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In winter, here in Sweden, we learn to notice the sun the way other people notice rare birds.
It’s not background, it’s an event.
When it finally slips past the low horizon and finds its way through a window, the whole house seems to pause.
The light doesn’t just land; it arrives, slow and deliberate, washing over the floor, climbing the walls, catching on the frames of paintings like it’s checking them out one by one.
For a moment, everything looks chosen, intentional.
You move your chair an inch to the left, just to be in it. There’s a quiet reverence to it, rambling, warm, half-myth, half-weather report.
Nobody says much.
You just let the sun play its brief set, knowing it won’t encore, and that makes it matter more.
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
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.
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
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
A Glitch "Ushás ( θεά του πόθου ) ~ Ètude II”
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Cock Park Restaurant Branding Design By #Akib_Sarder
This Project On:
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A Glitch "Code de Données Burqa Tchador ~ 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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“urge to sad whimpering to understand in a thousand kaleidoscopic possibilities with the feeling of homelessness” -Bruno Schulz
There are artists who build cathedrals out of marble, and there are artists who build them out of dust. The dust usually lasts longer. Somewhere in a provincial town where the clocks seemed embarrassed to announce the hour, there lived a schoolteacher who understood that the shortest distance between memory and myth was not a straight line but a spiral. That’s Bruno Schulz.
Bruno Schulz spent his days teaching schoolchildren, but after hours he seemed to report to another employer entirely. Call it imagination, call it mythology, call it insomnia with excellent penmanship. Whatever the payroll looked like, it paid him in visions rather than certainty.
His stories don't describe the world so much as persuade it to reveal a second skin. Tailor shops become temples. Closets conceal entire climates. Ordinary conversations drift into scripture before anyone notices. Reading him is like discovering that your own childhood had a secret biography it never bothered to show you. He wrote as though furniture had secret ambitions. Wardrobes dreamed of becoming forests. Fathers molted into birds, insects, prophets, or all three before breakfast. Reality was never dismissed; it was merely persuaded to remove its overcoat. His paintings and murals followed the same law. Figures emerged from walls as if the plaster itself had remembered them. Color was never decoration but sediment, the residue left behind after dreams evaporated. Every brushstroke suggested that civilization was only a thin coat of varnish spread over older ceremonies.
Then there were the drawings. Delicate, obsessive, impossible to mistake for anyone else's. Women towered with theatrical confidence while men shrank into willing attendants, pilgrims kneeling before impossible altars. Boots gleamed like religious relics. Gloves, corsets, mirrors, polished floors—all the ordinary props of domestic life quietly enlisted into rituals of power and surrender. They unsettled polite audiences not because they shouted, but because they whispered with complete conviction. Desire was not hidden beneath symbolism; symbolism itself became desire.
It's tempting to pin labels on such images, to file them under psychology, biography, pathology, or scandal. But labels are the taxidermy of criticism. Once you've named the animal, you stop watching it move. These drawings refuse that convenience. They're theatrical, intimate, humorous, and faintly ridiculous all at once, reminding us that power often dresses itself in costume before entering the room.
His visual art never illustrated his stories, nor did the stories explain the drawings. They circled one another like twin moons sharing the same gravity without ever colliding. Ink borrowed from dreams; language borrowed from charcoal. One hand remembered what the other had forgotten. He seemed suspicious of the modern appetite for novelty. Every fashionable revolution promises a brand-new world, shrink-wrapped and ready for display. Yet the truly enduring image is usually old enough to have gathered dust before anyone noticed its value. Culture has a habit of confusing the latest with the lasting, mistaking market excitement for revelation. But genuine imagination isn't manufactured on an assembly line or unveiled beneath gallery lighting with complimentary wine. It arrives quietly, carrying yesterday's myths inside tomorrow's suitcase. Even now, the surviving works feel less like relics than dispatches from a neighboring country whose borders only appear after midnight. They ask whether memory invents reality or reality merely imitates memory. They refuse to answer, preferring to let the question wander through empty streets beneath flickering lamps.
Some artists leave behind masterpieces. Others leave behind weather. Bruno Schulz’ work still changes the atmosphere whenever you enter it. You don't simply look at those drawings or read those pages. Before long, they're looking back at you, measuring your certainty, wondering how much of your ordinary life is merely another elaborate costume waiting for the lights to dim.
ink, watercolor on paper
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
A Glitch "Corps Voluptis Pygophilia (pygophilia) ~ 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
NFT Crypto Digital Art
Marketplace on qurable.co : Buy, Shell & Explore Digital Assets
app.qurable.co/c-louis-montiel
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Woman chalk drawing on bricks
All my photographs are copyright protected, If you wish to use my photos please contact me and we can discuss usage fees.
