man you’ve watched wrestle with ghosts. Those long, thin figures, Genet saw them as survivors, scraped down to their essence, like prisoners who’ve lost everything except the fact that they’re still standing. In Giacometti’s studio, Genet found a mirror of his own work. Both men were stripping life to the bone, refusing decoration, refusing lies. Genet said Giacometti wasn’t trying to make people beautiful he was trying to make them real. A body reduced until it could no longer pretend. That’s Genet all over. Whether he’s writing about a murderer, a lover, or a statue frozen in dust and light, he’s asking the same question: what’s left when you take everything else away?
So when you read Genet, or stand in front of a Giacometti figure, don’t expect comfort. Expect recognition. Expect that quiet moment when you realize the distance between saint and criminal, flesh and spirit, art and life, it’s thinner than you were told.
Now, we can’t pass through this tell without mentioning the poems, the ones that made polite society reach for the volume knob and twist it hard to the right.
Genet’s poems are soaked in sex the way a back alley is soaked in rain and cigarette smoke. Sex for him wasn’t decoration, and it sure wasn’t romance-card stuff. It was power, danger, worship, humiliation, glory, all tangled together like bodies in the dark where you can’t quite tell whose hand is whose. These poems don’t flirt. They stare you down. They say: this is what desire looks like when it refuses to behave. A lot of poets use sex as metaphor. Genet used metaphor as sex. Every touch, every look, every act becomes a ritual, almost religious. And that’s the real scandal, not the flesh, but the holiness. He wrote erotic poems the way medieval monks wrote about God, except Genet’s God wore boots, smelled of sweat, and might rob you blind before morning. In his lines, lust isn’t the opposite of purity; it is purity, stripped of excuses. You’ve got to remember the time he was writing in, too. To write openly as a gay man, to center desire that society had already labeled criminal, was itself an act of rebellion. Genet didn’t argue for acceptance. He didn’t ask for tolerance. He doubled down. He made outlaw desire ceremonial, almost royal. In these poems, the body becomes a flag raised in enemy territory.
There’s also tenderness there, even when it’s buried under provocation. A kind of aching devotion. Genet knew that sex exposes people faster than confession ever could. In those moments, masks fall off, hierarchies wobble, and the truth slips out. That’s what he was after, not shock for shock’s sake, but revelation. The moment when desire tells you who you really are, and maybe who you can’t escape being. So if those poems make you uncomfortable, that’s part of the program. Genet believed discomfort was honest. He’d probably say if you’re blushing, you’re paying attention.
—
Le Condamné à Mort
SUR MON COU sans armure et sans haine, mon cou
Que ma main plus légère et grave qu'une veuve
Effleure sous mon col, sans que ton cour s'émeuve, Laisse tes dents poser leur sourire de loup
O viens mon beau soleil, ô viens ma nuit d'Espagne, Arrive dans mes yeux qui seront morts demain.
Arrive, ouvre ma porte, apporte-moi ta main,
Mène-moi loin d'ici battre notre campagne.
Le ciel peut s'éveiller, les étoiles fleurir,
Ni les fleurs soupirer, et de prés l'herbe noire
Accueillir la rosée où le matin va boire,
Le clocher peut sonner : moi seul je vais mourir.
O viens mon ciel de rose, ô ma corbeille blonde!
Visite dans sa nuit ton condamné à mort.
Arrache-toi la chair, tue, escalade, mords,
Mais viens! Pose ta joue contre ma tête ronde.
Nous n'avions pas fini de nous parler d'amour.
Nous n'avions pas fini de fumer nos gitanes.
On peut se demander pourquoi les Cours condamnent
Un assassin si beau qu'il fair pâlir le jour.
Amour viens sur ma bouche! Amour ouvre tes portes!
Traverse les couloirs, descends, marche léger,
Vole dans l'escalier plus souple qu'un berger,
Plus soutenu par l'air qu'un vol de feuilles mortes.
O traverse les murs; s'il le faut marche au bord
Des toits, des océans; couvre-toi de lumière,
Use de la menace, use de la prière,
Mais viens, ô ma frégate, une heure avant ma mort.
//Jean Genet, 1942
—
LET YOUR TEETH sink their wolfish grin
Into my tender and defenseless neck whose back
My hand lighter and more solemn than a widow
Strokes under my collar without your heart being moved.
O come my handsome sun,
O come my Spanish night,
Come into my eyes that will be dead tomorrow.
Come, open my door, give me your hand,
Lead me far from here to wander our countryside.
Let the sky awaken, the stars blossom,
Let the flowers sigh, the bells sound,
And the black grass greet the dew that morning will drink
In the fields: as for me I'm going to die.
O come my rosy sky,
O come my blond basket!
Come visit in his night your man sentenced to death.
Rip your flesh, kill, climb, bite,
But come! Come put your cheek against my round head.
We hadn't finished speaking of love
We hadn't even finished smoking our cigarettes.
It's a wonder how the courts could sentence
A murderer so fair that he makes day grow pale.
Love, come to my mouth! Love, open your door!
Walk through the halls, come down, walk softly,
Fly down the stairs, more agile than a shepherd,
Sustained in the air better than a flight of dead leaves.
O go through the walls; if need be, walk along the edge
Of the roofs, of oceans; cover yourself with light,
Use threats, use prayer,
But come, O my frigate, one hour before my death.
//Jean Genet, 1942
ink, watercolor on paper
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