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British Artist: Andrew Campbell: VisualBites:
Art Studio Studies: Portfolio Maquettes: #01-1000
Project-7: Netscapes+Subterfuge: iphone-sketchbooks:
#artforsocialmedia #AndrewCampbell
Artist Ref: www.andrew-campbell.com
British Artist: Andrew Campbell: VisualBites:
Art Studio Studies: Portfolio Maquettes: #01-1000
Project-7: Netscapes+Subterfuge: iphone-sketchbooks:
#artforsocialmedia #AndrewCampbell
Artist Ref: www.andrew-campbell.com
British Artist: Andrew Campbell: VisualBites:
Art Studio Studies: Portfolio Maquettes: #01-1000
Project-7: Netscapes+Subterfuge: iphone-sketchbooks:
#artforsocialmedia #AndrewCampbell
Artist Ref: www.andrew-campbell.com
"If you took cigarettes away from the 20th century, we wouldn't have any of the writers you go on about, or who anybody worships. They just would not exist, and I want this acknowledged. In fact, I think non-smokers should be barred from buying any product that a smoker created." -Joe Strummer
There are some singers who sing the songs, and there are some singers who seem to have been chased into the song by history itself.
Joe Strummer was one of those.
Ok, ok, ok, so before we dig into the groove I do have to make a confession. I’ve got two crushes, in what we would call “the famous world”. One, Frank Zappa, I mean, his brain! Those eyebrows… Two, Joe Strummer. From top to toe, from inside out.
Joe Strummer came out of the Clash looking like a man who'd just discovered that the world was on fire and had decided that standing around discussing it wasn't going to put the fire out. The guitar was there, sure. The three chords, the amplifiers, the battered stages. But underneath all that was something older: the troubadour, the street-corner ranter, the fellow with a newspaper under his arm and a question he couldn't quite answer.
Strummer knew that rock and roll had a universal meaning.
London was his address, but his records had open borders. Reggae came through the door. Punk came through the window. Rockabilly was smoking a cigarette in the kitchen. American rhythm and blues was sitting at the table, and somewhere out back you could hear the sound of Mexico, Jamaica, Spain.
And that's one of the things I like about Joe Strummer: he understood that music isn't a museum where everybody has to stay behind the rope. Music is more like a railroad station. People arrive. People leave. Somebody brings a suitcase full of old songs. Somebody else brings three chords and a new idea.
Strummer wasn't interested in pretending the past didn't exist. He wanted to know what it was good for. That's a different question.
You can hear it in the Clash. You can hear a man arguing with the world, but you can also hear him dancing with it. Anger with rhythm. Politics with a backbeat. Revolution with a guitar plugged into an amplifier that probably ought to have been retired ten years earlier.
And maybe that's why Joe Strummer still sounds alive. Because he wasn't singing from some safe place called History. He was singing from the middle of the street. The strange thing about a street is that it remembers everybody. The drunk remembers the preacher. The preacher remembers the thief. The thief remembers the policeman. The policeman remembers the song on the radio. And the song on the radio remembers a song that came before it. That's the way it works.
Joe Strummer understood that. He understood that a song could be a postcard, a warning, a joke, a siren, a love letter, or a match struck in a dark room. And sometimes it could be all six.
So here's to Joe Strummer — traveler, troublemaker, believer in the three-chord republic.
Turn it up, all day long, cause there's still a train coming through.
ink, watercolor on marbled paper
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
Mirza Shahzad Akbar the Pakistani lawyer and director at the Foundation for Fundamental Rights, renowned for his legal action against the USA for drone strikes in Pakistan, has criticized the USA for authorizing drone strikes in Yemen. In an article by Jason Koebler on Aljazeera, Akbar states “They can’t kill them if they know someone is a low value target, however they can kill if they don’t know that person… They have a checklist, and here’s what they’re looking for—Are they carrying weapons? Do they have a beard and a turban? Are they traveling with a large group of people? Well, everyone in that area carries a weapon, a beard is part of the religion, turban is part of the culture. As for traveling in a group, well, it’s a society that has bigger families. If you’re looking for a pattern like this, you’re killing citizens and civilians. …The CIA is, so far, the only source of information. Look at the quality of the information they give you—it’s nothing. Who are they killing? Who are these people? What are their names? They say they’re taking out the bad guys, but the facts on the ground are very different, there are a huge number of women, children, elderly and incapacitated people. …Once people learn what’s really happening, they’ll complain. People need to make an informed decision.” Inspired by Jason Koebler ow.ly/bs4MT image source Twitter ow.ly/bs5QO
Shot at Maidan, Calcutta during an afternoon spent with family.