©Jim Corwin_All Rights Reserved 2019 Contact me at jscorwin@mac.com or visit my PhotoShelter site using the link Jim Corwin Photography on my Profile Page.
My website is jimcorwin.photoshelter.com
My E-Mail Address is jscorwin@mac.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.
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.
Casting through a pane of scratched-up evening glass somewhere in a city where the fluorescent lights hum like tired angels and the paintings stare back at nobody in particular.
You got that strip across the window there, “GLASPÅGARNA.” Sounds less like a business and more like a lost folk trio that opened for somebody in Malmö in 1964. Phone number printed over and over like a mantra. Like the world’s trying to remind itself who to call when things break. And things always break. Windows, hearts, treaties, paintbrushes, guitar strings, voices. Sometimes all before lunch.
Paintings hanging quiet on the walls. Faces with mustaches, masks, saints, outlaws. Could be revolutionaries. Could be bartenders. Hard to tell anymore. Art galleries and police lineups have always had a certain family resemblance.
And the tape crossing the window? That’s maybe the real poetry. Somebody cracked something open and now they’re trying to hold the whole world together with adhesive and good intentions. That tape says: “Fragile. Back soon. Don’t lean too hard.”
You’d see your reflection in a storefront window and for a second you wouldn’t know whether you were outside looking in, or inside trying to get out.
There’s a loneliness to this picture, but not the bad kind. The useful kind. The kind that leaves room for memory to sit down beside you and light a cigarette.
Glass.
Glass houses.
Shot glasses.
Hourglasses.
Looking glasses. Tennessee Williams said time is the longest distance between two places. But sometimes that distance is only as thick as a windowpane.
So wherever you are today, walking home under buzzing streetlights, sweeping up the pieces, or just staring through the glass at a life you almost recognize, well, keep going. We’ll be here until the signal fades.
Simple.
Direct.
Effective.
Two little words that can change your whole day
— “Hands Up.”
Now, sometimes it’s the law yelling it. Sometimes it’s the preacher. Sometimes it’s the rhythm that gets you, and your hands just go up without you even thinking about it.
It’s a phrase that’s been shouted in bank robberies, whispered in bedrooms, sung in nightclubs, and printed on protest signs. It’s a surrender. A celebration. A command. A confession.
Explore the raised hand in all its musical incarnations. From stick-up men, to gospel choirs, from reggae riddims to disco floors where everybody’s hands are in the air and they just don’t care.
Sin and redemption. Of power and submission.
Of dancing and defiance. And maybe a few surprises in between. Ait’, it’s Friday, pour yourself a cup of something warm or something cold. Put your feet up or maybe keep them ready to move. And get ready to throw your hands up —in joy, in surrender, in solidarity, or maybe just to catch the spirit.
//your always past ain't past, Loana Ibarra, where the music on paper is always ready to testify.
Peter D. Gerakaris, Terrarium Tondo III, 16 in. diameter,
Oil on canvas over panel, 2011, Art In Embassies Permanent Collection (Libreville, Gabon)
More info at:
I have always felt that Jim Morrison's poetry represents one of the most compelling extensions of rock music into literature. His poems possess the same lonely strength that defines many of his performances—isolated, yet intensely alive, as though they emerge from a place where vulnerability and defiance coexist. They feel as raw and sweaty as his leather pants on stage, carrying an almost physical intensity, while remaining as sensual and immersive as the compositions of The Doors. His words pulse with rhythm even in silence, transforming the page into a space where music continues to resonate without the need for instruments.
Rather than separating the poet from the rock singer, I see Morrison's poetry as allowing the music to continue beyond melody and performance. His writing is filled with recurring images of desire, death, freedom, and transcendence, themes that also shape his songs. Reading his poems is like entering the same dreamlike landscape found in tracks such as "Dead Cats, Dead Rats", "The End" or "Riders on the Storm", where symbolism, mythology, and personal revelation intertwine. The cadence of his language, the intensity of his metaphors, and the openness of his imagery preserve the spirit of rock while inviting a slower, more contemplative engagement from the reader.
