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Directed by Mika Johnson; Cinematography by Slim Amdjm; Sound by Sophia Attebery; Color Grading by Ajay Kulkarni. Filmed in Libotenice, Czech Republic. Special Thanks to Prague Film School.
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
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.”
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
"WE LIVE BEYOND OUR MEANS Of Understanding"--Wyatt Matturs--/ OSAW (OneStrokeArtWater) MRI (MysteryRepeatsItself) The World's First Bowhammer Cymbalom CD "Radically Repurposed" For Surreal Form, Spectral Figure, & Haunted Face-Lift From 'Flared' Bodies Of Water (Sea, Lake, Creek, Puddle) Still, Or Moving, In Conditions Of Light (Street, Moon, Sun) --This One: Strawberry Creek / Berkeley California
MAIN GALLERY CURATION IN PROGRESS (From Thousands)
Neck (site-specific sculpture)
Year: 2005
Materials: polyurethane, acrylic, glitter flake, feather boas, faux pearls, felt, rope, cardboard
Dimensions: 118 x 54 x 54 inches
Information: For my 1-month residency at BUILD, I presented “Neck”, that I assembled at the gallery site. Combining experimental materials such as glitter-flaked polyurethane, feather boas, and faux pearls I created a large-scale sculpture that evoked the cheap luster associated with child Beauty Pageants, celebrity tabloids, and the tawdry unsolved murder of JonBenet Ramsey. I activated the space with an imposing piece that drew its inspiration from dark source material, but maintained a lighter-than-air opulence that spoke to my interests in extravagant impulses and transmogrified beauty.
CICERO-Foyergespräch mit dem Künstler Markus Lüpertz und den CICERO-Redakteuren Christoph Schwennicke und Alexander Marguier;
Nikon D810, 70-200mm f/2,8
Blog | goo.gl/Spcsgf
Web | avriahartworkz.blogspot.com/
Instagram | @angelateido | goo.gl/qzqK5I
Purchased Here | goo.gl/GPLxJN
🎂 Sara Danius
watercolor ink on paper
”Jag behöver inte städa upp i detta som alla mina föregångare, som råkar vara män, har fått oss att hamna i under ett tjugotal år. Städa upp kan de göra själva.”
Professor Sara Danius started her career as a journalist and writer. In 2015 she was the first woman ever to become the permanent secretary of the Swedish Academy. 2018, after a sex scandal within #metoo involving the Swedish Academy, Danius decided to leave her chair. Sara Danius died the year after at the age of 57.
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
instagram loanaibarra
Original Caption: 1/11/44-Paris, France: Picasso leans from the window of his two-story occupation of the city, this studio was headquarters for a group of anti-Nazi poets, writers, critics, musicians as well as artists.
Floating on the breeze between the sky and your screen. Today we are gonna take a walk, maybe barefoot, maybe in boots, maybe on sandals — through the tangled, leafy trail where nature and art meet.
Some people think art is all about paint on canvas or words on a page. But long before there was a museum or a gallery, there was a cave wall and a handful of ochre. Somebody took a stick, dipped it in the earth, and drew a bison, probably just outside the cave where the bison actually walked.
That's art imitating life or maybe life imitating a wild dream.
You ever look at a tree and think, "Man, that branch looks like it's reaching for something?" Well, that’s nature’s sculpture. Every curve, every knot, every broken limb—it tells a story. That same kind of reaching, yearning, that's what artists do. Painters, poets, pickers of guitars… they’re all trying to catch something that’s moving too fast to hold.
Take Vincent van Gogh, Dutch fella, cut off his ear, sure, but more than that, he painted wheat fields like they had souls. He saw the wind and painted it in color. He didn’t paint nature as it was, he painted how it felt to stand in it.
You ever stood under a thunderstorm and felt like writing a song? You’re not alone. The birds do it every morning, we just try to keep up.
Now you see, art doesn’t just come from nature it is nature. A tree grows, a song grows. They both start small and need a little rain, a little struggle, and maybe a little love to become something worth sharing.
And sometimes, nature fights back. Ask the people who built cities outta steel and found vines crawling up the windows by spring. Or the painter who tries to copy a flower and finds it wilting before the brush even touches the canvas. That’s nature’s way of saying: "You can borrow me, but you can’t own me."
