View allAll Photos Tagged VisualArtist
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!”
13 El Cansado
13/54
instagram loanaibarra
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
A young and an older August Strindberg.
watercolor, ink on paper
instagram loanaibarra
facebook www.facebook.com/LIM.LoanaIbarraMazari
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
Obra: En Casa/ En Kabul.
Autor: Tony Kushner.
Dirección: Carlos Gandolfo.
Labor: Diseño de Escenografía. (Junto a Carlos Gandolfo y Florencia Del Gener)
Diseño de Vestuario. (Junto a Florencia Del Gener).
Teatro: Complejo Teatral de Buenos Aires Teatro San Martín.
Sala Casacuberta
Temporada: 2004.
Fotos: Mariana Del Gener.
Today we celebrate a voice that sounds like it fell from the moon, bounced off a Berlin rooftop, and landed right in the middle of a punk rock carnival. I’m talking about Nina Hagen.
Now Nina, she wasn’t just a singer. No, she was more like a thunderstorm wearing lipstick. Born in East Berlin back when the wall cut the city like a scar, she grew up where art and politics were tangled together like headphones in your pocket. Her mother was an actress, the kind who knew how to command a room, and Nina learned early that a stage isn’t just a place to stand, it’s a place to explode.
Some singers warm up their voice before a show. Nina sounded like she warmed up by talking to aliens and gargling with lightning. She started out singing in East Germany, state-approved songs, tidy arrangements, the kind of music that behaved itself. But Nina wasn’t the behaving type. You could hear it in her voice, that wild operatic yodel that could turn into a punk scream before you had time to blink. Eventually she drifted west, like a strange bird flying over the wall before it came down. And once she landed in the West Berlin underground in the late ’70s—well, that’s when things really got interesting.
Punk was already stomping around the clubs, safety pins and leather jackets everywhere, but Nina showed up dressed like a cosmic cabaret star who’d just stepped out of a science fiction opera. The Nina Hagen Band kicked up a racket that mixed rock guitars, opera scales, reggae grooves, and whatever else happened to wander into the room.
Listening to her records is like flipping through radio stations on a spaceship. One minute she’s singing sweet and theatrical, the next minute she’s howling like a wolf that just read Nietzsche. She could hit notes that would make opera singers blink twice and she’d do it over a punk riff that sounded like it was welded together in a garage.
But Nina wasn’t just noise and spectacle. She had that fearless thing about her. The kind of artist who’d sing about politics, spirituality, love, UFOs, sometimes all in the same breath. She made music the way some people make collages: tearing pieces from everywhere and gluing them together until the whole thing starts glowing. And if you ever saw her on television back in the day, you’d know she had the spirit of a vaudeville comedian, a punk prophet, and a cartoon character all rolled into one pair of platform boots.
Some voices try to sound pretty. Nina’s voice tried to sound free. And that’s a rare thing. You know, music history is full of people who followed the map. Nina Hagen was the one who drew monsters in the margins and said, “Let’s go there.”
So wherever you are today, put on one of her records sometime. Let that voice rattle the furniture a little. It might remind you that music doesn’t always have to walk politely through the door. Sometimes it crashes through the ceiling wearing glitter and combat boots.
ink, watercolor on paper
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
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
Today we celebrate an Aquarius comrade, a man who knew a thing or two about storms inside the house, inside the head, inside the heart. Yeah, today we celebrate Trouble, or Fire, or maybe just Marriage. And sitting at the kitchen table with a match and a stack of papers is our man, August Strindberg.
Strindberg came from Sweden, a place with long nights and longer memories. You don’t grow up under skies like that without learning how to talk to shadows. Born in 1849, which is a good year for ghosts, he wore a lot of hats: playwright, novelist, chemist, painter, alchemist, fighter, lover, and professional arguer with God. Some folks write to understand the world. Strindberg wrote because the world wouldn’t leave him alone. He believed marriage was a battleground, not a ballroom. You read Miss Julie or The Father, and you can hear the furniture moving around by itself. These aren’t polite plays you sip tea to. These are plays where the tea gets thrown against the wall. Men and women circling each other like boxers, like wolves, like planets about to collide. Love, for Strindberg, was never just love - it was power, fear, desire, revenge, and maybe a little prayer slipped in when no one was listening.
He had a mind that ran hot. Burned bridges, burned friendships, nearly burned himself to ash. Had what they used to call a “nervous breakdown” and what we might now call the price of seeing too much. He went looking for God in science, went looking for science in mysticism, and wound up finding mostly himself, staring back, unblinking. That can be a dangerous thing.
