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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
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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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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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 ~
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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
Commemorative art work, produced by Helene Gilmore through dot-art, featuring the winning entries of a poetry competition at local schools.
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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#freestyle #abstractart #digitalart #modernart #design #contemporaryart #COLOR #accessories #unicità #creatività #raffreefly_vendita_opere #design #interiodesign #visualart #visualdesign #visualeffects #visualartist #wallpaper #cartadaparatiartistica #cartedaparati #arteinformado #thotaclub #eartesia #ecletticamente_arte #style #styleart #legadegliartisti #fantasyart
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.
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.
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
Saturday's got a way of whispering through the cracks before it ever knocks on the door. The studio's still there, waiting like an old dog that knows you'll be back. The paintings don't complain. The canvases don't keep score. They lean against the walls, carrying yesterday's weather in their colors. Sometimes the smartest brushstroke is the one you don't make.
So you hang up the apron, wipe a little ultramarine from your hands that never really comes off, and step outside. There's a cup of coffee somewhere with your name written in steam instead of ink.
The grass has been working all week too. The birds don't know what day it is, but they sing like every morning deserves its own melody. The wind flips through the pages of the sea the way the honeybees flip through records, looking for the next tune that knows your name.
You leave the studio behind, but not for long. You carry every canvas with you anyway. They ride quietly in the back of your mind while the coffee cools in your hands and someone is telling you a truth that you don’t really believe in.
Funny thing about paintings—they keep drying while you're away. Ideas do too. Sometimes they need a little distance before they'll tell you what they were trying to become.
Saturday isn't asking for a masterpiece. It's asking for a walk. A little conversation with the sky. A black coffee. Maybe a cloud shaped like an unfinished portrait. Maybe the sound of your own footsteps keeping better time than any metronome.
By the time you find your way back to the studio, the light has changed. The canvases look different, though they haven't moved an inch. Maybe they were waiting for you to bring back a pocketful of birdsong, the smell of salty water and the silence that only nature knows how to pour.
A Glitch "Code de Données Burqa Tchador ~ Ètude I”
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There are rappers who rhyme, and then there are rappers who make the rhyme sound like it has somewhere to be. Kool Moe Dee was one of those.
You could hear it before you understood it. The voice came in hard and angular, the syllables stacked up like bricks, and suddenly the beat wasn't just a beat anymore. It was a road, and Moe Dee was driving too fast down it.
People remember the battles. They remember the sunglasses. They remember “Wild Wild West.” They remember the great rap-war with LL Cool J, and the spectacle of two generations arguing over who owned the microphone. But somewhere inside all that history is something easier to overlook: Kool Moe Dee was a hell of a lyricist. Not just a clever one. Not just a guy who could come up with a good insult when the lights were on. A flow lyricist. He understood that the words weren't merely supposed to sit on top of the rhythm. They were supposed to become the rhythm.
Listen to him and you get that feeling of somebody trying to outrun the bar line. He'd cram a phrase into a space that seemed too small for it, then hit the next phrase harder, and somehow the whole thing landed exactly where it was supposed to. There was tension in it. Compression. Momentum. That's a part of rap history that doesn't always get the attention it deserves.
“I'm no phony, I'm the only macaroni”
Before rap became an industry of endless subcategories — conscious rap, gangsta rap, alternative rap, backpack rap, trap rap, whatever else the record-store clerk had to write on the divider — there were MCs figuring out what the human voice could actually do with a beat. Kool Moe Dee was one of those experimenters. He came out of the Treacherous Three, when the microphone was still close enough to the street that you could hear the invention happening in real time. The MC wasn't merely the person who introduced the DJ. The MC was becoming an athlete, a poet, a comedian, a provocateur, a rhythm section with a pulse. And Moe Dee had that athletic quality.
There's a difference between knowing words and knowing how words move. Moe Dee knew how they moved. He could bend a line around the beat. He could make consonants snap. He could accelerate without sounding panicked. He could repeat a phrase until repetition itself became percussion. That's why calling him merely an "old-school battle rapper" doesn't quite get there. That's like calling a great jazz drummer a man who knows how to keep time. Technically true. Completely insufficient. Because the thing about Kool Moe Dee is that he understood the microphone as an instrument. His voice had attack. It had texture. It had attitude. And when the rhyme came around, he didn't simply deliver it, he leaned into it.
Maybe that's why some of his work can feel strange to younger ears now. We're accustomed to flows being analyzed like engineering diagrams: triplets here, internal rhyme there, sixteenth notes, double time, syllabic density, breath control. Moe Dee was doing plenty of that before everybody had a vocabulary for describing it. He was making the machinery while people were still arguing about what the machine was for.
