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Well now, today we’ll spin one special record thanks to a word that starts following you around like a straydog that already knows your name. You don't remember inviting it, but there it is, waiting outside the bakery. Waiting in the newspaper. Waiting in your coffee cup if you stare long enough.
Now you don't go looking for it. That's the important thing. You open a Scrabble bag and the letters come out crooked: P... U... N... K. Four little plastic tiles pretending to be coincidence.
You shrug.
Then on your morning walk there's a sheet of paper pasted to a wall. Maybe it's advertising something that happened three years ago. Maybe it’s been peeling there through three winters. One word still survives where the rain couldn't reach it.
PUNK.
The city has a way of whispering through glue and brick. Somewhere between the tree-lined avenue and the art supplies store you realist the day's been choosing the soundtrack for you. You get home, flip through the shelves, and there it is. Patchanka. Mano Negra.
“Patchanka”, literally meaning patchwork is Mano Negras first album. The sleeve looks less like album artwork than evidence recovered after a particularly joyful riot.
The needle drops.
Before Side A has found its feet, the room forgets it has walls. People like to call “Patchanka” a punk record. They're only half right. Calling “Patchanka” punk is like calling the sea wet. It's true enough, but it misses everything interesting. This record is border control having a nervous breakdown. Punk crashes into ska before either one has shown a passport. Latin rhythms sneak in through the kitchen window. Rockabilly borrows someone's jacket. Algerian melodies, carnival brass, garage rock, street theatre—they all pile into the same battered van with no suspension and somehow everyone arrives dancing. The songs don't behave. They're scratched postcards from places that don't officially exist. You can almost hear the stations they're passing through: Paris, Bogotá, Kingston, Mexico, Madrid... maybe nowhere at all. The train keeps moving because if it ever stopped someone would probably start a revolution or at least a really good party.
Mano Negra never sounds interested in perfection. Perfection has a dress code. Chaos wears better shoes. Listen closely and you hear the beautiful clatter of people playing as though tomorrow might be cancelled. Every chorus sounds borrowed from a crowd already singing before the band arrived. There's grease on these grooves. There's sweat. There's cheap wine. There's hope with a black eye laughing anyway.
Vinyl has a peculiar gift for records like this. The little crackle before the music isn't a flaw. It's the sound of the door opening before your loudest friends come tumbling inside carrying instruments nobody remembers lending them. Streaming gives you the songs. The record gives you the room they happened in.
By the time the needle reaches the run-out groove, you remember that Patchanka was never really a genre. It was an attitude toward borders. Musical borders. Cultural borders. The imaginary fence between serious music and joyful noise.
Some days the world sends you messages. Not mystical ones. Just little nudges. A Scrabble rack. A weathered poster. A word refusing to disappear. And maybe those four letters weren't telling you to become anything. Maybe they were only reminding you that every once in a while it's healthy to disturb the furniture, play the loud record instead of the careful one, and trust the songs that arrive before the explanations do.
Keep your ears open. The world has a habit of hiding its best records inside ordinary mornings. And sometimes all it takes is one stubborn little word pasted to a wall to remind you exactly which one belongs on the turntable.
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
Today we celebrate one of my absolutely favorite painter in the game, a man who painted like a punch in the jaw and made saints look like bar brawlers and angels come stumbling outta the alleyway. Goes by the name Caravaggio. But he was born Michelangelo Merisi, no, not that Michelangelo, this one had more knives than chisels.
Born in 1571, in a little town called Caravaggio, go figure, just outside of Milan. Grew up rough. Lost both parents by the time he was eleven. Didn’t go to art school, didn’t care for etiquette, but oh me oh my, that guy could throw paint like a thunderstorm.
He brought the drama. Not the polite, powdered-wig kind. No, I’m talking about real drama. You could feel the sweat and blood in his paintings. Saints looking like they just got off a double shift. Apostles with dirty feet. And the light… oh, that light! It was like heaven broke into a dark room with a flashlight and a secret.
I’m still trying to figure him out. How could you?! Come on down from the clouds or up from hell and teach me how to rock.