So next time you’re feeling stuck go outside. Watch the clouds. Smell the rain. Touch the bark of an old tree. Nature is the first artist, and she doesn’t charge admission.
We’re just echoes. Scribbles in the margins.
//keep your ears open and your eyes full. Your always walking Loana Ibarra
watercolor, ink on paper.
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
In February 2006 Craig Tracy opened the PaintedAlive Gallery in his home city, New Orleans, La, USA. PaintedAlive is the first gallery in the world dedicated exclusively to fine art Bodypainted images. But where did his passion for using the human body as a canvas start?
Read on...
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
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24/06/2012 : Marseille 3e, bd National / rue de Strasbourg, îlot National : exposition Une collection de collections (Maryvonne Arnaud et Philippe Mouillon)
collection de stylos publicitaires (Babeth Camilleri)
Frida Kahlo: The Exotification of an Icon
Frida Kahlo has become one of the most recognizable and celebrated artists of the 20th century, but as her popularity continues to grow, so too does the trend of exotifying her image. In many ways, Kahlo's powerful, raw, and emotionally complex art has been relegated to the background, while her public persona and visual image have taken center stage. This phenomenon of "Kahlo-mania" risks turning her into a mere cultural commodity, stripping her of the nuanced identity she carefully crafted in both her personal life and her artistic practice. Very few out there may not even know that during her lifetime she never achieved to sell an artwork and that she had to support herself teaching art at the art academy in Mexico. For ages.
At the heart of this exotification is the way Kahlo's physical appearance and cultural identity have been reduced to a set of easily digestible symbols. A souvenir. Her iconic unibrow, bold lip color, traditional Tehuana dresses, and long, flowing hair have been romanticized, commodified, and ultimately flattened into signifiers of an idealized, "otherworldly" mexican femininity. These elements of her image are often detached from their cultural context—specifically, her deep connection to Mexican heritage and her revolutionary political ideals—and transformed into a visual shorthand for the "exotic" or "primitive”.
She was deeply involved in the Mexican Communist Party and had a nuanced understanding of class struggles and Indigenous rights, but these aspects of her identity rarely make it into the commercialized versions of her legacy, such as the knowledge that her mother was a very strict, catholic and conservative woman born in Oaxaca, Mexico of Indigenous and Spanish descent and her father was born in Germany and emigrated to Mexico when he was eighteen. Does this had any influence on her way of expressing herself? Instead, her image is hijacked to sell everything from fashion to cosmetics, often divorcing her from the very causes she championed.
This reduction of Kahlo to an aesthetic has profound implications. It risks turning her into a muse for the masses, whose powerful and revolutionary works are seen as little more than visual metaphors for a vaguely defined "otherness" rather than political, personal, or emotional statements. As Kahlo’s image circulates across fashion magazines, t-shirts, and even murals in tourist hotspots, the deeper themes of her are eclipsed. This depoliticization is particularly troubling considering Kahlo’s fierce engagement with the world around her, both as an artist and an activist.
In this sense, the exoticization of Kahlo's image can be understood as a form of cultural appropriation, where the elements of her identity are extracted, distilled, and consumed in ways that erase the specificity and depth of her work. The Frida Kahlo who appears on a t-shirt or a mug is not the same as the complex, self-aware woman challenged the norms of her time.
To truly engage with Kahlo's legacy, we must move beyond the commodified image of her as an "exotic" icon. Her art deserves a deeper, more thoughtful examination that challenges our assumptions and encourages us to reckon with the often messy realities of her life and work. Instead of embracing the shallow, marketable image of Frida Kahlo, we should strive to understand the complexities of her artistic expression.
The quote "I hope the exit is joyful - and I hope never to return" is attributed to Frida Kahlo. She wrote these words in her diary shortly before her death.
Well, the exist maybe turned out joyful, but her wish on hopping never to return is indeed a utopia.
ink watercolor on paper
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Ralf is a talented visual artist. The hat he is wearing is the one he wears when painting with water colour. Ralf's favourite place to paint is out in nature and he uses the water from his surroundings to infuse in his piece of work to bring nature to the collector.
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...