In the distance, the iconic Vidyasagar Setu (bridge) can be seen.
More images: Facebook page.
British Artist: Andrew Campbell: VisualBites:
Art Studio Studies: Portfolio Maquettes: #01-1000
Project-7: Netscapes+Subterfuge: iphone-sketchbooks:
#artforsocialmedia #AndrewCampbell
Artist Ref: www.andrew-campbell.com
Mirrors. Not the kind hanging in the hallway that remind you you've already comb your hair. The other kind. The ones you stumble across in books, conversations, chance encounters and dreams that somehow know your name before you do. Which brings us to Carl Jung.
Some doctors listened to the heartbeat. Jung listened for echoes. He figured a person could say one thing, do another and dream something altogether different, and somehow all three belonged to the same story. He spent years collecting symbols the way some folks collect old records. Serpents, rivers, towers, forests, kings, beggars, tricksters. He noticed that people separated by oceans and centuries kept dreaming in familiar shapes. Different languages, same moon overhead. Most of us spend a fair amount of time introducing ourselves to the world. Jung wondered how much time we spend hiding from ourselves. That's a harder introduction to make.
He believed everybody carried a shadow, no, not the one stretching behind you on a sunny afternoon, but the bundle of forgotten habits, denied feelings and unopened letters addressed to your own heart. Funny thing about shadows. Ignore them long enough and they learn to speak through other people. He wasn't especially interested in making people normal. Normal has always been a moving target. He wanted people to become whole, which sounds simple until you realise it means inviting every unruly guest to sit at the same table.
There are stories where the hero slays the dragon. Jung might've asked the dragon what it had been guarding all these years. He had a fondness for old myths because he suspected they weren't old at all. They kept changing costumes and walking back into town. Yesterday they wore crowns. Today they carry smartphones. The plot remains surprisingly familiar.
Every now and then someone dreams of a house with rooms they've never entered. Jung would probably tell them to go downstairs with a lantern. Not because he'd know what was waiting there, but because the locked door usually knows more about us than the front gate ever could. Maybe that's why his work still lingers. It doesn't hand you answers wrapped in neat paper. It hands you a compass and quietly points toward the forest.
So wherever mirror you’re standing in front of, remember Carl Jung, who spent a lifetime suggesting that the longest journey isn't across continents or oceans. It's the distance between the person you think you are and the stranger who's been waiting patiently inside, hoping one day you'll finally sit down and have a conversation.
ink, watercolor on paper
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
British Artist: Andrew Campbell: VisualBites:
Art Studio Studies: Portfolio Maquettes: #01-1000
Project-7: Netscapes+Subterfuge: iphone-sketchbooks:
#artforsocialmedia #AndrewCampbell
Artist Ref: www.andrew-campbell.com
•Artemisia Gentileschi: When Painting Needs No Excuses•
There is a temptation in our time to reduce every great artist to a biography. We seem to believe that suffering is more valuable than talent, that scandal explains genius better than discipline. Few painters have suffered more from this reduction than Artemisia Gentileschi.
The fascination with her personal history has become so overwhelming that many people approach her canvases searching for testimony instead of painting. They expect confession where there is composition, revenge where there is technique, autobiography where there is artistic intelligence. This is a profound mistake.
A painter earns a place in history because of what happens on the canvas. Pigment does not lie, perspective does not flatter, and light cannot be negotiated through ideology. Every brushstroke reveals knowledge acquired through years of work. Gentileschi's paintings possess a technical authority that cannot be explained by victimhood or activism. They are the work of an artist who understood anatomy, dramatic lighting, color relationships, and the psychological power of gesture. Consider her heroines. Judith, Susanna, Lucretia, Cleopatra—these are not decorative figures created to satisfy convention. They occupy space with conviction. Their bodies have weight, their expressions resist theatrical exaggeration, and their actions possess an emotional gravity that emerges from careful observation rather than rhetorical spectacle. What distinguishes Gentileschi is not that she was a woman who painted well. It is that she painted well, period.