Caravaggio's significance is that he brought reality to the canvas, implied it as a principle and defined it as beauty. Holiness became human, dirty, smelly, blood had to flow, drama exploded, the emotions of the spectator were in the dramaturgy of the composition: feel, live and die. Humanizing art transformed his conception, after Caravaggio re-idealizing or pretending is a renunciation, Neoclassicism was a philosophical and aesthetic retreat that denatured beauty. Contemporary realism would not exist without the seismic revolution of the Caravaggio, the photographic hyperrealism that is limited to the imitation of the digital angle and the coldness of pyrotechnics are evasions of depth, they remain in the superficiality of the form. But in the composition of Caravaggio the celestial kingdoms disappear, history is born from the earth, it begins at the bottom of its paintings, the light takes our eyes to meet our own conscience, with the inescapable misery of mortality. The careful staging is an artifice that sustains the recreation of reality, light is revelation, it tells us this exists, so we are, faith is sustained in the invisible because the visible is terrible. Reality brings its pariahs and their pettiness, thieves, murderers, traitors, victims, live with piety and compassion, the painting is able to contain human nature, describe it, and do it with the beauty of the dark light, imposing lighting as a philosophical guide. They say he’d paint straight from the street. Prostitutes as Madonnas, beggars as martyrs, barflies as biblical prophets. And it made the church folks nervous, got censured a couple of times. Too real, too raw. But people couldn’t stop looking.
He killed a man in 1606 over a game of tennis, or maybe a woman, or maybe just because it was Tuesday. No one’s real sure. Had to run. Rome didn’t take kindly to painters with blood on their hands. He fled south, left a trail of masterpieces and broken heads all through Naples, Malta, Sicily… a man who could paint light like a symphony and live in darkness like a dog.
Caravaggio died young, just 38, under mysterious circumstances. Some say malaria, some say murder. But the work? Still kicks like a mule.
So, just for today (or maybe just for forever) let’s cheer for a sinner who painted saints, a fugitive with a brush, a man who brought the Bible to the backstreets.
ink, watercolor on paper
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
Obra: La Ultima Cena.
Autor: Dan Rosen.
Dirección: Sebastián Blanco Leiss.
Labor: Diseño de Escenografía y Vestuario.
(Junto a Florencia Del Gener).
Teatro: Diagonal. Mar del Plata.
Ganador Premio Estrella de Mar 2009: Mejor obra del Circuito Off.
Teatro: ElKafka Espacio Teatral. Buenos Aires.
Fotos: Mariana Del Gener.
Galleri Slätten presents
(OBETITLAD) a solo exhibition by your always truly and faithful Loana Ibarra
Opening Friday 23 September at 18.00-22.00
Ahlmansgatan 20, Möllevången
Bienvälkommen må ni alla vara!
Facebook event more info
instagram loanaibarra
Goddag folks! if you've been tuning in, you know we like to wander down some pretty twisted paths, digging into stories, art, and people who well, who make you think, y’know? Today, we’re celebrating a man who made movies like dreams or nightmares. His name? Ingmar Bergman.
You see, Bergman wasn’t just your average director. No, no... he was a master of the mind. One of those felinos who could make you feel like you were standing in the middle of a storm, and the wind was just blowin' your thoughts all over the place. He made you face the hard stuff. The kind of stuff we all avoid, like death, despair and loneliness, all those places we try to ignore, but you can’t escape.
Born in Sweden, in the town of Uppsala, this guy, he had a wild vision. If you’ve ever seen The Magician (my personal favorite Bergman movie) or Cries and Whispers (which my mother saw a cold winter day in Switzerland as a youngster, one existential experience she can describe from tip to toe) or even the beloved Persona (the historical film tape burning, yeeeh!), you know what I’m talkin' about. He wasn’t afraid of silence, in fact, one of the most powerful moments in his films are when there ain't a word spoken. Just the heavy, lingering feeling of something big, y’know? He’d make you feel uncomfortable, but you couldn’t look away. Trapped in an elevator. Up and down we go with no exit sign.
Now, take The Seventh Seal, for instance. You got that knight, playing chess with Death, trying to figure out why we’re here, what it all means. It’s a lot like that old saying, ‘You can’t cheat Death,’ but Bergman put it all out there. He’s asking the big questions and sometimes, just sometimes, you gotta face them. You don’t get the easy answers in Bergman’s world.