And then there is the other thing: the sheer intelligence of the man. He didn't treat an MC as somebody who merely rhymed the last word of the sentence. He treated the entire line as material. Sound, meaning, rhythm, timing, attack. The rhyme wasn't the destination. It was part of the architecture. That's why going back to him is worthwhile. Not just for nostalgia. For technique. Listen past the costumes. Listen past the battles. Listen past the mythology of the golden age. Listen to the syllables. There's a man in there who really knew what he was doing. And maybe that's the odd fate of certain pioneers. They become so important to the history that people stop listening to them as artists. Their name gets put on the timeline, their photograph gets placed in the museum, somebody says legendary, and then the record gets left sitting on the shelf. But records don't care about timelines.
Put on Kool Moe Dee and let the man work. You'll hear the sharpness. You'll hear the discipline. You'll hear the ego, naturally — this is rap, after all — but you'll also hear the craft underneath it. That mad flow. That sense that the next line is already chasing the one before it. And when it all locks together, you remember something that music has been teaching us forever:
Sometimes the person who arrives early doesn't get enough credit for how far ahead they were. Kool Moe Dee was early. And he was very, very good.
ink, watercolor on paper
contact: ibarraloana@gmail.com
There are people who pass through your life and leave behind a name, a face, a telephone number, maybe a book they forgot at your place.
And then there are the people who pass through your life and somehow acquire a piece of secret information about you.
Not the kind of information that can be put in a passport.
The kind you could never explain at a dinner party.
The kind that has to do with Caravaggio.
Because I have a huge love for Caravaggio. Not a tasteful little appreciation. Not the sort of love you can put on a museum brochure between masterpiece and baroque chiaroscuro. I mean the kind of love that gets into the bloodstream. The kind that makes you stand in front of a painting and forget that other people are standing there too.
For about three years, there was a painting we went to see together.
And somewhere along the way, this person learned my secret.
That when I stand in front of a painting I truly love, I sometimes, very carefully, when nobody is looking, reach out with the tip of one finger.
Just the tip.
A tiny trespass.
A ridiculous, sacred little crime.
Because I want to be able to leave earth knowing that I touched something a master once made.
I carry with pride a collection on my fingertips.
Not the frame. Not the museum wall. Not the glass.
The thing itself.
The paint.
The place where somebody else's hand once was.
You could call it childish. You could call it unhygienic. You could call security.
But I call it history.
And now this person has been to Berlin.
And this person sends me an image of the painting he saw me caress:
“Hej Loana, Nu har jag varit i Berlin och petat på tavlor igen. Och då tänker jag naturligtvis på dig.”
Hi Loana, now I’ve been to Berlin and poked at paintings again. And naturally, I think of you.
Naturally.
That word is doing a lot of work there.
Because there are some people who, once they know your peculiarities, carry them around with them.
They see Berlin and think of you.
They see a painting and think of you.
They stand in front of some old arrangement of light and flesh and shadow, and somewhere in the back of their mind there you are, extending one furtive finger toward eternity.
Only, he doesn’t actually do it.
Of course he doesn’t.
He has manners.
He has museum training.
He has apparently retained the basic social contract.
And besides, he tells me, they have covered the painting with glass now.
There it is.
The end of an era.
The museum has discovered us.
The glass has come down between the living and the dead.
Between the visitor and Caravaggio.
Between the hand that made the painting and the foolish little hand that once, just once, touched it.
But maybe that’s why the message is so funny and so tender.
Because he knows.
He knows that somewhere underneath all the years, all the cities, all the people who have come and gone, there is still this strange little girl standing in front of a Caravaggio, waiting for the museum guard to turn his head.
And he remembers her.
Not because she told him to.
Not because she asked to be remembered.
But because Berlin happened.
And paintings happened.
And for a moment, apparently, the whole world became a Caravaggio-shaped reminder of me.
Which is how love survives, I suppose.
Not always as romance.
Sometimes as a private joke.
Sometimes as a message from Berlin.
Sometimes as a finger you don't dare extend anymore.
And sometimes as a little piece of glass between you and the painting, reminding you that the past is still there—
you just can't touch it.
Not anymore.
There are records that ask for your attention, and there are records that simply wait by the window until you notice they're already in the room. “Smoke Ring for My Halo”, 2011, belongs to the second kind.
You don't put it on so much as you leave the door unlocked for it. Outside, the rain has settled into that slow summer rhythm that doesn't seem interested in ending. It taps against the leaves before it finds the glass, and when the window is open just enough, the smell comes wandering in, you know, that scent of wet pavement, dark soil, old wood, and grass remembering every spring it ever survived. It's the kind of weather that makes silence sound expensive. That's where "Baby's Arms" begins. Not with a grand entrance, not with a declaration, but with a guitar that seems to have been awake for hours before anyone else.