That statement should not be controversial, yet contemporary discourse often insists on placing an adjective before the noun: female painter, feminist icon, survivor. While these descriptions may illuminate aspects of her life, they become limiting when they replace aesthetic judgment. Great art does not ask for special categories. It demands rigorous attention.
The Baroque was an age of extraordinary competition. Talent had to prove itself against other talents, not against narratives. Gentileschi entered that arena and produced works capable of standing beside those of many celebrated contemporaries. This achievement deserves admiration because it is artistic, not because it conveniently illustrates modern political arguments. To praise her only as a symbol is to diminish her as a painter.
Museums and cultural institutions often encourage audiences to approach art through identity before form. The result is predictable: visitors remember the biography but forget the painting. They can recount the artist's hardships while remaining unable to explain why the composition succeeds, how the light structures the scene, or why the figures command such visual force. Art deserves better than this.
Artemisia Gentileschi's legacy rests on mastery. Her paintings continue to move viewers because they are built upon enduring principles of visual language: balance, tension, light, color, and human expression. These qualities survive changing fashions because they belong to the artwork itself, not to the slogans projected onto it. Perhaps the greatest tribute we can pay her is also the simplest: to stand before the painting long enough for the painting—not the mythology surrounding it—to speak.
ink, watercolor on paper
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
There’s a kid in this story, a girl, a five year old, with knees a little shaky, dreams a little too big for ballet slippers, and a stubborn little flame burning inside. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, she’d walk into the only studio in town like it was a cathedral, where the altar was a mirror and the prayer was movement. Classical ballet — where every toe point had a purpose and every pirouette and plié -petit, demi, grand- was a rebellion against gravity.
From five to twelve, it wasn’t just discipline, it was devotion. A kind of quiet fire, practiced in pink tights, a too tight slick bun with the help of lemon juice and metallic dark-blue body. You don’t clock in for ballet. You surrender to it. And somewhere in that stretch of childhood, around the age of nine, the world paused for a moment.
Picture this: A grand, echoey room. Royal Academy of Classical Ballet London to examine her devotion. One child, alone. The music? Chopin, played live by a pianist whose fingers spoke in sighs. And the judge? A strict woman with a face carved from stone, dressed in gray, platinum hair, posture carved from legacy. No smiles. No second takes. No movements except for a strict hand taking notes. That kid? She danced. No backup dancers, no applause, just her body talking to the air. Talking to Chopin. Talking to the silence. There are diplomas in an archive, somewhere between a Jim Morrison book filled of poems and a shrine, quiet little witnesses to what happened that day. Proof that she stood there, trembling scared, but still danced like her life depended on it.
Because for her, it kinda did.
See, some people grow up needing answers.
Others grow up needing to ask questions. But her? She needed to manifest. To make meaning from movement. To tell stories without a single word.
Years later, ballet gave way to something wilder. Something with heels that struck the floor like thunder. Flamenco. Seven hours a week; sweat, song, mystery and soul. Not just steps, but duende. The stuff Lorca wrote poems about. And just like that, it wasn’t about the Royal Academy anymore. It was about reclaiming rhythm. Shaping identity with each stomp and spin. Dance as defiance. Dance as prayer. But here’s a little secret, all that ballet background is very useful in Flamenco, a very strong ground to be proud of (despite deformed feet); the shape, the body awareness, the arm movements, the straight back, the shape of the hands alone, the fingers, the lion chest.
And that kid? It’s I, still dancing, still calling it my lifesaver. Even when I’m standing still.
//Carl Jung once said “it’s better to dance through life”, Loana Ibarra says that too.
A Glitch "Niqab (κερί) ~ Ètude I”
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
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#visualartists #glitchart #glitch #glitché #pixelsorting #glitchartistscollective #glitchvideo #datamosh #digitalglitch #videoglitch #hyperspektiv #minimalart #videoart #dfkt #pixelsorter #artistsvisual #glitchartoninstagram #glitchartscollective #glitcharts #glitchartistcommunity #glitchartwork #glitchartisdead #glitchartists #glitchartcommunity #glitchartistcollective #glitchartist #pixelsortingart #proceduralart #creativecodeart #glitchportrait
Lotería (Spanish word meaning "lottery") is a traditional mexican game of chance, similar to bingo, but using images on a deck of cards instead of numbered ping pong balls. The traditional Lotería card deck is composed of a set of 54 different cards, each with a different picture. The caller is called cantor, Spanish for "singer". The winner is the first that shouts "Lotería!", in this case “Loanatería!”