Bergman didn’t just stop with the big stuff. He dove into relationships, too. Scenes from a Marriage — whew! That film’s like crackin’ open the door to someone’s private world. Ever tried to look at a relationship from the inside? The rawness of it all? Bergman was the man who wasn’t afraid to shine a light on all that... dark, complicated, beautiful stuff we keep tucked away. Tack Bergman, we owe you one, or two.
But let’s try to get the whole spectrum, he didn’t just stick to drama. This director, he got himself a reputation, sure, but it wasn’t all just storm clouds. In fact, he once said ‘I am not a religious man, but I am very religious.’ So there you go.
Ingmar Bergman’s films are like a mirror to your soul, reflecting all those pieces we try to hide. But then again, maybe we’re all looking for the same thing; peace, meaning, understanding. Whether you’re swinging from a dream or living through a nightmare, you just wanna know why the hell we’re here.
ink, watercolor on paper
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
Doctor, diva, freedom fighter and pianist who could make a single note feel like a courtroom verdict.
Funny thing… she was awarded an Honorary Doctor of Music and Humanities from the Curtis Institute of Music, the same school that had rejected her application years prior.
Vida. That’s Nina Simone.
QLHL 10
Quela Hora Llego con Benny Ibarra (Padre)
Photographer: Ernesto De la Vega “Kaede”
Nikon D90
Lens: 18 – 105
2011
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
#freestyle #abstractart #digitalart #modernart #design #contemporaryart #COLOR #accessories #unicità #creatività #raffreefly_vendita_opere #design #interiodesign #visualart #visualdesign #visualeffects #visualartist #wallpaper #cartadaparatiartistica #cartedaparati #arteinformado #thotaclub #eartesia #ecletticamente_arte #style #styleart #legadegliartisti #fantasyart
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04/07/2015 : Le Puy-Sainte-Réparade, Château La Coste : exposition Different Places (Sean Scully)
There are some people who don’t just belong to your life, they anchor it.
My grandmother was like that. Mexican poblana to the bone, warm as the sun at noon, beautiful and elegant, strong as cliffs in the sea, never afraid always stubborn, a steady as a hand on your shoulder when the ground won’t stop moving.
I grew up in motion. Countries stacking on top of countries, languages changing mid-sentence, schools coming and going like radio stations fading in and out. Two wildly eccentric parents, tuned permanently to their own frequency. It was beautiful and chaotic and confusing, all at once. The kind of childhood where you learn early how to pack fast, light and listen hard.
And through all that noise, there she was. She didn’t chase the chaos. She didn’t try to compete with it. She just stood. Solid. Radiant. Like the sun doesn’t argue with the weather, it just shows up and does its job. The way she looked at me was like the sweetest dream coming true.
When everything else felt temporary, she felt permanent.
When the world felt rented, she felt owned.
She was my best friend when I was small, and somehow, against all odds, she stayed my best friend when I grew up. That’s rare. Most people fall off somewhere between childhood and adulthood, but she crossed that border with me, no passport needed. She wrote me magical letters at least twice a month, letters traveling through the ocean.
She used to tell me,
“En mi corazón no pagas renta.”
In my heart, you don’t pay rent.
That’s not advice, that’s a philosophy. That’s a line you build a life around. It meant: you belong without conditions. You don’t owe explanations. You don’t have to earn your place. You can come and go, fall apart, change your name, change your country, forget your words, your room is still there.
She gave me security without ever calling it that. She fed it to me in food, in looks, in coffees, in culture, storytelling, in silence, in the way she listened like time had slowed down just for us. When everything else felt like it could disappear overnight, she made permanence feel possible. She read the news for me, but also big ones like Juan Rulfo, Góngora, Cervantes, Luis Borges, Angeles Mastretta, the beautiful lines of Garcia Lorca, Octavio Paz, the hysterical humor of Beckett, the deeps of Sor Juana Ines de la Cruz, Carlos Fuentes, Rosario Castellanos, and so on… the list is endless.
She was Home. Not the kind with walls and keys, but the kind that lives in a person. The kind that survives distance. The kind that doesn’t ask you to explain who you’ve become. It happens sometimes that I feel her smell, just like that, suddenly surrounding me, suddenly gone.
