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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
•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...
There are records you put on, and there are records that seem to put themselves on you.
You open the sleeve, take out one record, then another, then another, and pretty soon you’re not holding an album anymore. You’re holding a small argument with the history of popular music.
That’s Sandinista! by The Clash.
Three LPs. Six sides. Thirty-six songs. Enough vinyl to make the old record-shop clerk look over his glasses and wonder whether you’ve accidentally ordered the collected works of somebody’s uncle. And tucked inside, like contraband passed between revolutionaries, is that wonderful little newspaper, The Armagideon Times, with its lyrics, drawings, photographs, fragments and political weather reports. The whole package feels less like the sleeve of a rock record than the newspaper of some imaginary republic where the currency is rhythm and the opposition party is boredom.
Now, three records is a dangerous number.
One record says: here is the statement.
Two records say: here is the statement, and here is the footnote.
Three records say: well, I’ve got a lot to tell you, and you’d better sit down.
And The Clash had a lot to tell you. This was 1980, and The Clash had already made London Calling, a record that had taken punk’s little burning house and opened all the windows to let in reggae, rockabilly, soul, blues and whatever else was blowing down the street.
But with Sandinista! they didn’t merely open the windows. They knocked down the walls.
There’s dub in here. Funk. Gospel. Calypso. Soul. Early rap. Jamaican sound-system culture. British punk. American rhythm and blues. Studio experiments. Children singing. Political speeches. Songs that sound like street corners and songs that sound like they were discovered under the floorboards of a radio station.
Charlie don’t surf! Pheww. That intro, goosebumps, I can listen to it on repeat. Those vocal scales.
The album is less a genre than a country with very bad border control. And this is where the historian in the room has to disagree with the accountant.
The accountant says: too long.
The historian says: perhaps.
The accountant says: there’s filler.
The historian says: certainly.
The historian then leans closer and says: but what if the filler is part of the evidence?
Because Sandinista! is not a perfectly curated museum. It is the sound of a band discovering that the world is much larger than the record they were supposed to make.
You can hear them learning in public. That’s one of the beautiful things about it.
The Clash weren’t simply borrowing styles as decorative wallpaper. They were asking what happened when different histories met in the same room. What does punk sound like when it encounters Jamaican dub? What does political protest sound like when it rides a disco rhythm? What happens when a British guitar band stops looking at the promised land of rock ’n’ roll and starts looking south, east and across the Caribbean?
Sometimes the answers are magnificent. Sometimes they are ridiculous. Sometimes they are magnificently ridiculous. And that may be the point. Because The Clash were never particularly interested in behaving themselves. They had started as a punk band, certainly, but even then there was something restless about them. Punk gave them the door, but they didn't seem particularly interested in staying inside the room.
By the time Sandinista! arrived, the musical map had become enormous. And the band wanted the whole map. You can hear Jamaica everywhere. Not merely reggae as a musical style, but the idea of the studio itself as an instrument: the echo, the bass, the space around a sound, the strange business of taking something familiar and turning it sideways until you discover another dimension hiding inside it.
That influence is crucial. The Clash didn't just hear reggae and think, “That's a nice rhythm.” They heard a different philosophy of making records. They heard music as something that could be dismantled and rebuilt.
And so Sandinista! becomes a kind of laboratory.
The experiments work beautifully. You can practically hear the wires sparking. But even the failures have character. There is a generosity in that. The record refuses the modern idea that every minute must justify itself. It wanders. It jokes. It changes clothes. It gets political. It gets sentimental. It gets strange. It goes dancing and then comes back with a newspaper under its arm.
And then there is the title.
Sandinista!
The word itself carries a whole history into the living room.
In 1979, the Sandinista National Liberation Front overthrew the Somoza dictatorship in Nicaragua. For a British punk band to name an album after that revolution was not simply an exercise in rebellious decoration. The Clash were connecting their music to a world of anti-imperialism, political struggle and international solidarity. Yeah. That mattered to them. And it matters to the record.
