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Today we’re tuning the dial somewhere between the Gulf breeze and a neon jukebox glow… down where the rhythm rolls in like tidewater and the accordion sighs like it’s remembering something you forgot. We’re talking about a man who wore dark glasses like he was shielding himself from the future or maybe from the past. Name of Rigo Tovar.
Rigo Tovar came out of Matamoros, Mexico which sits right there on the edge of things. Border towns are funny that way, half dream, half echo. You get music drifting across the river like contraband moonlight. And Tovar, well, he picked it all up. Cumbia, rock ’n’ roll, a little soul, a little street dust, shook it up and sent it back out dressed in rhinestones. They called it tropical, but it wasn’t just palm trees and postcards. This was electric. This was a working man’s Saturday night, shoes tapping on concrete, radio buzzing on a kitchen shelf. He had a voice that didn’t ask acceptance, it just walked right in, sat down, and told you it understood.
You ever hear a song that sounds like it’s smiling and aching at the same time? That’s where he lived. Tovar wore those shades, always those shades. Some said it was the lights, some said it was something deeper. Fame can be bright enough to blind you, and sometimes a man builds his own night just to survive the day. But behind them, you got the feeling he was watching everything, every dancer, every heartbreak, every lonely beer bottle lined up like soldiers on a table.
He took the old sounds, the kind your grandmother might hum while sweeping the floor, and ran them through amplifiers until they could fill a stadium. And people came. Oh, they came. Thousands. Like revival meetings, only instead of sermons you got basslines. Instead of confession, you got movement. And that’s the thing about Rigo Tovar, he didn’t just play music. He made a place. A place where borders blurred, where the past got a new suit, where tomorrow showed up early and stayed late.
But like a lot of bright comets, he burned fast and strange. Fame, illness, isolation—they all come knocking eventually. Even the loudest music has to make room for silence. Still, those songs, they don’t go quiet. They travel. They slip into weddings, street corners, late-night drives, sitting on the bus with strangers through chaotic mexican traffic. They outlive the man, like they always do.
So if you’re out there and you hear something drifting up from far away: accordion, guitar, a rhythm that feels like it knows your name, that might just be Rigo Tovar. And if it is… don’t turn it down. Let it play.
ink, watercolor on paper
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
My Day at Glance 2026
Tadanori Yokoo to the left 1965
Nils Dardel to the right 1921
show finito finale
Little Red looks on as the a candelabra comes to life in the background. These one-of-a-kind hand-made sculptures both found homes in the Shreveport area.
Permission granted from artist for photos. Release from artist available, if needed.
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.
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04/07/2015 : Le Puy-Sainte-Réparade, Château La Coste : exposition Different Places (Sean Scully)
A Glitch "Stuprum Colore (apoplánisi sto chróma) ~ Ètude V”
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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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.
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.
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08/04/2017 : Le Puy-Sainte-Réparade, Château La Coste : exposition Mountains and Seas (Ai Weiwei)
All Fingers Must Point Down
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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 d'art populaire sud-africain (Guy-André Lagesse)
A Glitch "Voluptas (ευχαρίστηση) ~ Ètude II”
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 #error #glitchartists #glitchartcommunity #glitchartistcollective #glitchartist #pixelsortingart #proceduralart #creativecodeart #glitchportrait
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.
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!”
9 El Corazon
9/54
instagram loanaibarra
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
A Glitch "Code de Données Burqa Tchador ~ Ètude IV”
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 #error #glitchartists #glitchartcommunity #glitchartistcollective #glitchartist #pixelsortingart #proceduralart #creativecodeart #glitchportrait
Commemorative art work, produced by Helene Gilmore through dot-art, featuring the winning entries of a poetry competition at local schools.
This is me and my mother doing one of the many things we like doing together, for ages, long before it was a thing. Winder bathing, no sauna, because I really dislike it, and only happening in Varberg, because it is actually the BestCoast.
You know, out on the Swedish west coast, where the wind’s got a salt-bitten whistle and the gulls complain like they’re owed back taxes, there’s a little custom my mother and I keep up with. A custom older than those granite cliffs, or at least old enough that nobody remembers who first said, ‘Let’s jump into the ocean the whole year round.’
We call it vinterbad. Winter bathing. Though “bathing” makes it sound gentle. But this… this is more like making a deal with the North Sea. A handshake so cold it burns in the most pleasant way. One of the best winter bath I’ve taken was last year before a snow storm, it was heavily windy, the waves were high as a kite, it was warmer in the water than on land and it was the first time I couldn’t feel my own skin. I was nonexistent. I loved it.
No hesitation, no rehearsal. Just a tumble into that steel-blue deep where the temperature hovers somewhere between “brisk” and “questionable life choices.” It wakes you up. It slows time down till you can hear your own heartbeat arguing with the cold and your breathing making it all work. It cleans you up from inside out. You leave all your problems, your fears, your negativity and let the gentle and understanding sea take care of it, and you.
I say it’s good for your existens. You know, I’ve always thought your essence doesn’t care how cold the water is, it just wants you to feel something.
And after the plunge, we stand there like Buddha under the Bodhi tree, sipping coffee that tastes like it was brewed in heaven by a god with cold fingers. We laugh. We shiver. We smile. We talk about life. And for a moment, we are alive in the same bright way.
So that’s vinterbad, friends, this time the water temperature was still warm, 7 degrees, the best is to come… around zero, perhaps even with snow falling down to enjoy the ride.