Some people are chapters. Some are footnotes. And some—if you’re lucky—are the chorus that keeps coming back, no matter how far the song wanders. She was that chorus. Sun-bright. Unmoving. And still playing, somewhere deep in the static.
Obra: La Ultima Cena.
Autor: Dan Rosen.
Dirección: Sebastián Blanco Leiss.
Labor: Diseño de Escenografía y Vestuario.
(Junto a Florencia Del Gener).
Teatro: Diagonal. Mar del Plata.
Ganador Premio Estrella de Mar 2009: Mejor obra del Circuito Off.
Teatro: ElKafka Espacio Teatral. Buenos Aires.
Temporada 2009.
Fotos: Mariana Del Gener.
A Glitch "Niqab (κερί) ~ Ètude IX”
This art piece were created for my PhD and based on a Digital and Analog Aesthetic Research on "Artistic Practices, Digital Art in Social Networks and Net Art", some digital techniques used of artistic diversity, such as the re-mixed appropriation of image or video, also work conceived as original data work called creative altered binary code, datamoshing, generative art and glitch art worked in all its forms and expressions; works of art with a strong focus decoding the i-frames of images and videos (also known as key frames and altered or distorted creative binary code) mixed with seductive techniques of Pixelsorting Art; making it seem extremely sensitive and abstract; created exclusively for the virtual gallery on-line.
by ™℗®© Louis M o n t i e l
NFT Crypto Digital Art
Marketplace on qurable.co : Buy, Shell & Explore Digital Assets
app.qurable.co/c-louis-montiel
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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
Obra: La Ultima Cena.
Autor: Dan Rosen.
Dirección: Sebastián Blanco Leiss.
Labor: Diseño de Escenografía y Vestuario.
(Junto a Florencia Del Gener).
Teatro: Diagonal. Mar del Plata.
Ganador Premio Estrella de Mar 2009: Mejor obra del Circuito Off.
Teatro: ElKafka Espacio Teatral. Buenos Aires.
Fotos: Mariana Del Gener.
Some say you don’t know where you’re going until you get there, and others say you ain’t anywhere at all unless somebody’s waiting for you.
But me?
I found myself on a Monday morning that looked suspiciously like a Sunday, sitting down out in the middle of a winter that didn’t bother to introduce itself.
Snow falling like forgotten postcards, wind blowing like it didn’t had someplace better to be. Cannot hear a car, a bluffer bus stop sign, just me and the sound of my shoes complaining as they sank a little deeper into the white.
You ever get that feeling? That peculiar, particular, peculiar feeling that you’ve wandered off the map your life drew for you and now you’re somewhere between “here” and “wherever”? It’s the kind of place they don’t put on travel brochures.
And as I’m sitting, waiting, trying to keep my fingers from turning into a set of ten little ice sculptures, I start thinking about how strange it is: you can be surrounded by miles of cold quiet, and still feel like someone is running towards you with a secret just out of range.
Getting lost doesn’t care about your plans, your promises, your doubts. It just shows up, drops its bags on the rug, and tells you it’s staying a while.
So here I am, no clue where, no roadmap, no compass, no jukebox humming a tune to guide me. Just breath like smoke signals, rising up to a sky too busy snowing to read them. And somehow in that cold, lonesome nowhere, I felt a little more like myself than I had in all the warm places I’d been.
Lost.
Today we are celebrating a kind that cuts through the fog and reminds you that you're alive. Jaimie Branch.
Some musicians play notes like they're arranging flowers in a vase. Jaimie Branch played them like she was trying to kick open a locked door. Her trumpet could sound like a parade coming apart at the seams, or a late-night conversation between people who knew too much and slept too little.
She came out of Chicago, one of those cities where the trains keep moving and the music never really stops. You can hear the streets in her records. You can hear machinery, laughter, arguments, celebrations, and the sound of somebody chasing a thought all the way to the edge of the horizon.
Now, jazz has always had room for dreamers, but every once in a while somebody comes along who treats the whole thing like a frontier town. That's what Branch did. She wasn't interested in polishing the silverware. She wanted to see what happened when everybody pulled their chairs back from the table and started dancing. “Take Over the World”, well, that ain’t a joke, more like a restless manifesto. Her music carried echoes of brass bands (“The Mountain”!), free jazz, punk clubs, folk melodies, protest marches, and long drives through places where the radio fades in and out. Somehow it all held together. Like the world itself on a good day.