But here’s the thing: Strindberg told the truth the way broken mirrors tell the truth. Jagged. Sharp. You don’t look without bleeding a little. And later on, when the pain softened into something like wisdom, he wrote A Dream Play, where time melts, doors open into other doors, and life starts acting like, well, a dream. Suffering becomes universal, almost gentle. Like he finally stopped fighting the storm and learned how to listen to the rain.
Now, my personal favorite Strindberg novel is his most personal and disturbing book he ever wrote. Inferno, not a novel in the usual sense, it’s closer to a confessional diary. Invisible forces are controlling his life, people are spying on him, ordinary events carry secret, supernatural meanings, science, religion, and magic are secretly connected. Strindberg becomes obsessed with chemistry and alchemy, believing he is on the verge of discovering hidden laws of the universe. He conducts experiments in his rooms, interprets random marks and coincidences as signs, and sees himself as chosen or cursed. The walls speak and the best part is how he manages to involve you in this paranoia. I just love it.
Some people want writers to be nice. Strindberg wasn’t nice. He was necessary. He kicked open doors so other folks like Ibsen, O’Neill, Beckett, just to name a few, could walk through and rearrange the air. If modern drama’s got a cracked voice and a nervous laugh, you can trace that sound back to him.
So today, if you’re sitting alone, thinking about love gone wrong, faith gone quiet, or words that won’t let you sleep, remember old August up there, wrestling angels and demons with a pen that wouldn’t behave. He didn’t find peace easy. But he left us something honest. And sometimes, friends, that’s the best you can do.
ink, watercolor on paper
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
Today we celebrate the sound that finds you before you know who you are, Ryuichi Sakamoto a name that doesn’t knock on the door. It just walks right in, takes a seat on the floor, and starts rearranging the furniture inside your chest.
Ryuichi Sakamoto was born in Japan, but his music never stayed put. It didn’t believe in borders. It traveled light. Piano, silence, electricity, ghosts. He played the future like it was already remembering itself. Sakamoto knew something. He knew that music doesn’t always come to entertain you. Sometimes it comes to recognize you. Sometimes it comes early.
Sakamoto, a man who knew that electricity had a soul problem and decided to help it out. He didn’t treat machines like tools; he treated them like pen pals. Wrote them letters in voltage and waited for them to answer back. And they did. Sometimes politely. Sometimes in riddles. Yellow Magic Orchestra wasn’t just a band, that was a rumor traveling faster than sound. Three men standing still while the world started dancing around them. They took the stuff people were afraid of: microchips, calculators, blinking lights and turned it into pop songs you could hum while the century changed its clothes. In Japan, in Europe, in places that didn’t even know they were listening yet, YMO showed up like a postcard from tomorrow, postmarked now. You could hear Kraftwerk in there, sure, but also video arcades, traffic signals, and the ancient ghosts of melodies that had been waiting a long time for a new body.
I heard about a girl once, she was five years old, living in Lausanne, Switzerland. Too young to explain anything to anybody. Standing in a living room, probably surrounded by grown-up furniture and grown-up worries that didn’t belong to her yet. And then the speakers opened up, and out came Ryuichi Sakamoto. Just appeared. No warning. And the girl started crying. Not because it was sad. That’s the important part. It wasn’t sadness. It was something without a name. Something bigger than language. Like the sound knew her better than she knew herself. Like it reached into the future and said, -You’re going to carry this. Yeah, that girl was I. The tune was “Rain (I Want a Divorce)”. That was the first time I ever cried because of music and that’s an experience you can’t forget. Now fast-forward the reel. I’m soon turning forty two years old. Different rooms, different countries, different versions of myself stacked up like old records. But I put on Sakamoto—any Sakamoto—and the tears still come. Same place. Same feeling. Still not sadness. I guess that’s how you know it’s real. You see, there’s something about his resonance, a very peculiar and out of this world timbre, I’m still trying to figure it out.
Sakamoto’s music doesn’t age. It just deepens. It keeps asking the same question in different ways. It says: Do you remember who you were when you first felt something? And your body answers before your mind can interrupt. Some people run from that feeling. I myself? I love it. I love how the music can still crack me open. Because that’s the thing about crying to music, you’re not breaking down. You’re tuning in.
And Ryuichi Sakamoto? He was a master tuner. He found the frequency where beauty, mystery, and memory all overlap. Where a five-year-old in Switzerland and a forty-year-old somewhere else can meet, nod to each other, and say, -Yeah. This is it.
ink, watercolor on paper
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
A Glitch "Aeval (Κακό) ~ Ètude I”
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
A Glitch "Ushás ( θεά του πόθου ) ~ Ètude II”
~ 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
FB: michelle.robinson/pg/michelle.robinson.images.and.art
IG: @simply.mich.robinson / @mich/robinson
Obra: En Casa/ En Kabul.
