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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.
D655_006
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)
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 "Perversis Sensibus ~ 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 #error #glitchartists #glitchartcommunity #glitchartistcollective #glitchartist #pixelsortingart #proceduralart #creativecodeart #glitchportrait
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
Cock Park Restaurant Branding Design By #Akib_Sarder
This Project On:
#Behance: www.behance.net/gallery/57864131/Cock-Part-Restaurant-Bra...?
#Facebook: www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.298861310585256.1073741...
#Google+ : plus.google.com/u/0/104110449329655898745/posts/EaAjEtDMN5V
-soy tu chocolate Ibarra-
Ibarra a name that rolls like a snare brush. Ibarra. You can hear it whispered between verses ‘ait?
Chocolate Ibarra has been around since 1925, born in Jalisco, where mornings smell like cinnamon and stone-ground cacao. This isn’t your silky European salon chocolate. No, this one’s got grit. It’s rustic. Granular. A little wild around the edges. Just the way life ought to be.
They press it into round tablets, each one etched into wedges like a wheel of fortune. Drop a piece into hot milk and it doesn’t just melt, it swirls. Cinnamon rises up first, then that deep, earthy cacao, carrying a sweetness that feels less like dessert and more like ceremony. You don’t sip it so much as you sit with it.
Mexican chocolate has roots that go back to the Aztecs, who drank cacao spiced and unsweetened, a bitter elixir fit for emperors and gods. By the time it reached modern kitchens, sugar and cinnamon had joined the band. Ibarra kept the rhythm simple: cacao, sugar, cinnamon. Maybe soy lecithin to keep the peace. Nothing fancy. Just a trio playing close harmony.
Ibarra. You hear “Ibarra,” you might think of a second name, a surname standing tall behind a first.
Chocolate Ibarra and Loana Ibarra, yes we both sound like we’ve traveled dusty roads and come back with stories.
One wrote songs that tasted like iron and honey. The other melts into milk and tastes like memory and firewood. Different instruments, same kind of staying power.
Let it dissolve slow.
Listen to the cinnamon sing backup.
And remember that sometimes the sweetest things still have a little grain to them, something to remind you they came from the earth, and not from a factory dream. That’s the way it is on this frequency.
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.
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.
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
Today we spotlight the drummers. The ones who sit in the back and somehow end up steering the whole ship. And if you're riding down a long highway somewhere, moon hanging over the blacktop, humming through the dashboard speaker, there's a good chance you've heard Charlie Watts keeping time without ever asking for attention.
Charlie Watts was the gentleman in a world full of peacocks. While everybody else was kicking down doors, Charlie looked like he might be on his way to a jazz club where the tea came in heavy glasses and nobody raised their voice above the music.
He sat behind the drums for The Rolling Stones for more than half a century, playing with a touch so light you could mistake it for simplicity, until you tried to do it yourself. Then you'd discover there was a whole universe tucked between those beats. And Charlie smiled. Ahhh… that smile. Maybe more than any drummer who ever lived. Not the smile of somebody trying to sell you something. Not the grin of a carnival barker. It was the smile of a man who knew a secret. Like he'd just heard the punchline to a joke told by Duke Ellington fifty years ago and was still enjoying it.
Because beneath all the rock and roll thunder, Charlie Watts was a jazz man. Jazz wasn't a hobby for him, it was home. Before the stadiums, before the screaming crowds, before the giant stages and flashing lights, there was swing, there was bebop, there were brushes dancing across a snare drum. Even when he was playing the biggest rock songs on earth, you could hear that jazz heart beating underneath.
He understood something that all the great drummers understand: time isn't something you keep. Time is something you ride. Like a train rolling through the night. Watts never chased the beat and he never pushed it around. He sat right in the middle of it, calm as a man reading the evening paper.
The world will always remember the swagger of the Stones, but somewhere in the center of all that noise was Charlie Watts, smiling behind the drums, carrying a lifetime love affair with jazz, making the difficult sound easy and the easy sound beautiful.
Some drummers hit the drums. Charlie Watts let them sing.
ink, watercolor on paper
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.
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.
Hedonism, that’s the pursuit of pleasure, sure. But not all pleasure’s loud. Not all of it comes crashing through the door with a bottle in hand. Sometimes it slips in quiet-like, takes a seat in the corner, and watches you notice it.
I found myself thinking about that wandering through an exhibition called Kropp—that’s “body,” for those of you keeping score at home. Rooms filled with forms human and almost-human, painted, sculpted, stretched across time like a long note on a harmonica. Bodies twisted in ecstasy, bodies folded into themselves, bodies just being. You look long enough and you start to wonder where the pleasure lives: in the eye, in the skin, or somewhere deeper down where words don’t reach.
Some of those figures looked like they were chasing something. Others like they’d already caught it and didn’t know what to do next. That’s the trouble with hedonism. Nobody tells you what happens after the feast.
Now, after you’ve spent a few hours in a place like that, your senses get tuned a little differently. Colors feel louder. Silence gets heavier. So you step out into the street, and the world itself starts looking like part of the exhibit.
That’s how I ended up in one of those book and vinyl antiquarian shops, you know the kind. Dust dancing in the light like it’s got nowhere better to be. Shelves stacked high with stories nobody’s opened in years, records leaning against each other like old friends who forgot what they were arguing about.
You flip through a crate of vinyl and every cover’s a door. Some of them open onto stories gone wrong, some onto joy, and some onto something you can’t quite name but you feel it anyway. That’s a different kind of hedonism right there—not the kind that burns fast, but the kind that lingers. The pleasure of finding something that wasn’t looking for you.
And maybe that’s the thread that ties it all together—the painted bodies, the quiet museum halls, the forgotten records. Hedonism isn’t just about having. It’s about feeling your way through the world, noticing what pulls you in, what holds you there, what lets you go.
Some people chase pleasure like it’s a finish line. Others treat it like a passing train, hop on for a while, see where it takes you, step off when the scenery changes.
Me? That’s a secret I never tell.
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
A Glitch "Aeval (Κακό) ~ Ètude I”
by ™℗®© Louis M o n t i e l
~ FOLLOW ME & SUBSCRIBE ~
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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
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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)
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