There was joy in it. That's important. People talk about intensity, experimentation, and innovation. Those are fine words. But joy is harder to come by. Jaimie Branch had it. Even when the music sounded like it was balancing on a wire above a canyon, there was a grin behind it.
Jaimie Branch wasn't here long. In jazz terms, the age of 39 feels especially young. She had only released her breakthrough FLY or DIE albums a few years before her death, and many people felt she was still entering her prime as a composer and bandleader. I guess some musicians spend their lives learning how to say one true thing. Branch found a way to say ten before the next song even started. Her notes could sound like a city arguing with itself at midnight, or a lone bird crossing a winter sky. Some artists leave behind monuments. Others leave behind maps. The monuments tell you where they stood. The maps tell you where you might go next. Jaimie Branch left maps.
So if you're driving around, maybe nowhere in particular, roll down the window, let the wheels of your bike keep balancing and put on one of her records. Let that trumpet ride shotgun. It might not tell you where you're headed, but it'll remind you that the road is still there. And for today that's more than enough.
ink, watercolor on paper
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
He built a house right in the hiss. Today we celebrate David Lynch. Born under a sky that always looked like it had a secret it wasn’t telling. You don’t watch a David Lynch picture so much as you wander into it, like you took a wrong turn outside of town and the road decided not to forgive you.
Lynch made movies the way some folks make coffee at three in the morning: strong, black, and liable to show you things you weren’t planning on seeing. He understood that his country isn’t just a place, it’s a feeling. A jukebox glowing in the corner. A smile that lasts half a second too long. A lawn so green it starts to look suspicious.
David Lynch knows the dark doesn’t live way out there. It lives right behind the wallpaper. Sometimes it wears a leather jacket, sometimes it’s got lipstick on its teeth. Sometimes it talks backwards, just to make sure you’re paying attention. Lynch listens hard. To the hum of electricity. To the way silence leans in when nobody’s talking. He hears music where other folks just hear noise. That’s why his work feels like a song you don’t remember learning, but somehow know all the words to even the ugly ones.
They say dreams don’t mean anything. Lynch never bought that. He treats dreams like postcards from a town you used to live in, signed by someone you might’ve been. He doesn’t explain them, doesn’t clean them up, doesn’t apologize. He just lets them sit there on the table, smoking. And that’s important, because art isn’t here to tuck you in. It’s here to wake you up at 2 a.m. and ask you who you really are. Lynch gets that. Always did. He’s telling you that the mystery isn’t a problem, it’s the point.
So today, if you find yourself staring at the ceiling, hearing a low rumble like a distant engine, don’t worry. That’s just the frequency David Lynch broadcasts on. You don’t have to understand it. You just have to listen.
ink, watercolor on paper
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
Obra: La Ultima Cena.
Autor: Dan Rosen.
Dirección: Sebastián Blanco Leiss.
Labor: Diseño de Escenografía y Vestuario.
(Junto a Florencia Del Gener).
Teatro: Diagonal. Mar del Plata.
Ganador Premio Estrella de Mar 2009: Mejor obra del Circuito Off.
Teatro: ElKafka Espacio Teatral. Buenos Aires.
Temporada 2009.
Fotos: Mariana Del Gener.
Obra: La Ultima Cena.
Autor: Dan Rosen.
Dirección: Sebastián Blanco Leiss.
Labor: Diseño de Escenografía y Vestuario.
(Junto a Florencia Del Gener).
Teatro: Diagonal. Mar del Plata.
Ganador Premio Estrella de Mar 2009: Mejor obra del Circuito Off.
Teatro: ElKafka Espacio Teatral. Buenos Aires.
Fotos: Mariana Del Gener.
Discover the best and most profitable internet arts business ideas, opportunities for visual artists self promotion ideas and creation of successful arts business, entrepreneurship that will change your life, on path to financial freedom.
Today we celebrate the difference between a hit single and a soul that could fill a cathedral; Whitney Houston. Power. The kind that doesn’t need electricity. The kind that comes from somewhere deep inside.
Whitney Houston didn’t just sing the song, she was the song.
Born in Newark, New Jersey. August 9, 1963.