Is good to jump in the big eternal beautiful and savage sea to remember how warm the other side can be.
/stay sane, your always hedonistic Loana Ibarra
Peter D. Gerakaris, Terrarium Tondo IV, 16 in. diameter,
Oil on canvas over panel, 2011, Art In Embassies Permanent Collection (Libreville, Gabon)
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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 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.
You know, some voices don’t just sing to you, they stand in the doorway, hat in hand, and tell you the truth whether you asked for it or not. Today we celebrate Johnny Cash, one of those voices. Sounded like it had been carved out off oak, dipped in river water, and left out under a midnight sky in Arkansas.
Johnny Cash came up from Kingsland, born in 1932, cotton fields and gospel hymns ringing in his ears. The radio was his first compass. You can hear that in the records: the old spirituals, the Carter Family harmonies, the freight-train rhythms that rolled through the South like weather. He took all of it in. And when he opened his mouth to sing, it was like the land was singing back.
Now Cash wore black, not for fashion not for flair, but for the folks who didn’t get much light. Prisoners, drifters, the poor and the restless. Songs like “Folsom Prison Blues” and “I Walk the Line” weren’t just tunes, they were confessions. He sang at Folsom State Prison and San Quentin State Prison like he was singing to brothers. And maybe he was. He had that boom-chicka-boom sound, the Tennessee Three keeping time like a train that never quite stops. And standing beside him, steady as a church bell, was June Carter Cash. Their love story ran through the music like a river through rock, you know the storie, sometimes rough, sometimes tender, always moving.
Cash wasn’t afraid of the dark corners. He sang about sin and salvation like a man who’d wrestled both. Later on, when the world thought it had passed him by, he stepped into a different kind of fire with producer Rick Rubin. Those American Recordings — spare, haunted, just that voice and a guitar — they felt like letters written at the edge of the world. Even when he sang songs by younger writers, he made them sound like they’d been waiting for him all along.
He was a country singer, sure. But he was also folk, gospel, rock ’n’ roll — a troubadour in the oldest sense. A man who believed a song could carry sorrow clean across a desert and bring it back baptized.
watercolor, ink on paper
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
A Glitch "Code de Données Burqa Tchador ~ Ètude I”
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A charity project through Bridge Communities; 'A Chair Affair' was an event where artists were sponsored to create a work of art using chairs as the vehicle, which were then showcased in retail shops in the Western Suburbs of Chicago. These works then went up to auction where 100% of the proceeds went to families and individuals in need. Bridge Communities strives to help those in need and aim to help people get their lives back on track. This was my second 'A Chair Affair', my first one taking place in Naperville in 2014.
Today we’re drifting down a golden boulevard lit by boleros and broken hearts. This is the moment where the moon hangs low and the past hums like a neon sign that never quite flickers out. Today we celebrate the greatest Luis Miguel also known as The Sun of Mexico.
There was a voice once, smooth as midnight silk, sharp as a truth you weren’t ready to hear. It came wrapped in sunlight and shadows, carried on the kind of breath that could turn a crowded room into a confession booth. Luis Miguel. A name that didn’t just belong to a man, but to a feeling like the echo of a love you almost held onto and that’s been around since always.
Luis Miguel didn’t just sing songs, he arrived in them, like a summer storm rolling in off the ocean, no warning, just a shift in the air pressure. Some folks inherit a voice; his sounded more like it was loaned to him by something older than memory. You hear it and think of candlelight flickering against glass, of promises made too late at night and kept even later, if they’re kept at all.
Now, Luis Miguel… he walked a road paved with boleros, rancheras, mariachis and ballads, the kind your grandparents might’ve danced to when the world still spun a little slower. But he polished them up, held them to the light, and somehow they didn’t break. That’s a rare thing. Songs like those, they can shatter if you handle them wrong—too much polish, too much pride—but he carried them like secrets, not trophies.
There’s something about a crooner, they stand still, but everything around them moves. Time, memory, heartbreak, it all circles like moths to a flame. And Luis Miguel, he was one of those flames. Not the kind that burns the house down, more like the kind you keep coming back to, even when you know better.
Some say he disappeared now and then, slipped out of sight like a verse you can’t quite remember. But that’s part of the story too. The best voices they don’t belong entirely to the world. They drift. They wait. And when they come back, they bring something with them… a little dust from the road, a little echo from somewhere you’ve never been.
I once was a girl not chasing dreams, no, I was catching them, four times over. Four nights, four chances to stand in the glow of that voice as it poured out over a sea of people, each one thinking the song was meant just for them. And maybe it was. The lights shimmered like they were made of memory itself, and every note felt like it had traveled a long road just to find where I stood. Back then, the doors opened a little easier, the tickets didn’t ask for your soul in return. You could walk in with a hopeful heart and walk out with something stitched into you forever. Now those nights they’re harder to come by. The price of admission has climbed high, like a ladder leaning up against the sky, and not everyone gets to climb it anymore. But I did. Four times. That’s not just luck—that’s a kind of quiet miracle.
And maybe that’s the thing about music, folks. It don’t belong to the moment you hear it, it follows you, lingers in your coat pocket, hums in the backseat while you’re driving nowhere in particular. It reminds you that once, not so long ago, you were right there when the song took flight.
So if you’ve got a memory like that, hold onto it. Let it spin, let it crackle, let it play on.
Because long after the stage goes dark and the tickets fade into legend, the music, well, the music stays.
charcoal on paper
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com