What fascinates me most is that Morrison never seemed interested in drawing a strict boundary between literature and music. Instead, he treated poetry as another stage on which to perform his vision of the world. His poems are not lyrics stripped of melody, nor are they conventional literary exercises; they exist somewhere in between, occupying a unique artistic space where sound, image, and emotion become inseparable. On the page, the rhythm survives in his imagery, his mysticism, and his uncompromising emotional intensity, making his poetry not an escape from rock music but its natural continuation. In this sense, Morrison demonstrates that rock music can transcend performance and become a lasting literary experience, one that continues to challenge, seduce, and resonate long after the final note has faded.
Up: “The Beat Generation. The Tumultuous’ 50’s. Movement and Its Impact on Today”, Bruce Cook. p. 226
Down: Bilingual Spanish-English “The American Night”, “Wilderness. The lost writings of Jim Morrison” bought in Cholula, Puebla 2003 a sunny afternoon en la plaza. Blingual Spanish-English “An American Prayer”, a Christmas present from mom 2004.
Snow. The kind that settles over memory. The kind that lands on a Japanese rooftop at dusk and stays there long after the footsteps are gone. Today we celebrate Yasunari Kawabata.
Kawabata was born in Osaka in 1899, and by the time most boys were learning how to whistle or throw a baseball, he'd already learned something else: how quickly people can disappear. His parents died when he was young. Then his grandparents. One by one, the lamps went out. Some people spend their lives trying to forget loneliness. Kawabata took loneliness, sat it down at the table, poured it a cup of tea, and listened to what it had to say.
You know, some writers build cathedrals. Some build battleships. Kawabata built paper lanterns. Small things. Delicate things. Things that seemed like they might blow away in the wind. But somehow they're still glowing. When you read him, you enter a world of mountain inns, falling snow, distant train whistles, women glimpsed through shoji screens, and men who realize too late that beauty was standing right beside them all along. It's a world where silence isn't empty. Silence is part of the conversation.
His novel “Snow Country” begins with a train emerging from a tunnel. That's a good way to enter Kawabata's world: passing from one realm into another. The ordinary slips away and suddenly every gesture, every glance, every drifting snowflake seems charged with meaning. Now, Kawabata wasn't interested in heroes conquering kingdoms. He was interested in moments. A sleeve brushing against a sleeve. A face reflected in a train window. The sadness that arrives just as something beautiful appears. He understood that beauty and loss often travel together, like two musicians sharing the same bus.
In 1968, he became the first Japanese writer to receive the Nobel Prize in Literature. The judges praised his ability to express the essence of the Japanese mind. Maybe that's true. But readers from everywhere recognize something in his work. Because grief doesn't need a passport. Neither does longing. The thing about Kawabata is that he never seems to raise his voice. The century around him was full of wars, revolutions, machines, and noise. Yet he wrote as though he were listening for a single bell ringing across a valley at twilight. And if you listen closely, you can still hear it.
So wherever you are standing right now, spare a thought for Yasunari Kawabata. He knew that life is fragile, beauty is fleeting, and memory is often all we have left. Sometimes that's enough.
ink, watercolor on paper
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
GLANCING GABRIEL. Rosario, Cavite Province, Philippines. Photograph by J.A. Austria, 2009.
Waiting for their turn in the liturgy, a teen-age Caviteno dressed as an archangel glances at the austere beauty of a young lady playing the role of the Virgin Mary. The "Panunuluyan" is a traditional re-enactment of the infancy narratives, in particular Joseph and Mary's frustrating search for a place to stay in Bethlehem. In the past Cavitenos used to accompany the couple, bring with them paper laterns shaped like stars, or rabbits etc. It is now practically extinct (except in the town of Kawit and in a commercialized form at that) and is being replaced by abbreviated, modern versions such as this one incorporated within the mass.
New Orleans bodypainter sat down with us for an interview in issue 13 of A Distinctive Style Magazine.
See the interview here: www.adistinctivestyle.com/issue/22468/9
Imagine a dialogue of live video art, contemporary music instruments, scent and performance art. A group of Greek artists from different disciplines come together for one single and unique performance, acting and reacting to their senses. You are invited to experience the Monologue Dialogue with your eyes, ears and nose.
www.mediamatic.net/en/page/368174/monologue-dialogue
Photographer: Margherita Soldati
My Day at Glance 2026
Tadanori Yokoo to the left 1965
Nils Dardel to the right 1921
show finito finale