8 El Diablo
8/54
instagram loanaibarra
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
embroidery
D798_002b
04/07/2015 : Le Puy-Sainte-Réparade, Château La Coste : exposition Different Places (Sean Scully)
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...
N E W S !
Juried exhibition, consisting of, among others, the deirector of Moderna Museet Malmö.
For artists operating in Southern Sweden, Scania (Skåne) and Zealand (Själland, Denamark). 6 artists were selected.
"Mexico rides Sweden" was selected poster for the exhibition.
The exhibition will be on tour for 2 months. This is how the invitation looks like inside and outside the intraweb.
Welcomna!
WE go on tour!
•Some people nevertheless think that your poems are a waste of time.
-What isn't a pastime? Some people collect stamps or murder their grandmothers. We all wait, do little things and wait to die.
•Do you identify with any particular poet or literary movement?
-No, because to me the whole poetry scene seems dominated by predictable, soulless, ridiculous, and lonely idiots. On one side you have the university crowd and on the other the Beat crowd; this includes those somewhere in between as well. What strikes me is that I've never heard anyone say it the way I'm saying it now.
•Why do you call these people idiots? Aren't you making a fool of yourself?
-Watch yourself. Red blood on that shirt wouldn't look good. The Beats and the university boys are very much alike in that they're being sucked into the great mass. They're controlled by the great mass—the audience, the car lovers, the sick, the weak, the hungry, the vomiting cowards; I mean hungry in the sense that their souls are covered in pimples and their heads are huge balloons filled with bad air. These poets can't resist the applause of the half-humans. They go from being creators to being entertainers, they ally themselves with the masses and with one another, and they're terribly horny for fame. I have more respect for the boss of a factory who fires 50 men from a production line.
//Sunlight Here I Am: Interviews and Encounters 1963-1993.
obs! Applies for the art world too. Aaa… Carlitos y Loana.
Today we celebrate the one and only, one sitting high on the podium inside my head, a man who didn’t just play the guitar, he interrogated it. Put it under a bright light. Asked it questions it didn’t want to answer. Frank Zappa.
Frank Zappa didn’t look like a preacher, but he sure preached about freedom, about nonsense, about the way the U.S. sells you a dream and hands you the receipt later. He was a composer who dressed like a rock musician, or maybe a rock musician who hid a symphony in his back pocket. Hard to tell with Zappa. He liked it that way. Zappa believed intelligence should be loud. Not polite. Not tidy. And definitely not marketed. He wrote music that laughed at you while teaching you something and then laughed again when you thought you got the joke. Songs about consumer culture, political hypocrisy, and the great American pastime of not paying attention.
Frank Zappa’s music didn’t sit still. It paced. It argued with itself. Sometimes it tripped over the furniture on purpose. You couldn’t tap your foot to it unless your foot had read the instruction manual first. Zappa treated rock ’n’ roll like raw material, not a finished product. He mixed it with jazz, modern classical, doo-wop, rhythm and blues, and sounds that didn’t even have a name yet. I call it Zappaism. If it made people uncomfortable, that was usually a good sign. He wrote songs that changed time signatures the way most people change their mind. One minute you’re cruising, next minute the road disappears and you’re flying. And he demanded things from his musicians.
Precision. Attention. The kind of focus usually reserved for surgeons or chess players. Zappa didn’t believe chaos happened by accident. If it sounded wild, it was because someone practiced it that way. Every odd turn, every sudden stop, every note that made you say “wait — what?” was there because he put it there. His guitar playing wasn’t about speed for the sake of speed. It was conversational. Long solos that felt like a man thinking out loud, sometimes contradicting himself mid-sentence, sometimes landing on a truth he didn’t know he was chasing. And then there were the melodies, often sweet, sometimes ugly, frequently hilarious, and just as often beautiful when you weren’t expecting it. Zappa didn’t separate “serious” music from “funny” music. To him, humor was a form of intelligence. If you couldn’t laugh at the world, you probably weren’t listening closely enough. He wrote orchestral pieces that belonged in concert halls and garage-band anthems that sounded like they’d been recorded in the parking lot, sometimes on the same album, sometimes in the same song. Zappa’s music didn’t ask for your agreement. It asked for your attention. And if you gave it that, if you followed the twists, embraced the nonsense, and trusted that the man at the wheel knew where he was going you realized something: Frank Zappa wasn’t trying to fit into music history. He was writing footnotes, cross-references, and entire chapters that nobody else had thought to open yet.
