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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.
Page 22
A book
Bought in Tokyo
The Traditional Japanese Color Palette
A blouse
-Rose Red
-Marigold
-Fresh Green
-Pale Lilac
Names like nothing else
A match click-clack
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.
La grande première 💫 Loanatería 💫
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!”
1. El Cráneo
1/54
watercolor ink
instagram loanaibarra
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
A Glitch “L’Mousai (μοῦσαι) ~ Ètude VI”
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 #glitchartisdead #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.
Today we celebrate the kind that rattles the windows a little. The kind that makes the squares nervous and the dreamers lean closer to the radio. Ornette Coleman.
Ornette Coleman came into this world in 1930 down in Fort Worth, a place where the trains rolled slow and the rhythm lived somewhere between the church pews and the back-alley blues joints.
He picked up an alto saxophone, but he didn’t treat it the way most folks do. Most players learned the rules first and then maybe bent them a little.
Coleman… well, he walked into the room like the rules had already left town. By the late 1950s he landed in New York City, and that’s where things started shaking loose. In 1959 he put out a record called “The Shape of Jazz to Come”. That title wasn’t bragging, it was more like a weather report. You see, the music on that record didn’t sit still. The horns wandered free, the rhythm section followed feelings instead of fences, and melodies bent like streetlights in a rainstorm. Some folks thought it sounded like the band had fallen down a staircase. Others heard something brand new being born.
Before long, Coleman started talking about something he called harmolodics, a word that sounds like it might’ve blown in on a Texas windstorm. Harmolodics meant harmony, melody, and rhythm all sharing the same freedom… nobody bossing the others around.
You could hear it roaring through his 1960 record “Free Jazz: A Collective Improvisation”, where two quartets played at once—eight musicians weaving in and out like traffic at a midnight intersection. Some listeners scratched their heads. Some critics clutched their pearls. But the musicians were listening close. Cool cats like John Coltrane and Eric Dolphy heard the door creak open and stepped right through it.
Coleman didn’t just change the notes, he changed the idea of what a jazz band could be. Suddenly the music didn’t have to march in straight lines anymore. It could wander, shout, whisper, or laugh whenever it felt like it.
In 2007 he even picked up a Pulitzer Prize for Music for an album called Sound Grammar, proof that sometimes the future takes a while to catch up with the present.
Ornette Coleman finally packed up his horn and drifted on down the road in 2015. But the sound he left behind, that’s still floating through clubs and headphones and late-night radios all over the world. Because every now and then music needs someone brave enough to ask a simple question: What if the song could go anywhere? And Ornette Coleman… well, he didn’t just ask the question. He played the answer.
watercolor ink on paper
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
A Glitch "Sosies (σόσια) ~ Ètude XI”
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 ~
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 #nfts #hyperspektiv #minimalart #videoart #dfkt #pixelsorter #artistsvisual #nftart #glitchartscollective #glitcharts #nftartist #glitchartwork #glitchartisdead #glitchartists #nftcommunity #nft #glitchartist #pixelsortingart #nftartists #creativecodeart #glitchportrait
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
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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.
Today we're spinning cats. Not the kind that curl up on the windowsill or chase shadows across the kitchen floor. We're talking about the kind that wear sharp suits, walk into crowded nightclubs at midnight, and leave with the whole room hanging on a snap of their fingers. That brings us to Fred Buscaglione.
Back in postwar Italy, when the world was trying to remember how to smile again, Buscaglione came along looking like he'd wandered out of an American gangster picture that had somehow drifted across the Atlantic and docked in Turin. Pencil mustache, tilted hat, cigarette smoke in the air. He wasn't selling danger so much as the idea of danger. The fun kind. The kind that arrives with a brass section.
Buscaglione built a character from the movies and the music he loved. He took a little swing, a little jazz, a little Hollywood mythology, mixed it all together, and came out sounding like a man who knew every bartender in town and owed money to half of them.
His songs were crowded with tough guys, beautiful women, fast cars, and improbable adventures. The stories unfolded with a wink. You got the feeling he was in on the joke before anybody else was. That's a rare gift. Plenty of performers can tell you a story. Not many can let you know they're laughing along with you.