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08/04/2017 : Le Puy-Sainte-Réparade, Château La Coste : exposition Mountains and Seas (Ai Weiwei)
With Passport
CICERO-Foyergespräch mit dem Künstler Markus Lüpertz und den CICERO-Redakteuren Christoph Schwennicke und Alexander Marguier;
Nikon D810, 70-200mm f/2,8
Today we celebrate the beloved Federico García Lorca. One glance at him and you wished you could spend a couple of hours with his gentility.
Some people are born in cities. Some are born in countries. Lorca was born in a landscape. Southern Spain. Olive trees, white walls, horses standing around like they know something you don't.
You know, there are poets who write about the moon, and then there are poets who seem to have been personally visited by it. Lorca belonged to that second category. The moon in his poems isn't decoration. It's a traveler. A witness. Sometimes it's a warning sign nailed to the sky.
He came into the world in 1898, just as one century was folding up its maps and another was sharpening its knives. He played piano, loved folk songs, wandered through old melodies the way some people wander through old neighborhoods. He understood that a song can carry history farther than a speech.
Lorca once wrote about something called duende. Hard thing to translate. Not a technique. Not talent. Not inspiration. More like the mysterious force that shows up when art stops being polite and starts telling the truth. The thing that makes the hairs stand up on the back of your neck. The thing that can't be bought, borrowed, or taught in a classroom. When dancing flamenco you’ve got to think of “el duende” too.
He had friends who painted pictures that looked like dreams after too much coffee. Friends who made films where reality seemed to forget its own rules. The twentieth century was arriving, and Lorca was standing in the doorway holding it open.
Then he went to New York. Now that's a long trip—from Andalusian villages to steel canyons and electric signs. He saw the city at a moment when money seemed to be speaking louder than people. The poems he wrote there weren't postcards. They were weather reports from the soul.
History, of course, has a habit of interrupting poets. When civil war descended on Spain, it arrived with uniforms, rifles, and certainties. Poets tend to make people nervous when times get that way. Lorca was killed in 1936, not far from the landscape that had first taught him how to listen.
But here's the thing about poets. They keep missing their own funerals. A song gets sung. A poem gets opened. A young person reads a line and suddenly feels less alone. And there you are again. The olive trees are still standing. The moon still makes its rounds.
Somewhere today, somebody is reading Lorca for the first time and discovering that beauty and sorrow have always shared the same room.
And that's Federico García Lorca.
—
Fabula y Rueda de los Tres Amigos
Enrique,
Emilio,
Lorenzo.
Estaban los tres helados:
Enrique por el mundo de las camas;
Emilio por el mundo de los ojos y las heridas de las manos,
Lorenzo por el mundo de las universidades sin tejados.
Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique.
Estaban los tres quemados:
Lorenzo por el mundo de las hojas y las bolas de billar;
Emilio por el mundo de la sangre y los alfileres blancos,
Enrique por el mundo de los muertos y los periódicos abandonados.
Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique.
Estaban los tres enterrados:
Lorenzo en un seno de Flora;
Emilio en la yerta ginebra que se olvida en el vaso,
Enrique en la hormiga, en el mar y en los ojos vacíos de los pájaros.
Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique.
Fueron los tres en mis manos
tres montañas chinas,
tres sombras de caballo,
tres paisajes de nieve y una cabaña de azucenas
por los palomares donde la luna se pone plana bajo el gallo.
Uno
y uno
y uno.
Estaban los tres momificados,
con las moscas del invierno,
con los tinteros que orina el perro y desprecia el vilano,
con la brisa que hiela el corazón de todas las madres,
por los blancos derribos de Júpiter donde meriendan muerte los borrachos.
Tres
y dos
y uno.
Los vi perderse llorando y cantando
por un huevo de gallina,
por la noche que enseñaba su esqueleto de tabaco,
por mi dolor lleno de rostros y punzantes esquirlas de luna,
por mi alegría de ruedas dentadas y látigos,
por mi pecho turbado por las palomas,
por mi muerte desierta con un solo paseante equivocado.
Yo había matado la quinta luna
y bebían agua por las fuentes los abanicos y los aplausos.
Tibia leche encerrada de las recién paridas
agitaba las rosas con un largo dolor blanco.
Enrique,
Emilio,
Lorenzo.
Diana es dura,
pero a veces tiene los pechos nublados.
