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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 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 "Burqa 2.0(برقع) ~ Ètude II“
by ™℗®© Louis M o n t i e l
~ FOLLOW ME & SUBSCRIBE ~
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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 #datamoshing #glitchartists #glitchartcommunity #glitchartistcollective #glitchartist #pixelsortingart #proceduralart #creativecodeart #pixelsortingeffect
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
Cosmic revelations. Flight. Not the kind with peanuts and tray tables. I’m more about the kind where your soul leaves the ground and don’t ever look back. Take over the world!
And that brings me to a trumpet player from Chicago by way of Brooklyn a firestarter named Jaimie Branch.
Yeah, that’s right. Jaimie with an "ie." She wasn’t trying to be clever, she just was. A firebrand with copper lungs and a bell made of thunder. You might not find her on your dad’s jazz records — not yet — but put your ear to the rail, and you’ll hear her coming.
At first Branch studied piano but switched to trumpet and became excited with jazz’s improvisational possibilities. She played like she was building a new language, one phrase at a time, one scream, one whisper. Her horn didn’t just play music. It testified.
She called one of her records "Fly or Die." And yes, she meant it. Now that/those records is without doubt places you’ll never be able to find elsewhere. Take that one track Baba Louie or that other one Take Over the World. Oh me oh my. She flew. High. Loud. Furious. She made music for the folks in the back of the room, the ones who don’t clap unless it hurts a little. A fearless musician never afraid to enter the unknown. Jaimie wasn’t just blowing notes — she was conjuring storms. Political, personal, celestial. She’d throw down with a band like they were sparring partners, and her sound, oh yeeh, her sound had teeth. But there was joy in it too. Dirty, ragged joy. Like a busted trumpet found in a pawn shop that still remembered how to pray.
Jaimie Branch left this world too soon, a pity I never had the chance to see her live, at the age of 39 in 2022 from an accidental drug overdose. But I guess that’s the thing about flight, it don’t need to last forever to be eternal.
So here’s to Jaimie Branch —Trumpeter, composer, singer, conjurer. One hell of a flame that didn't just take the stage she took off.
You can still hear her flying.
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.
“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
Today we celebrate a poet, not the kind that make you squint in a bookstore, but the kind that kick open the doors of your mind like a drunk at closing time.
And that brings us to a man from way down south Chile, to be exact. A fella by the name of Nicanor Parra. You spell it like “parra,” but you read it like a revolution.
Now Parra wasn’t your regular poet. He didn’t wear black turtlenecks, cut his arms or quote Shakespeare at parties. Nah, Nicanor was a physicist. That’s right, he could calculate the speed of light and still make you feel like you’d been hit by it. He called his poetry anti-poetry, which is kinda like calling a steak anti-vegetable. He wanted to take poetry off its pedestal and drag it down to street level, where the rest of us live.
He said:
"The poet is a man like any other,
a mason who builds his wall:
a builder of doors and windows."
And after his recitations, he would say: "Me retracto de todo lo dicho." meaning "I take back everything I've said."
That’s not just poetry—that's architecture for the soul.
Parra didn’t hang with the usual literary set. He’d rather be cracking jokes at the back of the bus than sipping brandy in the front row of the opera. He put poems on napkins, on the backs of receipts, on billboards. If it had a surface, he’d write on it. Sometimes he didn’t even write, he made objects called "artefactos", little visual poems that looked more like Dadaist bumper stickers than anything outta The Paris Review.
And if you’re wondering what kind of guy he was, well, when people called Pablo Neruda the greatest Chilean poet, Parra smiled and said, “Yeah, if you like your poetry with syrup on top.”
He wasn’t trying to be cute, he just knew the world was burning and you couldn’t put it out with metaphors alone. Sometimes you need a bucket of ice water and a slap in the face.
Nicanor Parra died at 103. That’s a lotta candles. But you get the feeling he’d laugh at the whole idea of a eulogy. He once said, “In poetry everything is permitted. With only one condition: improve on the blank page.”
