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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
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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
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.
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.
Another detail from the artist's studio. Steina is the artist I will be featuring in this year's issue of the H2O Guide.
Giorgos Christides the 36 year old Greek Freelance journalist and Economics editor discusses his experiences in his austerity ridden homeland for a BBC magazine article titled “Greece brain drain 'wrecking my social life'” Christides states “As the queues of jobless Greeks grow, more and more young people are moving abroad. …The trend is not limited to 30 and 40-something professionals, but is spreading to younger age groups as well. According to the latest national polls, more than seven out of 10 young Greeks aged 18 to 24 believe that emigration is the ideal - indeed the only - way out from the crisis. Two out of 10 have already applied for jobs and university places abroad. …[Greece] considered an economic wasteland for ambitious young students and graduates, who are now suffering from unemployment rates in excess of 50%. Workers' and students' mobility has been, of course, one of the landmarks and major achievements of European integration. But it is now evolving into a medium-term death sentence for the ageing Greek society and economy. …In an era characterised by intensified global competition for talented, innovative and highly-skilled workers, the brain drain afflicting Greece means the country is losing its best hope of revival. Viewing your country as a dead-end and a prison is therefore a more daunting and condemning prospect than defaulting or exiting the euro." Inspired by BBC ow.ly/c4X0R image source linkedin ow.ly/c4WZ6
Hunter S. Thompson has been reduced to a costume by people who mistake velocity for direction. Aviator glasses, cigarette holder, whiskey, a convertible somewhere in the desert. It is one of the more successful acts of cultural taxidermy: preserve the hide, discard the animal.
The real Thompson was not addicted to chaos. He was addicted to clarity, and clarity often required driving straight into the machinery while everyone else was content admiring the paint. His journalism was not an escape from reality but a refusal to let reality disguise itself as objectivity. Objectivity, after all, is a lucrative product. Institutions sell it the way luxury brands sell exclusivity: expensive, polished, and available to anyone with enough money. Thompson understood that every newspaper, every campaign, every corporation carried an aesthetic before it carried a fact. He simply refused to pretend otherwise. That refusal has become strangely unfashionable.
We live in an age where outrage is manufactured with industrial precision and rebellion arrives pre-packaged, sponsored, and optimized for engagement. Even dissent has become a subscription service. Thompson would have recognized the machinery immediately, though he would probably have laughed at how cheaply it now operates. The art world offers a similar spectacle. Every decade announces its latest revolution, carefully escorted into climate-controlled galleries by investors and publicists. A banana becomes an asset. An empty gesture becomes a manifesto. Language inflates until criticism itself resembles advertising. The market no longer waits to absorb rebellion; it commissions it in advance. Thompson distrusted that kind of choreography. Not because he rejected experimentation, but because he despised fraud dressed as courage. Style without consequence bored him. Provocation without risk was merely interior decoration.
His greatest subject was never drugs, politics, or excess. It was power's astonishing ability to convince intelligent people that absurdity is normal. Elections, wars, television, celebrity, finance—they all depended upon the same invisible agreement: if enough respectable voices repeat a fiction, eventually it acquires the posture of truth. His answer was neither neutrality nor ideology. It was immersion. Enter the carnival, describe every grotesque detail, and trust the reader to notice that the clowns are writing legislation.
Today his image circulates more efficiently than his ideas. He has become an icon for people who enjoy the romance of disorder but have little appetite for confronting institutions that manufacture it. That is the final irony. The man who spent his life exposing the counterfeit has himself become a collectible.
The cigarette holder survives. The sunglasses survive. The caricature survives. The dangerous questions remain largely untouched.
ink, watercolor on paper
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
In February 2006 Craig Tracy opened the PaintedAlive Gallery in his home city, New Orleans, La, USA. PaintedAlive is the first gallery in the world dedicated exclusively to fine art Bodypainted images. But where did his passion for using the human body as a canvas start?
READ ON...
There are some men who write books, and there are some who spend their whole lives trying to become one. Ernest Hemingway belonged to the second camp. Before the first sentence was written, there was already a performance underway: ambulances in Italy, cafés in Paris, marlin in Cuban waters, lion country in East Africa. Every stop another verse in a song that sounded older than the man singing it.
Funny thing about boxing. It's the only conversation where silence lands harder than words. Two people agree to stand in a square and discover what remains after style runs out. Hemingway understood that. He boxed in Paris with friends and fellow writers, often in improvised gyms and smoky rooms where the canvas smelled of sweat and old ambition. He wasn't a professional, and no record books celebrate his jab, but he trained seriously enough to know that the first lesson isn't how to throw a punch—it's how to take one without surrendering your balance. That rhythm found its way into his prose: short combinations, no wasted movement, no flourish after the bell.
People say his writing is simple. That's like saying a stone is simple because it doesn't apologize for being heavy. Simplicity is expensive. It asks the artist to remove every decorative excuse until only structure remains. Whether that's honesty or branding depends on where you're standing.
Hemingway built a public image the way some sculptors build monuments: with repetition. The fisherman. The hunter. The war correspondent. The boxer. The man who could outdrink the night and still wake before dawn to write. It was a masterpiece of self-curation long before the word "branding" entered polite conversation. The myth became so polished that many readers stopped asking where the literature ended and the advertisement began.