Puede la piedra blanca latir en la sangre del ciervo
y el ciervo puede soñar por los ojos de un caballo.
Cuando se hundieron las formas puras
bajo el cri cri de las margaritas,
comprendí que me habían asesinado.
Recorrieron los cafés y los cementerios y las iglesias,
abrieron los toneles y los armarios,
destrozaron tres esqueletos para arrancar sus dientes de oro.
Ya no me encontraron.
¿No me encontraron?
No. No me encontraron.
Pero se supo que la sexta luna huyó torrente arriba,
y que el mar recordó ¡de pronto!,
los nombres de todos sus ahogados.
//1929, F. Garcia Lorca
—
Fable and Round of the Three Friends
Enrique,
Emilio,
Lorenzo,
the three of them frozen:
Enrique by the world of beds;
Emilio by the world of eyes and wounded hands;
Lorenzo by the world of roofless universities.
Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique,
the three of them burned:
Lorenzo by the world of leaves and billiard balls;
Emilio by the world of blood and white pins;
Enrique by the world of the dead and abandoned newspapers.
Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique,
the three of them buried:
Lorenzo in one of Flora's breasts;
Emilio in the dead gin forgotten in the glass;
Enrique in the ant, the sea, and the empty eyes of birds.
Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique,
the three in my hands were
three Chinese mountains,
three shadows of a horse,
three landscapes of snow and a cabin of white lilies
by the pigeon coops where the moon lies flat under the rooster.
One
and one
and one,
the three of them mummified,
with the flies of winter,
with the inkwells the dog pisses and the thistle despises,
with the breeze that freezes the eart of all the mothers,
by the white ruins of Jupiter where drunks snack on death.
Three
and two
and one,
I saw them disappear, crying and singing
into a hen's egg,
into the night that showed its skeleton of tobacco,
into my sorrow full of faces and piercing bone splinters of moon,
into my happiness of whips and notched wheels,
into my breast troubled by pigeons,
into my deserted death with one mistaken wanderer.
I had killed the fifth moon
and the fans and the applause drank water from the fountains.
Hidden away, the warm milk of newborn girls,
shook the roses with a long white sorrow.
Enrique,
Emilio,
Lorenzo,
Diana is hard,
but somtimes she has breasts of clouds.
The white stone can beat in the blood of a deer
and the deer can dream through the eyes of a horse.
When the pure forms sank
under the cri cri of daisies
I understood they had murdered me.
They searched the cafés and the graveyards and churches,
they opened the wine casks and wardrobes,
they destroyed three skeletons to pull out their gold teeth.
Still they couldn't fine me.
They couldn't?
No. They couldn't.
But they learned the sixth moon fled against the torrent,
and the sea remembered, suddenly,
the names of all her drowned.
//1929, F. Garcia Lorca
ink, watercolor on paper
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
- El arte de extender -
Extension is what happens when something refuses to stop right where it’s told. A road that keeps going past the city limits. A hand that stays out a second longer, hoping someone else will take it. You ask for a little more time, and time, if it’s in a good mood, slides you an extension cord and says, Don’t trip over it.
People are always asking for extensions. On rent. On love. On promises they made when they thought they knew who they were. You can extend a deadline, but you can’t extend yesterday. Yesterday packed up and left without leaving a forwarding address.
An extension can be a kindness or a warning. The teacher gives you an extension, and suddenly you learn how long a week really is. The doctor gives you an extension, and you start noticing the way the light hits the kitchen table in the morning. Same word, different weight.
There are things we extend without thinking. Our voices across a room. Our shadows at sunset. Our lives into the lives of other people, whether we mean to or not. Every story you tell is an extension of the one before it, reaching back like a line of boxcars disappearing into the dark.
And a painting, that’s an extension too. A brushstroke held just long enough to say what the words can’t. You don’t want it to end, but it has to. Even extensions run out eventually. That’s how you know they mattered.
Sometimes the universe says -I’ll give you a little more. Don’t waste it.
//painting process on canvas,detail
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On Thursday 30th June, dot-art ran it's first Introduction to Life Drawing day, led by Roy Munday in Liverpool City Centre. Life model Arthur posed for participants, who were taught the basic skills required, and given individual tuition and feedback.