Now here’s something that surprised a lot of people: Frank Zappa didn’t drink. Didn’t take drugs. Didn’t romanticize any of it. At a time when excess was being sold as enlightenment, Zappa looked at the whole parade and said, “No thanks. I’ve got work to do.” He thought drugs dulled the mind. Said they interfered with discipline. And discipline, to Zappa, was freedom, the freedom to finish what you start and hear what you actually meant to say. He saw addiction as a business model, not a rebellion. A way to keep artists foggy and audiences easier to sell to. If you wanted to play with Zappa, well, you had to keep away from drugs and alcohol to keep your jobb. But tobacco, that was a different story…
“Well, to me, a cigarette is food. Now that may be a baffling concept for people in San Francisco who have this theory that they WILL live forever if they stamp out tobacco smoke”
Zappa smoked. Didn’t pretend it was healthy. Didn’t dress it up as a philosophy either. He treated it like a tool, or maybe a vice he understood too well to mythologize. He once suggested cigarettes didn’t make you creative, they just gave you something to do with your hands while the ideas showed up on their own schedule. No halos. No slogans. Just honesty.
And that was Frank Zappa’s real protest: clarity. In a culture high on slogans, he stayed stubbornly sober, mentally, at least. Questioning everything. Refusing to play the role they wrote for him. Zappa didn’t want you to escape reality. He wanted you to look straight at it and notice how strange it already was. And that’s the kind of music that doesn’t fade out, it just keeps asking questions long after the needle lifts.
ink, watercolor on paper
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
Ordered some business cards from MOO and I LOVE them!
Next up...website overhaul... I know what I want. Now, I just need to team up with a technical wizard. Know one? Are you one? Wanna work with a detail-oriented, ambitious creative type who has a ridiculously large costume collection and a wacky sense of humor? Let's talk. I need some help.
A Glitch "Prodigiosum Contortion(σύσπαση) ~ Ètude VI”
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 ~
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#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
If you were driving across your continent at three in the morning, somewhere between an AM gospel station fading into static and a truck stop jukebox still playing records from another century, you might wonder where music goes after it's done being categorized. Maybe it doesn't disappear. Maybe it migrates. Maybe it waits for two kids from Buenos Aires to come along and give it another heartbeat. Because that's what these two have done. They're not simply making Argentine music. They're not making hip-hop, jazz, funk, electronic music, Latin grooves, rock, trap, soul, or club music. They're treating every one of those traditions as if they were neighbors sharing the same backyard fence.
Catriel is the engine room. Every beat feels like it remembers something older than itself while pointing toward tomorrow. You hear echoes of J Dilla's loose swing, the machine precision of techno, the swagger of Southern hip-hop, the improvisational freedom of jazz drumming, and the pulse of Afro-Latin rhythms all arguing happily in the same conversation.
Then Paco Amoroso walks in like the unpredictable narrator of the story. One moment he's crooning with the elegance of an old soul singer. The next he's half-rapping, half-confessing over harmonies that seem too sophisticated for pop and too playful for academia. His voice isn't trying to impress you with perfection. It's trying to surprise you. That's a far more dangerous ambition. Together they create music that behaves less like songs and more like living organisms. The remarkable thing isn't that they fuse genres.
People have been talking about fusion since Miles Davis plugged in his trumpet. They've been crossing borders ever since jazz borrowed from blues, rock borrowed from country, salsa borrowed from Africa, hip-hop borrowed from everybody, and electronic music turned machines into orchestras.
No.
The remarkable thing is that Paco Amoroso and Catriel make those influences stop feeling historical. You don't hear references. You hear coexistence. Jazz isn't quoted. It's breathing. Latin rhythms aren't decorations. They're structural beams. Hard dance doesn't arrive as a climax. It's simply another emotional temperature. Neo-soul melts into trap. Funk crashes into industrial electronics. Progressive harmony shakes hands with absurd humor.