Yet myths have curious habits. They begin as masks and eventually become mirrors. Behind the broad shoulders and broken noses of his heroes there is often someone measuring fear in teaspoons, wondering how dignity survives when strength no longer does. The loudest reputation concealed a remarkably quiet obsession: grace under pressure isn't about winning; it's about refusing to become smaller than the moment. Maybe that's why his boxing matters. Not because he was a great fighter, but because the ring became an editing room. Every unnecessary movement was punished. Every hesitation carried interest. Every clean punch resembled a clean sentence: economical, direct, impossible to misunderstand.
Late at night, if you imagine the old typewriter keeping time like a speed bag, you can almost hear it. Tap. Tap. Pause. Another round. Another page. Somewhere outside, the world keeps inventing noise. Inside, the iceberg theory keeps going, one man tries to answer it with fewer words than anyone thought possible.
ink, watercolor on paper
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
Sandra Gonzalez-Bailon the Spanish Sociologist editor of the OII-edited journal Policy and Internet. Gonzalez-Bailon specializes in how online networks influence exposure to ideas and political debates, and how the internet technologies shape the flow of information. Gonzalez-Bailon published an article on Aljazeera stating, “Under the slogan "Real Democracy Now", the protests [Spain May 2011] mobilised tens of thousands of people of all ages and affiliations, demanding better forms of political representation. Many protesters proclaimed in their placards that the Spanish Revolution was coming, a prophecy soon turned into a trending hashtag in Twitter and reverberating fast across the galleries of social media. …In the rare context of mass mobilisations, online networks behave exceptionally well: they are fast and efficient in transmitting information and spreading awareness. But they cannot do much to help a mass movement articulate their aims: they give expression to a cacophony of voices but when the lights of the protest go out, all these opinions fall like confetti after a party. …Can social media transform bursts of political activism into stable forms of participation? …Otherwise, their revolutionary message will be written on wet sand.”
Model: Suwon Lee
For 'Nuevo País de las Artes'.
Link: banesco.blob.core.windows.net/banesco-prod-2015/wp-conten...
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This 2012 artwork is by Mexican visual artist Carlos Amorales and is called "We will see how everything reverberates". It was photographed during an exhibition at the Turner Contemporary gallery, Margate, England (March until September 2015).
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08/04/2017 : Le Puy-Sainte-Réparade, Château La Coste : exposition Mountains and Seas (Ai Weiwei)
All Fingers Must Point Down
Today we celebrate a man who played the trumpet like it was murmuring secrets it wasn’t sure it should tell. That’s the beautiful Chet Baker.
Chet Baker came out of the West Coast, but his sound didn’t belong to any coast. It drifted. Like cigarette smoke in a cheap motel room, or a love letter folded one too many times. He had a horn that didn’t shout or testify, it confessed. Real quiet-like. You leaned in, and by the time you realized what was happening, the song had already moved into your bones. They said he looked like a movie star, and maybe that was part of the trouble. Folks hear that trumpet and think it’s all moonlight and convertibles, but underneath there’s a lot of gravel road. Baker sang the way some people talk when they’re alone. No armor. No tricks. Just a voice hanging there, asking if anyone’s listening. His sweet soft sugar-cotton candy voice takes you back and forth from the moon in an endless loop. Have you ever listened to his Bobby Scott and Ric Marlow version of “A Taste of Honey”? if thats not a cosmic orgasm I don’t know what is.
In jazz, everybody’s running races -faster, higher, louder. Baker? He walked. Sometimes he barely got there at all, but the space between the notes told you more than the notes ever could. Miles Davis knew that. Lester Young knew that. When you play less, you say more. That’s an old law, older than electricity. Baker’s life went every which way, like a radio signal fading in and out as you cross state lines. Fame came early, wisdom came late, and peace came when it felt like it. That trumpet carried the weight of it all. Every cracked note, every soft landing, every fall you don’t see coming until you’re already on the ground.
You see, Chet Baker had struggles the way some people have shadows, they followed him everywhere, even at noon. He wrestled with addiction for most of his life, and it wasn’t the romantic kind people like to dress up after the fact. It took things from him. Time. Trust. Chances. Even his ability to play the horn the way he once had. There were arrests, long disappearances, years where the music barely survived the man. He’d fall off the map, then show up again somewhere in Europe, battered but still blowing, still singing like the truth hadn’t let him go. And that voice by the later years, it wasn’t smooth anymore. It was weathered. Worn down. But sometimes wear tells you more than polish ever could. When Baker sang then, it sounded like someone who knew exactly what things cost. As for the end there’s a lot of noise around it, and not all of it’s honest.
Chet Baker died in 1988 in Amsterdam after falling from a hotel window. The official ruling was accidental. People have argued about it ever since, because people like their stories tied up neat, with a bow and a moral. But life doesn’t usually work that way, and neither did Baker.
So when you hear Chet Baker play, don’t listen for perfection. Listen for truth. Listen for the sound of a man standing in the doorway, half in the light, half in the dark, blowing a melody that knows it won’t last forever but plays it anyway.
ink, watercolor 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