But Sandinista! isn't a political lecture set to guitar chords. It is much messier than that. Politics appear as stories, slogans, characters, arguments and glimpses of distant places. The record seems fascinated by the fact that events happening thousands of miles away can somehow enter your kitchen through a piece of black vinyl.
Take “Washington Bullets.” It moves through the history of intervention and revolution, naming places and conflicts with the clipped directness of a newspaper dispatch. Chile, Nicaragua, Cuba, Afghanistan, Tibet. There is no comfortable distance. The song doesn't ask you to admire the cleverness of the songwriter. It asks you to pay attention. And that was one of The Clash's great gifts: they understood that rock music could be a form of curiosity. Not education in the classroom sense. Something more restless. A desire to know what was happening on the other side of the street, the other side of the ocean, the other side of the political argument.
The Clash could make a listener feel that the world was simultaneously enormous and very close. That’s a difficult trick. And Sandinista! performs it again and again. The wonderful thing about the album is that the politics never completely separate themselves from the music. The politics are in the rhythms. The rhythms are in the politics. The whole thing is saying: Listen wider. And perhaps that is why the three records matter.
On a single LP, these ideas might have seemed like a clever exercise. On three LPs, they become an environment. You live with the excess. You get lost. You find your way back. You discover that the strange little song you ignored last week has been sitting in your head all week. There’s something very un-modern about that. Today we can skip. The Clash make you turn the record over. You have to get up. You have to touch the thing. You have to hear the soft mechanical click when the needle reaches the end and decide whether you’re ready for another side. That physical inconvenience is part of the experience.
And then there is the sleeve.
Oh, the sleeve.
Because Sandinista! doesn't stop being interesting when the music stops. The package belongs to that old tradition of records that believed the cover was part of the argument. The three LPs arrive with The Armagideon Times, the handmade-looking newspaper filled with illustrations, lyrics and assorted fragments of Clash mythology. It makes the album feel like a document from a place that doesn't quite exist. A little republic of punk. A place where a drawing can sit next to a political statement, where a joke can sit beside a photograph, where a lyric can look like graffiti and a record sleeve can resemble a newspaper rescued from a revolution. And the illustrations matter. They give the record another voice. The music tells you to listen. The newspaper tells you to look. Together they create something closer to a world than an album. That is why the physical edition of Sandinista! can be so much more satisfying than simply hearing the songs on a streaming service.
Streaming gives you the music. The record gives you the evidence. You can see the three discs. You can hold the newspaper. You can read the words. You can notice the strange little details that nobody would have put there if the intention had simply been to make a neat commercial product.
And Sandinista! was never a neat commercial product. That is its problem. That is its charm. That is its historical importance. The album is excessive. It is inconsistent. It is occasionally baffling. It sometimes sounds like the greatest band in Britain discovering a new continent. And sometimes it sounds like the greatest band in Britain discovering that perhaps not every idea needs to become a song.
But history is funny that way. We often remember the polished things. The masterpieces with their edges sanded smooth. But sometimes the messy object tells us more.
Sandinista! is a magnificent album that tells us what The Clash were thinking about at that moment.
It is a record about the refusal to stay put.
Punk refuses to stay punk.
Rock refuses to stay rock.
Politics refuses to stay in the newspaper.
Reggae refuses to stay in Jamaica.
The listener refuses to stay in the same place.
And The Clash refuse to give you the tidy album you might have expected.
The old criticism is that Sandinista! should have been shorter.
I say: NO!
I say: The Clash, bless their noisy hearts.
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.
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
Automotive Rhythms latest project combined our passions for automobiles and the arts. AR's 2016 Kia Sorento SXL 2.0T AWD was also the canvas for artist Jamaal Newman’s creation during the ART-of-Motion (AOM) exhibit in Washington, D.C. aka As ABOVE, So BELOW.