The lyrics can be another matter. For some listeners they're exhilaratingly blunt; for others they're simply too much. Paco and Catriel have little interest in coy suggestion when direct language will do. Sex is treated not as metaphor but as vocabulary—comic, absurd, boastful, awkward, vulnerable, and frequently explicit. Ears raised on careful euphemism may recoil. Others hear a deliberate rejection of respectability, where desire is presented with the same irreverence as money, fame, or boredom. Their songs constantly undercut their own bravado, mocking the performance of masculinity even as they inhabit it. Vanity becomes a punchline. Success becomes another costume. The joke is often on the narrator before it is on anyone else. That's an incredibly difficult balancing act. Most genre fusion sounds like tourism. This sounds like citizenship.
Their performances reveal something equally rare. Musicians who know enough theory to dismantle convention—but who never let technical brilliance become the headline. You hear impossible harmonic choices sitting comfortably beside ridiculously catchy hooks. You hear rhythmic displacement that would excite conservatory professors sitting underneath lyrics that feel like overheard conversations after midnight. It's intellectual music wearing sneakers.
Their Tiny Desk performance became one of those modern musical landmarks because it stripped away production tricks and left only musicianship, chemistry, and fearless confidence. Suddenly audiences who had never heard of them weren't watching an Argentine duo anymore. They were watching possibility. That's what great musical revolutions usually look like. Nobody announces them. They simply happen.
The history of popular music is filled with moments when someone quietly ignored the rules everyone else accepted. Louis Armstrong expanded rhythm. Charlie Parker expanded harmony. James Brown reorganized time itself. Kraftwerk taught machines to dance. Paco Amoroso and Catriel belong in that ongoing conversation, not because they imitate any of those artists, but because they share the same instinct. They refuse to believe music has finished evolving. And perhaps that's their greatest achievement.
Listening to them feels less like opening an album and more like walking through a city where every neighborhood is playing at once. A jazz quartet rehearses behind one window. Across the street, a warehouse is shaking under hard dance kick drums. Somewhere nearby, cumbia spills into the sidewalk. A funk bassist is smiling. A gospel choir is warming up. A trap producer is chopping samples. A rock guitarist has forgotten what decade it is. None of them are competing. They're all speaking different dialects of the same language.
That's the sound Paco Amoroso and Catriel have discovered. Not fusion for fusion's sake. Not experimentation as spectacle. But curiosity elevated into an artistic philosophy. The best historians will probably spend decades trying to explain exactly where they fit.
The better question might be whether they were ever interested in fitting anywhere at all. Some musicians inherit traditions. Some preserve them. A rare few rearrange the furniture. Paco Amoroso and Catriel seem intent on knocking down the walls entirely—and somehow, when the dust settles, the house is stronger, brighter, stranger, and infinitely more alive than before.
That’s way los amo.
ink, watercolor on handmade marbled paper.
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
Thirroul residents, photographer John Skuja, and visual artist Tanya Stubbles, makers of the One on One: Change slideshow Acacia and Alchemy.
This is a pen and ink (pointalism) drawing, of an old woman of African ancestry, who have seen it all.
D973_063b
18/07/2021 : Arles, boulevard Emile-Combes, Croisière : exposition Etudes en vibration (Reeve Schumacher)
A Glitch "Prodigiosum Contortion(σύσπαση) ~ 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
~ 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
People got all kinds of ways to celebrate things. Birthdays, Christmas, Tuesdays. Some bake a cake. Some light a candle. And in Mexico, well, we break things. Colorful things. Things filled with candy. Things that hang just a little out of reach, like hope, or a good rhyme. I’m talking about piñatas.
You know, a lot of humans think piñatas were born right there in Mexico, just sprung full-grown from a stack of bright-colored tissue paper. But the world’s never been that simple. Things travel. Ideas hitchhike. Traditions catch the next boat out of town. Turns out the whole thing might’ve started way over in China, where they filled clay figures with seeds, not sweets. Marco Polo, now there’s a fella who did some serious traveling, carried the idea west like a guy smuggling a tune in his pocket. Spain picked it up, painted it holy, and by the time it crossed the ocean to Mexico, it got a whole new coat of meaning.
When those Spanish missionaries showed up, they brought a shiny seven-pointed star. Said those spikes were the Seven Deadly Sins: lust, greed, all the things that make the world wobble on its axis. And the person swinging the stick? Well, that was you… blindfolded… trying to do the right thing. Ain’t we all.