Autor: Tony Kushner.
Dirección: Carlos Gandolfo.
Labor: Diseño de Escenografía. (Junto a Carlos Gandolfo y Florencia Del Gener)
Diseño de Vestuario. (Junto a Florencia Del Gener).
Teatro: Complejo Teatral de Buenos Aires Teatro San Martín.
Sala Casacuberta
Temporada: 2004.
Fotos: Mariana Del Gener.
A Glitch "Sylphes (Συλφές) ~ 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
~ 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 #glitchartisdead #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.
D655_005
24/06/2012 : Marseille 3e, bd National / rue de Strasbourg, îlot National : exposition Une collection de collections (Maryvonne Arnaud et Philippe Mouillon)
collection de râpes de cuisine du monde (Michel Duport)
Boot Forest (sculpture)
Year: 2003
Materials: vinyl, metal, cardboard, polystyrene, batting
Dimensions: 108 x 144 x 288 inches (total installation dimensions)
Information: Boot Forest was a large-scale sculptural project created for my final MFA thesis project at California College of the Arts in San Francisco. The fifteen 9 foot tall sculptures were a culmination of my deep interests involving shifting perspectives on the feminine, dynamic sculptural scale, and experimental use of materials. This project engaged my viewers through the sculpture’s inky reflective surfaces and burlesque mood, often inspiring people to behave amorously with the work and each other.
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
Down roads lined with dust and Bugamblias, where the night air smells like mesquite smoke and heartbreak. And somewhere out there, maybe in a cantina lit by a single flickering bulb, you might hear a voice that could stop a train rolling downhill.
Today we celebrate Lola Beltrán.
Born María Lucila Beltrán Ruiz in 1932 in the little town of El Rosario, Sinaloa, she grew up where the Pacific wind meets the mountains and the songs are older than the roads.
Mexico’s got a long memory when it comes to music—corridos about bandits and revolutions, rancheras about love gone sideways—and Lola Beltrán sang them like she’d been carrying those stories in her pocket since childhood.
Before the big stages, she worked at a radio station in Mexico City. Sometimes the road to the spotlight looks less like a highway and more like a hallway. One day she stepped up to the microphone and sang… and just like that, the hallway opened up into a horizon.
Let me tell you something, ranchera music isn’t just singing. It’s a kind of emotional weather system. The clouds roll in, the tequila pours, the trumpets cry out. And Lola Beltrán had the kind of voice that could ride straight through the storm without getting wet.
She worked with giants of the genre, people like José Alfredo Jiménez, the man who wrote heartbreak the way some folks write grocery lists. When Lola sang his songs, it felt like the earth itself leaned in to listen. And she didn’t just sing in smoky bars or dusty plazas. In 1976 she walked onto one of the grandest stages in the world, the Palace of Fine Arts in Mexico City. First ranchera singer ever to headline there. That’s like bringing a campfire into a cathedral and somehow making the cathedral feel warmer for it.
Her signature song? Well, one of them anyway “Cucurrucucú Paloma”. A tune about a man crying so hard the moon starts taking notes. When Lola sang it, those high notes didn’t just float, they circled the room like birds that didn’t want to land.
She made movies, too, dozens of them. In the golden age of Mexican cinema, when the screen glowed like a campfire for a whole nation. And there she was: hair tall as a crown, dresses blooming like gardens, voice carrying across the desert of the theater.
But the thing about Lola Beltrán was this: she could sing about heartbreak without sounding broken. Like she knew pain was just another traveler passing through town.
She died in 1996, but voices like that don’t really disappear. They echo. Somewhere today a mariachi band is tuning up, a trumpet warming its valves, a guitarist tightening a string… and sooner or later somebody’s going to start a ranchera. And when they do, there’s a pretty good chance they’re following a trail Lola Beltrán left behind.
pencil illustration on paper
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
Today we celebrate one of those fellas who slipped through the cracks in the sidewalk while everybody else was marching in step. Some people make records, some people make noise, and some people make a room feel haunted just by turning the knobs a certain way. Brian Eno did all three before breakfast.
Brian Eno came along and made music that sounded like it was listening to you. That’s a dangerous thing. Makes a man uneasy. Like finding a mirror in the woods.
He started out dressed like a runaway peacock with Roxy Music, standing beside Bryan Ferry looking like a science-fiction undertaker. While everybody else in rock and roll was trying to look tough, Eno looked like he’d just arrived from a card game on Venus. Feather boas, synthesizers, eyeliner… the whole electric rodeo.