Her mother was gospel great Cissy Houston. Her cousin? Dionne Warwick. That’s not just a musical family tree. That’s a redwood forest of soul. Whitney started singing in church. Like a lot of folks do. But when she opened her mouth they say it was like the roof came off the place. That voice didn’t climb the scale, it soared. Like a hawk on a thermal. By the time Clive Davis saw her, it wasn’t a question of if she’d be famous, just how big. And she got big. Real big.
Her debut album came out in 1985. Sold millions. Hit after hit: “How Will I Know,” “Saving All My Love,” “Greatest Love of All.” Songs that played in diners, limousines, and middle school dances. Songs your neighbors played when cleaning the house and your cousin played when her heart got broken.
But it wasn’t just the charts. See, Whitney had that rare thing, a voice like a trumpet, a cello, and a Sunday morning all rolled into one. She took “The Star-Spangled Banner” and turned it into a spiritual. She took Dolly Parton's "I Will Always Love You" and turned it into a cathedral, if her a cappella seconds ain’t giving you goosebumps I don’t know what would. She filled that cathedral with fire, and grace, and heartbreak.
Power can be heavy. And fame can be a kind of weather, storms roll in, and they don’t always pass quickly. Houston had her struggles. Real ones. Public ones. The kind that make headlines, but also make heartache.
But don’t let the tabloids write the last verse.
Whitney Houston was, and always will be, one of the greatest singers this world has ever known. Her voice lives on in the echoes, in the remixes, in the people who try to sing like her… but never quite can.
So here’s one for Whitney. A voice like lightning. A spirit like thunder. A woman who sang like she meant it, every note, every breath.
ink, watercolor on paper
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
Obra: La Ultima Cena.
Autor: Dan Rosen.
Dirección: Sebastián Blanco Leiss.
Labor: Diseño de Escenografía y Vestuario.
(Junto a Florencia Del Gener).
Teatro: Diagonal. Mar del Plata.
Ganador Premio Estrella de Mar 2009: Mejor obra del Circuito Off.
Teatro: ElKafka Espacio Teatral. Buenos Aires.
Temporada 2009.
Fotos: Mariana Del Gener.
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16/07/2021 : Arles, rue de la Calade, fondation Manuel Rivera-Ortiz : exposition Les marques (Elsa Leydier/Michel Sedan)
Peter D. Gerakaris Partial Studio View (Winter, 2013). "Garden of Aquatic Delights Accordion Book," (foreground) and "Daphne" paintings (background).
More info at:
ReadArt NY Interview:
readartny.com/in-the-studio-with-peter-d-gerakaris-interv...
QLHL 32
Quela Hora Llego Dra Quela Márquez
Photographer: Ernesto De la Vega “Kaede”
Nikon D90
Lens: 18 – 105
2011
Esta foto se tomó en los predios del Hotel Hilton de Ponce. La joven es una modelo de pasarela, conocida mía que posó para una serie de trabajos que hice en octubre de 1998, pero no fue hasta enero de 2003 que trabajé con las ideas, modificando y haciendo cambios en el programa Photoshop. Todas las fotos en este album virtual son de la autoría y propiedad de Miguel_Conesa_Osuna, Artista Visual / Las mismas son parte de portafolios de ediciones limitadas de 50 ejemplares, firmados, fechados y enumerados por el artista.
This photo was taken on the grounds of the Ponce Hilton Hotel. The girl is a fashion model, an acquaintance of mine who posed for a sequence of works I did in October 1998, but it was not until January 2003 that worked with the images, modifying and making changes on the Photoshop program. These Photographs in this cyber album are of the authorship and property of Miguel_Conesa_Osuna, Visual Artist / These pictures are part of limited edition portfolio of 50 prints, signed, dated and numbered by the artist.
Obra: La Ultima Cena.
Autor: Dan Rosen.
Dirección: Sebastián Blanco Leiss.
Labor: Diseño de Escenografía y Vestuario.
(Junto a Florencia Del Gener).
Teatro: Diagonal. Mar del Plata.
Ganador Premio Estrella de Mar 2009: Mejor obra del Circuito Off.
Teatro: ElKafka Espacio Teatral. Buenos Aires.
Fotos: Mariana Del Gener.