But Mexico, Mexico’s got a way of taking something and turning it alive. Ceramics became papier-mâché. Sin became celebration. And the whole thing bloomed in color brighter than a rooster running from dawn.
Now the piñata’s at birthday parties, village festivals, Christmas posadas, quinceañeras… Any excuse to gather around and take a swing at life, hoping something sweet falls out. Funny thing: sometimes you got to break something to make a moment. When that blindfold goes on, the circle closes around the brave volunteer like a choir ready to testify. And everybody; grandmas, toddlers, uncles with questionable rhythm they start singing:
“Dale, dale, dale,
no pierdas el tino,
porque si lo pierdes,
pierdes el camino!”
“Go on, go on, go on…
don’t lose your swing…
’cause if you lose it,
you lose your way.”
There are other verses, too, some telling you when to stop, some giving you just five seconds, some teasing you, some cheering you on. Kids learn them before they learn multiplication tables. Probably more useful, too. It’s not just a game, it’s a ritual. A little rhythmic spell to coax the goodies out.
Now the first piñatas were stars. Seven points.
Seven sins. A cosmic geometry test for the soul. And they are beautiful. But that was just the beginning. Humans are funny creatures, give them a tradition, and soon enough they’ll say, “Hey, what if we make it look like Uncle Luis?” Or a donkey. Or a pineapple. Or a cartoon character whose copyright lawyers are very much awake. And then somewhere along the line someone said: “Well… if we’re gonna break something… why not make it look like somebody who deserves it?”
And that’s how you get piñatas shaped like presidents, politicians, and other folks who’ve been on the wrong end of public opinion.
You’ve got piñatas with bad hair. Piñatas with big grins plastered on like they know they’re in trouble. Piñatas wearing suits they never bought. Sometimes you even see a whole cast of them, lining the market stalls like a paper-mâché debate stage.
Ah Mexicans, they’ve always had a strong sense of humor, especially the kind that keeps a little sting in its tail. Breaking a piñata shaped like a corrupt official? That’s not just fun, that’s folk catharsis. A little community therapy with a stick.
All right now, pack your boots, grab a coat.
We’re taking a trip from the warm plazas of Mexico to a little town in Sweden called Nusnäs, where snowflakes fall like tiny resignation letters from the sky and the forests run deep and pine-scented. And there, on a workbench, in a workshop, in a country that knows a thing or two about winter you’ll find a Dalahäst. That’s “Dala horse” if your Swedish is a little rusty. Carved out of wood, real wood, knife-cut wood, the kind that holds a little of the forest in it.
The Dalahäst didn’t start out as a tourist trinket. It was a toy for kids in long, dark winters. A little horse to ride through the imagination. A companion when the nights stayed too long. Farmers carved them by the fire, gave them to neighbors, sold a few at markets when the snow let them through. Then one day someone painted them, bright red, the kind of red you can see through a blizzard. Painted them with flowers, curls, and flourishes that look like a dance between nature and patience. And that’s how a simple block of pine became the spokesman for an entire country.
Funny how things work out.Some cultures break a paper star to celebrate. Others carve a wooden horse to remember who they are. But both of them are stories you can hold in your hand.
So whether you’re swinging at a star filled with candy, or watching a wooden horse stand proud on a mantelpiece, just remember traditions are like songs. They travel. They change. But they stay loved.
//illustration on paper, “Dalahäst-piñata prototype”, 2017.
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
Colleen colored pencils over Bob Ross brand black acrylic Gesso in an A4 plain Molekine Folio as part of the Moleskine Exchange project.
Watercolor ink on paper
was born Jose Monge Cruz in San Fernando, Cadiz, on 5 December 1950 into a Romani family, his nickname reflected his small size and unusual light skin: Camaron de la Isla — "small white shrimp from the island." Camarón is considered one of the best singers in the history of flamenco, a renovator of singing. Having his mother La Juana as his biggest inspiration, influence and rule model. At the age of eight he began to sing at inns and bus stops.
His debut album, Con la Colaboracion Especial de Paco de Lucia, recorded with the accompaniment of virtuosic legendary guitarist Paco de Lucia 1969, remains one of flamenco's classic recordings.
Although his work was criticized by some traditionalists, he was one of the first to feature an electric bass in his songs. And a sitar! This was a turning point in the history of Flamenco music that helped distinguish Nuevo Flamenco.
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