So here’s to Nicanor Parra—the anti-poet, the clown prince of chaos, the biting and ironic, the guy who made words dangerous again.
And remember: If the poem doesn’t knock you down or lift you up, maybe it’s not a poem at all.
———————-
Tres poesías
1
Ya no me queda nada por decir
Todo lo que tenía que decir
Ha sido dicho no sé cuántas veces.
2
He preguntado no sé cuántas veces
pero nadie contesta mis preguntas.
Es absolutamente necesario
Que el abismo responda de una vez
Porque ya va quedando poco tiempo.
3
Sólo una cosa es clara:
Que la carne se llena de gusanos.
Three Poems
1
I have nothing left to say
Everything I had to say
Has been said I don't know how many times.
2
I've asked I don't know how many times
but no one answers my questions.
It's absolutely necessary
That the abyss answer at once
Because time is running out.
3
Only one thing is clear:
The flesh will be filled with maggots.
// 1962, Nicanor Parra
Ink, watercolor on paper
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
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
What does Katie see? Katie is my friend Amber's daughter who has Down's syndrome. When Amber and Katie came to visit my studio, Katie seemed to like this piece the best. Out of all of the paintings on display, she choose to stand mere inches away in front of this piece for about ten minutes, silently rocking backing and forth...
A Glitch "Maiko (舞妓) ~ 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
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
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.
Peter D. Gerakaris, "Splinternet/La Fantasia Tondo - Detail," Oil over polymer on canvas, 96 in. diameter (243.8 cm)
Permanent collection of US Dept of State Art in Embassies Program (Libreville, Gabon)
More info at:
CRISIS DEL CUARTO DE VIDA (Parte 2 - Pretensiones)
"Da pena verme vivir oculto detrás de mi cara. Decidir vivir es bello, estar obligado a vivir no".
"It's so sad to see me living hidden behind my face. Deciding to live is beautiful. Being forced to live is not"
www.youtube.com/watch?v=CDlhCmvi0og
"Crisis del cuarto de vida" Es una serie de vídeos experimentales. "Pretensiones" es la segunda parte de esta serie.
"Quarter-life crisis" is an experimental video series. "Pretence" is the second video of the series.
Parte 1/1st part: www.youtube.com/watch?v=9ON9VtHpxQQ
Facebook page:
PESO PLUMA HAS ENTERED HIS OWN ERA
Today we're celebrating feathers, scales, and things that drift between worlds. And that brings us to a fellow called Peso Pluma.
Ok, so "Peso Pluma" means "featherweight," and that's a name that carries its own weather around with it. A feather is light enough to ride the wind, but it comes from a bird strong enough to cross a continent. Funny how that works. The lightest things sometimes travel the farthest.
He's part of a generation that doesn't seem interested in standing at the border between old and new. They just build a house right on top of it. The guitars come from one century, the rhythms from another, and the voices arrive carrying the static of a thousand phone screens glowing in the dark. Some people call that a contradiction. Other people call it music. A long time ago, songs traveled by horseback. Then they traveled by radio tower. Now they travel at the speed of a thumb sliding across a piece of glass. But they're still chasing the same thing: a listener sitting somewhere at midnight, looking for a reflection of their own life.
Peso Pluma’s traditional and lyrically-driven tracks with narratives inspired by the country’s socio-political state is in fact and after all not a new phenomenon. Mexican corridos have existed for centuries, many of the greatest and most known corridos were born under the Mexican Revolution, 1910.
The corrido is a Mexican musical genre. It’s a popular narrative conceived to be sung, recited or danced, which can be found in the form of a song, poetry or ballad. Corridos are also known as “tragedias” meaning tragedies. The corrido played an important role in the history of Mexico, since during times of social and political conjuncture these compositions were a source of information about the movements, victories, and losses that the revolution brought with it. Nowadays the corridos have continued being played and still have great popularity, mostly in the northeast part of Mexico and the southeast part of the U.S. Bands like Los Tigres Del Norte have been selling out stadiums in the U.S. for decades. The corrido tradition has evolved a lot and you can find different sub-genres such as the Narcocorrido which consists mainly of lyrics about loyalty, love, money, women, excesses, drugs, violence and drunkenness. Then we have the corridos tumbados, a unique fusion of the regional corrido music with modern trap.