Eno wasn’t interested in being a guitar gunslinger. No. He treated the recording studio the way old alchemists treated a basement laboratory. Twist this wire here, slow that tape down there, spill a little accident into the soup and see if God answers back. And sometimes He did.
Eno figured music didn’t always have to march around waving a flag. Sometimes it could just hover. Drift through the wallpaper. Sit in the corner like a cat watching snowfall. People call(ed) it “ambient music,” which sounds to me like something sold in a hardware store. You hear the album “Music for Airports” and the whole world slows down enough for you to hear your own shoes think. Then you hear the album “Before And After Science” and that’s a rare trick. The track “By the River”, oh me oh my.
Most artists want attention. Eno wanted atmosphere. He made records that sounded like abandoned buildings dreaming about people. And somehow, somewhere along the line, everybody started stealing from him. Rock bands, techno producers, movie composers, fellas making meditation tapes out in California… all of them dipping their cups into Eno’s well.
He touched a lots of records too. Whispered ghosts into albums by David Bowie, turned the highways neon for Talking Heads, helped U2 climb up into the stadium clouds. Some producers build a sound. Eno built weather systems.
And he had those Oblique Strategies cards too. Little fortune-cookie commandments for lost musicians. “Honor thy mistake as a hidden intention.” That’s not just studio advice. That’s life advice. Could’ve saved a lot of marriages and at least three governments.
You listen to Brian Eno long enough and you start noticing strange things. Ceiling fans sound musical. Traffic lights seem philosophical. Air conditioners begin confessing secrets. The world gets wider around the edges. And that’s what the best artists do. They don’t just give you something to hear. They change the temperature of reality for a little while.
Brian Eno… patron saint of beautiful detours. The man who taught machines how to daydream.
ink, watercolor on paper
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
Today we are riding down a long stretch of highway lit by movie screens and neon motel signs, and somewhere out there, standing in the dust and the spotlight at the same time, is the one we celebrate, that’s Frances McDormand.
You know, some actors arrive like a parade. Others arrive like weather. Frances McDormand is plenty of weather. She doesn't seem interested in becoming a myth, which is probably why she became one. She's got the kind of face that tells the truth before the script gets a chance to lie. The kind of presence that makes you think of buss conductors, county fair cashiers, wandering philosophers, and people who know exactly where the spare key is hidden. There are performers who act like they're trying to escape the world. McDormand always seems to be walking straight into it. Through snowstorms, deserts, small towns, and parking lots. She finds the poetry in places most folks drive past without slowing down.
Maybe that's why I trust her. She carries herself like somebody who's heard every tall tale in the diner and still wants to hear one more. She can play a sheriff, a dreamer, a drifter, or somebody who's just trying to get through Tuesday. And somehow all of them feel real enough to shake hands with. And nowhere is that clearer than in my one absolute favorite movie “Fargo”. Out there among the frozen roads and bad decisions, she plays Marge Gunderson, a small-town police chief with a gentle voice, a sharp mind, and more wisdom than all the criminals put together. While everybody else is chasing money, covering tracks, and digging themselves deeper into trouble, Marge keeps moving forward with the steady certainty of somebody who knows that truth doesn't have to shout. Ah she makes my day, every time. It's one of those performances that sneaks up on you. No fireworks. No grand speeches. Just honesty, patience, and humanity shining through the cold. The snow falls, the world gets stranger by the minute, and somehow she's the warmest thing in the frame. Watching her, you start to wonder if decency might be a kind of superpower after all.
The movies are full of people pretending to be extraordinary. Frances McDormand has spent a career showing us how extraordinary ordinary people can be.
So wherever you're under a porch light, beside a truck stop, or rolling down a dark road with —tip your hat to Frances McDormand. She reminds us that the deepest stories don't always come from heroes. Sometimes they come from the person quietly standing in the corner, seeing everything. Sometimes they come from the person driving through the snow, asking the right questions, and refusing to lose faith in people even after seeing the worst of what they can do. And that's a rare thing, in movies or anywhere else.
ink, watercolor on paper
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
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
A Glitch “Osculum infame (περίφημο φιλί) ~ Ètude I”
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
Obra: En Casa/ En Kabul.
Autor: Tony Kushner.
Dirección: Carlos Gandolfo.
Labor: Diseño de Escenografía. (Junto a Carlos Gandolfo y Florencia Del Gener)
Diseño de Vestuario. (Junto a Florencia Del Gener).