Jamaal was one of the featured visual painters of AOM produced and executed by Automotive Rhythms during the 2016 Washington Auto Show. He painted the Sorento live during the Auto Show in just under 13 hours. Inspired by the South Korean origin of Kia Motors and his research on the Korean War, the artist wanted his creation to symbolically unify North and South Korea. As ABOVE, So BELOW features a lion from Zion on the passenger’s side representing the North while a shark on the South guards the driver’s side. Unification is represented on the hood, meshing the Korean flag with the Yin and Yang badge to signify balance in Korea. Stated Jamaal, “Through my creative vision I wanted to bring equality and unity to Korea.”
Thirroul residents, photographer John Skuja, and visual artist Tanya Stubbles, makers of the One on One: Change slideshow Acacia and Alchemy.
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
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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Model: Suwon Lee
For 'Nuevo País de las Artes'.
Link: banesco.blob.core.windows.net/banesco-prod-2015/wp-conten...
Twitter: twitter.com/TheJennire
Instagram (Photographyl): www.instagram.com/jennirenarvaezphotography/
Instagram (Personal): instagram.com/thejennire
TikTok: www.tiktok.com/@thejennire
A Glitch "Niqab (κερί) ~ Ètude III”
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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A Glitch "Niqab (κερί) ~ 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
~ 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 #videoglitch #hyperspektiv #minimalart #videoart #dfkt #pixelsorter #artistsvisual #glitchartoninstagram #glitchartscollective #glitcharts #glitchartistcommunity #glitchartwork #glitchartisdead #glitchartists #glitchartcommunity #glitchartistcollective #glitchartist #pixelsortingart #proceduralart #creativecodeart #glitchportrait
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
You know, there used to be a belief that royalty was chosen by heaven. The ancient Egyptians thought kings were descended from the sun. Some folks believed monarchs could heal disease with a touch of their hand. But every once in a while somebody comes along who makes you wonder if maybe those old stories weren't entirely wrong.
Prince came from Minneapolis, Minnesota. Not exactly the place people expected to become the center of a musical empire. Most people think of Minneapolis and they think of snowbanks, frozen lakes, and windshield scrapers. Prince looked at all that ice and somehow found a way to turn it into fire. He played guitar like somebody trying to outrun a thunderstorm. Played piano, bass, drums, keyboards. Some people collect stamps. Some people collect cars. Prince collected instruments and taught them all to speak the same language.
The old blues singers used to talk about crossroads. Places where one road becomes another road and a person becomes somebody else. Robert Johnson supposedly found one down in Mississippi. Prince found one somewhere between funk, rock and roll, gospel music, soul music, and whatever planet he happened to wake up on that morning. You'd hear one of his songs come out of the record player and it sounded like tomorrow had arrived early.
There have always been musicians who wanted to be stars. Prince seemed more interested in becoming a constellation. He wore purple the way some people wear a uniform. Purple's a funny color. It's halfway between a bruise and a sunset. Roman emperors loved it because the dye was rare and expensive. Prince made it seem like it had been invented just for him.
People called him mysterious, but musicians understood exactly what they were looking at. They were seeing somebody who treated music the way a blacksmith treats iron. Heat it up, hammer it down, reshape it, start over. Again and again until it glows. A lot of performers spend their lives trying to fit into a category. Rock singer. Funk artist. Pop star. Prince treated categories the way a tornado treats a picket fence. One minute he'd be whispering something that sounded like a secret. Next minute he'd be leading a band that sounded like the end of the world arriving in high heels.
And maybe that's why people still talk about him the way they do. Not because he was perfect. Not because he was famous. Because every generation gets a few artists who remind everybody else that the rules were always optional. The rest of us learn the map. Prince kept drawing new roads. And if you happen to see one of those roads stretching off into the distance somewhere late at night, glowing purple under a streetlamp, you might want to follow it. It probably leads somewhere interesting.
ink, watercolor on paper
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