Kurt Vile sings the way some people think while driving alone: half to himself, half to the road, never entirely certain where one thought ends and another begins. The melody doesn't demand belief. It simply offers companionship. The rain keeps falling. You realize that "Baby's Arms" isn't really opening an album. It's opening a room inside your own afternoon. The guitars don't sparkle; they breathe. Every note carries enough space around it for memory to sit down beside it. The song feels like looking through an old window where every season has left a fingerprint. That's one of Kurt Vile's quiet miracles.
For years people tried to describe him by comparing him to somebody else. Neil Young was mentioned. Tom Petty drifted through the conversation. Lou Reed appeared around the corner. Even the old folk ghosts got invited in. Those comparisons aren't wrong, exactly—they're just incomplete. Because influences are like rivers. They matter less than where they eventually empty. Kurt Vile's destination has always been unmistakably his own.
What makes “Smoke Ring for My Halo” remarkable is its confidence in understatement. Earlier records hid behind fuzz and lo-fi static like old photographs left in the sun. Here, the songs step into clearer light without losing their mystery. Producer John Agnello doesn't polish away the imperfections; he simply dusts them off enough so you can appreciate their shape. The result is an album that feels intimate without ever becoming confessional, psychedelic without floating away, folk without pretending to be antique. Listen to "Jesus Fever," "On Tour," "Runner Ups," or the title track, and something curious happens. The songs move slowly, but they don't stand still. They're always drifting toward another thought, another guitar phrase, another horizon just beyond the trees. They trust repetition the way rain trusts gravity. The same patterns return, but never quite the same way. That's the secret of Vile's music. Hypnosis isn't excitement slowed down. Its attention stretched out.
His guitar playing deserves more praise than it often receives. There's a deceptive looseness to it, as though every phrase just happened to arrive at the perfect moment. But beneath that casual surface is extraordinary control. His fingerpicking winds around itself like ivy climbing an old porch, never in a hurry, always finding another way upward. And then there's that voice. It doesn't chase perfection. It isn't trying to overpower the room. It sounds lived in. Like a favorite denim jacket or a porch swing that's weathered enough summers to know that storms always pass eventually. That's why “Smoke Ring for My Halo” has aged so gracefully. The record never chased fashion, so fashion never had the chance to leave it behind. Critics recognized it immediately as a breakthrough, praising its songwriting, emotional clarity, and singular atmosphere, and many listeners still regard it as the defining point in Vile's catalogue. I’m one of them.
The best albums don't answer questions. They improve the weather inside your head. On an afternoon when the rain hangs over the trees and the open window lets the scent of earth wander into the room, “Smoke Ring for My Halo” feels less like music than like another element in the forecast. The songs settle onto the furniture. They mingle with the sound of distant tires on wet streets. They become part of the air itself.
Some artists write songs that point toward the extraordinary. Kurt Vile has always trusted the ordinary enough to reveal that it already contains everything we spend our lives searching for. Sometimes that's a love song. Sometimes it's a lazy afternoon. Sometimes it's just rain finding its way through an open window while "Baby's Arms" reminds you that the smallest moments are often the ones that echo the longest.
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08/04/2017 : Le Puy-Sainte-Réparade, Château La Coste : exposition Mountains and Seas (Ai Weiwei)
Etant donnés
A mix of poetic riffing, musical reverence, and smoky charm. The Cosmos. Space. The infinite. The unknowable. The stars up above and the music inside your soul. Today we celebrate the great Pharoah Sanders.
Some people go looking for the truth in a telescope or a microscope. Some dig for it in the desert. Some find it in a bottle. Pharoah Sanders he blew that horn like he was trying to talk to God, or maybe remind Him of something He forgot.
Pharoah was born Ferrell Sanders in Little Rock, Arkansas. He started out as a painter, but when he picked up the tenor sax, the canvas turned into air and electricity. He played with John Coltrane, sure, but he wasn’t really following. He was exploring the same jungle, just taking a different path through the trees. They say his sound could peel paint off a wall or make a flower bloom in winter. Screaming one minute, whispering the next. Like the universe itself, violent and gentle at the same time. Spiritual jazz, they called it. But I don’t think you can put a name on that kinda thing. It’s a feeling, like when you wake up from a dream you can’t really explain. Some dreams can be soft as silk other heavy as an anchor. But Sanders is more of floating in on a late night feverish breeze.
Sanders had dreams in his horn, dreams of Africa, of church choirs, of outer space, of inner peace. He didn’t play to impress you. He played to move you, to shake your bones and clear your mind. Sometimes his records didn’t even need words, just the sound of breath through metal and time bending at the edges.
He once said, 'We all need to pray, or we need to cry, or we need to do something.' And that’s what his music was: a doing of something... something big and beautiful and hard to describe.
So, lay back, close your eyes, and drift into the Astral Traveling.
ink, watercolor on paper
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com