Teatro: Complejo Teatral de Buenos Aires Teatro San Martín.
Sala Casacuberta
Temporada: 2004.
Fotos: Mariana Del Gener.
Obra: En Casa/ En Kabul.
Autor: Tony Kushner.
Dirección: Carlos Gandolfo.
Labor: Diseño de Escenografía. (Junto a Carlos Gandolfo y Florencia Del Gener)
Diseño de Vestuario. (Junto a Florencia Del Gener).
Teatro: Complejo Teatral de Buenos Aires Teatro San Martín.
Sala Casacuberta
Temporada: 2004.
Fotos: Mariana Del Gener.
Look out the window. Not because there's anything special out there. The same trees. Same road. Same clouds dragging themselves across the afternoon. But every once in a while somebody comes along who teaches you how to see it. David Hockney did that.
Some people paint what they see. Hockney painted the act of seeing itself. He took the sunlight and stretched it out like a long guitar note. He made swimming pools look deeper than memory and Yorkshire roads twist and bend like old folk songs. He knew that the world wasn't standing still. It was always arriving. You could say he was from another century. You could say he belonged to modern art. But labels are for soup cans and luggage tags. Hockney belonged to that small fellowship of people who notice things the rest of us walk past. The shadow on a wall at four in the afternoon. The first green leaf after winter. The blue that's hiding inside a gray day. He saw them all.
There's an old saying that every picture tells a story. Hockney seemed to know something stranger—that every story is really a picture somebody is trying to remember before it disappears. And now the painter has stepped out of the frame.
The brushes are quiet. The studio door is closed. But the colors keep moving around. They always will. Because that's the thing about artists. They don't leave footprints. They leave ways of looking.
So the next time you're driving down a country road, or sitting beside a pool, or watching the sunlight crawl across the floor, pay attention. The world might suddenly seem brighter than it was a moment ago. That'll be David Hockney. Not speaking. Not explaining. Just pointing. And that's enough.
Keep your eyes open, keep your mind free, and don't let the colors fade.
Buen viaje David Hockney.
ink, watercolor on paper
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
Cities. Big ones, small ones, the kind that stay up all night and whisper strange ideas through the alleyways. And if you’re talking about cities that changed music forever sooner or later you’ll meet the fellow we celebrate today named John Cale.
John Cale was born in 1942 in a small mining village called Garnant. Not the sort of place where you expect wild avant-garde sounds drifting through the hills. Coal dust, chapel hymns, and the Welsh language, that’s the air he grew up breathing. But Cale had ears that wandered farther than the valley. He studied classical music and the viola, eventually finding his way across the ocean to New York City in the early 1960s. New York back then was buzzing like a loose amplifier—painters, poets, filmmakers, musicians all knocking on the same strange door.
Before long Cale fell in with a crowd of musical experimenters, including the drone-loving composer La Monte Young. They were stretching notes out so long you could practically hang laundry on them.
And somewhere in that swirl of noise and poetry, Cale crossed paths with a songwriter from Long Island named Lou Reed. Together they started a band called The Velvet Underground.
Most rock bands at the time were singing about holding hands and driving convertibles. The Velvet Underground… well, they were singing about the underside of the city—late-night streets, strange chemicals, lonely apartments where the lights never quite go out. Their 1967 debut record, “The Velvet Underground & Nico”, came wrapped in a banana courtesy of pop-art ringleader Andy Warhol. The music inside had Cale’s viola screeching and droning like subway brakes, pushing rock ’n’ roll somewhere it had never been before. Songs like “Heroin” didn’t behave like songs were supposed to. They rose slow, shook the room, then collapsed in a kind of beautiful wreckage.
Now Cale didn’t stay in the band long. By 1968 he’d drifted off on his own path, and that road led through some pretty wild territory. Sometimes he made delicate, haunted records like “Paris 1919”—full of orchestras and melodies that float like postcards from another century. Other times he produced records for artists like Patti Smith and The Stooges, helping ignite the sparks that would turn into punk rock.
See, John Cale always had one foot in the concert hall and the other in a basement club where the speakers were blown out and the kids were dancing anyway.
Classical discipline, rock ’n’ roll chaos. Two worlds humming the same strange tune. And that’s the thing about cities. They mash people together who might never meet anywhere else. Painters bump into songwriters. Classical musicians crash into garage bands. Suddenly a new sound is born somewhere between the subway and the symphony hall. John Cale was one of those travelers who carried a little bit of both worlds in his coat pocket.
So wherever you are today—big city, small town, or somewhere in between—remember this: Sometimes the most interesting music comes from the places where worlds collide.
watercolor ink on paper
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com