Peso Pluma, technically, is not really Peso Pluma, his real name is Hassan Emilio Kabande Laija. Rather, he's one of three members of the group who make up Peso Pluma, including his cousin. The name has said described them all when they first got together "as a bunch of skinny guys." He has repeatedly said that he ain’t a good singer, but that he has something exceptional and different from the music made by his own generation. I agree on that.
Peso Pluma’s raspy voice and mix of corridos tumbados with Latin trap has glued my ears and eyes on him since the very beginning. I find him fun, different per say as cliche it may sound, passionate, warm towards his fans and indeed a great dance-step inventor. I heard him say that he is a huge jazz listener and I ain’t surprised, I hear it. Take my favorite song “BYE”, oh me oh my, that contrabass has become his musical identity, along with the very present trumpet.
Peso Pluma is still on fire and I love that flame since the first spark!
ink, watercolor on paper
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
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
Khaled A. Beydoun the American Attorney and author has published an article on Aljazeera titled ‘The business of remaking Arab-American identity’ in which he provides an overview of racial categorization within the USA. Beydoun states “Since its inception, the United States government has had a fixation with race. The judiciary was the government's arbiter of making and molding racial designations, and subsequently, classifying new immigrant communities into the fluidly shifting and arbitrary American racial taxonomy. Racial categories were shaped, and reshaped, according to shifting demographics. Initially, three primary categories, White, Black, and the catch-all “Mongoloid” group were created to distinguish between Americans, and segregate the latter groups from full-fledged citizenship. These categories were incessantly morphed, by American courts, and new titles such as “Caucasian” and “Hispanic”, for instance, were introduced. …The first major wave of Arab-Americans, who arrived in America circa the turn of the 20th century, was largely Christian natives of the Ottoman-colonised Levant. Religion, and the physical appearance of this wave, facilitated racial passing, and American courts ruled that (this pioneering) influx of Arabs were "part of the white race". …Arab-Americans would ultimately be racialised differently, creating a divided landscape where American courts facilitated the early wave's pursuit of whiteness and white privilege, and established jurisprudential baselines that denied the subsequent wave of largely Muslim, "ethnic" Arabs that same path. Caucasian was a legal term imposed on Arabs-Americans, while whiteness as an on-the-ground status was only enjoyed by those Arabs the courts - and the court of public opinion - deemed worthy of inclusion.” Inspired by Aljazeera ow.ly/cbFmF image source America.gov ow.ly/cbF2T
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.
Fashion And Culture 22
Fashion And Culture: Mexicans in Toronto
Photographer: Ernesto De la Vega
Nikon D5100
Lens 18 – 55
Spoke Club, Toronto, Ontario, Canada
Toronto 2013
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 “Backlum Chaam (बैकलुम चाम) ~ Ètude I”
by ™℗®© Louis M o n t i e l
~ FOLLOW ME & SUBSCRIBE ~
Instagram ~ louismontielt
Facebook ~ Louis Montiel
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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
You know, some people spend their whole lives trying to fit into the States, and some people spend their whole lives standing on the sidewalk describing it. Allen Ginsberg was one of those sidewalk people.
Born in New Jersey, which has produced more poets than most people realize and more highways than anybody needs, Ginsberg came into the world carrying two suitcases: one full of books and one full of questions. The books belonged to his father. The questions belonged to everybody else.
He wandered across the country looking for answers and mostly found other questions. That's how it goes. Sometimes you go looking for the truth and end up finding a saxophone player, a runaway, a saint, and a lunatic sitting at the same diner counter at three in the morning. Then you've got a poem.
Ginsberg listened to the U.S.A. the way some people listen to a train that's just barely coming in. He heard the static. He heard the sermons. He heard the traffic and police sirens and jazz records spinning in apartments where the rent was overdue. He heard people talking to themselves because nobody else would listen.
A lot of folks knew him as a Beat poet. But "beat" is one of those words that can mean tired, defeated, rhythmic, or blessed, depending on who's saying it and what time of night it is. Ginsberg seemed interested in all four meanings. He believed poetry ought to be alive enough to breathe. That's why his lines stretch out like highways across Nebraska. They don't stop where they're supposed to stop. They stop when they run out of road. He made some people angry. That's almost unavoidable if you're paying attention. I guess every country has always had a complicated relationship with its prophets. First it ignores them, then it argues with them, then it puts them in textbooks.
What I always liked about Ginsberg was that he wasn't afraid to sound amazed. That's a rare thing. Cynicism is cheap. Wonder costs more. He could look at a crowded city street and find something holy in it, or look at something holy and find something human. He traveled far enough to know that everybody's carrying something invisible. Some carry grief. Some carry dreams. Some carry grocery bags.
Most carry all three.
—-
Father Death Blues
Hey Father Death, I'm flying home
Hey poor man, you're all alone
Hey old daddy, I know where I'm going
Father Death, Don't cry any more
Mama's there, underneath the floor
Brother Death, please mind the store
Old Aunty Death Don't hide your bones
Old Uncle Death I hear your groans
O Sister Death how sweet your moans
O Children Deaths go breathe your breaths
Sobbing breasts'll ease your Deaths
Pain is gone, tears take the rest
Genius Death your art is done
Lover Death your body's gone
Father Death I'm coming home
Guru Death your words are true
Teacher Death I do thank you
For inspiring me to sing this Blues
Buddha Death, I wake with you
Dharma Death, your mind is new
Sangha Death, we'll work it through
Suffering is what was born
Ignorance made me forlorn
Tearful truths I cannot scorn
Father Breath once more farewell
Birth you gave was no thing ill
My heart is still, as time will tell.
//1976, A. Ginsberg
ink, watercolor on paper
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
I’m back honeybees and today we’re looking at a peculiar kind of picture, not the ones painted with oils, or drawn with charcoal but the kind captured by the blinking eye of a camera, in the echo-filled halls of museums, where ghosts of artists float like dust motes in a sunbeam.
I’m talking about group portraits in front of art, snapshots of people gathered together, faces grinning or grim, trying to act casual in front of a heavily moneyed masterpiece. You’ve seen it. Maybe you’ve been in one. Maybe you blinked.
Click.
There’s always that one guy in the back who didn’t know the photo was being taken. Someone’s crouching. Someone's holding their breath. Someone’s blocking the art entirely — standing right in front of the painting like they painted it themselves.
They say a museum is where time goes to take a nap. But these group portraits they wake it up. It’s the collision of the ancient and the now. A 15th-century Madonna and Child gazing down at a tour group, all dressed in matching t-shirts. Raphael meets retail.
You got newlyweds in front of a Klimt, their love still warm. High school kids clustered in front of a war painting, half-listening, half-texting. A family reunion posing in front of Goya’s nightmares. That’s the poetry of the modern age.
And you know, museums they’re cathedrals of culture. Halls of quiet thunder. And when people huddle together for a picture, they’re not just saying cheese, they’re saying we were here. We stood before the art. We stood before history. We saw the brushstrokes and felt the hush of a thousand years.
Sometimes the art looks back.
So gather close, try not to block the painting, and smile like you mean it. Every picture tells a story, and every group photo tells a bit more.
//stay tight. Your always click on top Loana Ibarra
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
D798_011
04/07/2015 : Le Puy-Sainte-Réparade, Château La Coste : exposition Different Places (Sean Scully)
In April 2011 Joan Hus showed some of her experimental work in the public library of Nevele, a small town in East Flanders.
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
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.