The remarkable thing is how international the whole affair feels. Here's an Italian singer channeling the dream-world of American noir, but turning it into something uniquely his own. Culture travels funny roads. A trumpet phrase leaves New Orleans, catches a boat, crosses an ocean, and years later turns up wearing an Italian suit.
Buscaglione had rhythm in his bones and timing in his pocket. He understood that music doesn't always have to confess its deepest secrets. Take that one track “Eri Piccola Cosi”, that drama, that trumpet, those drums, oh me oh my. Sometimes it just has to swagger down the street and buy everybody a drink.
His life ended suddenly in 1960, in a car accident, when he was only thirty-eight years old. The legend, naturally, grew larger afterward. Legends usually do. They don't age, don't get tired, don't have to explain themselves. They remain forever under the spotlight, forever in the middle of the song. And if you listen closely to Fred Buscaglione today, you can still hear that world: the clink of glasses, the glow of neon, the band counting off the next tune. A world where every night promises trouble, every trouble has a punchline, and every punchline swings in time.
So pull your hat down low, straighten your tie, and keep one eye on the exit. Fred Buscaglione is coming through the door, and the band is already playing his song.
Today we celebrate Sade, that’s Sade Adu, not the whole band, though the band’s always there like a good shadow at sundown.
Nigerian-born British singer Sade, short for Helene Folasade Adu, sings like she knows a secret she’s not gonna tell you, not all at once, anyway. She doesn’t chase the song; she lets the song come to her, like a cat on a hot afternoon. No wasted steps. No false confessions. Just that voice, smooth as polished stone, carrying stories that feel older than the calendar but somehow right on schedule. You hear a Sade record and suddenly the room changes shape. The lights dim themselves. The air gets heavy, like it’s about to rain, or already did. These aren’t songs that shout from the rooftops they lean in close, whisper something true, then pull back before you can ask too many questions. Love, loss, devotion, betrayal, yeah, all the big words but spoken softly, like they might break if you said them too loud.
There’s jazz in there, sure. Soul. A little R&B slipping in through the side door. But mostly there’s space. Space between the notes. Space for you to think about who you were when you first heard her, and who you are now. That’s the trick. Time doesn’t pass the same way when Sade’s playing. Three minutes can feel like a long night drive with nowhere you need to be.
She came up in the ’80s, a decade that liked things loud and shiny, but Sade went the other way cool, restrained, dressed in understatement. While everybody else was turning it up, she was turning it down, and somehow that made it last longer. Those records don’t wrinkle. They don’t age. They just wait. Sade doesn’t release albums often. She’s not chasing the clock or feeding the machine. She shows up when she’s got something to say, and then she disappears again, like a mirage that knows you’ll remember it better if it doesn’t stick around too long.
So if you’re out there tonight, driving with the radio low, or sitting alone with a glass that’s half full or half empty, Sade might be just what you need. Not to tell you what to do. Not to save you. Just to sit with you for a while and remind you that feeling deeply is still allowed. And that’s worth tuning in for.
ink, watercolor on paper
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
Next time you're brushing your teeth or sitting on the train just remember: you're walking around with your own altar inside you. A temple of bone. And every shelf of it tells a story. Some loud. Some whispering like a secret between ribs.
I’ve been thinking lately, maybe my skeleton doesn’t live under my skin. Maybe it’s over there, in the middle of that long wall, standing semi-tall and dusty: a bookshelf. The one that creaks when the floorboard sighs just right. The one I’ve moved around every time I have to make some space for new occupants, like an extra rib I couldn’t leave behind.
You want to know what holds me up? What keeps me upright? Sure, there’s calcium and collagen, sockets and joints. But I’ll tell you, sometimes, I think it’s the shelf(s) that does the real work. That’s my skeletal system. Every book on it? A vertebra. A knuckle. A femur I forgot I needed. The Collected Poems of Lorca -lumbar spine, no question. I lean on it when I forget how to speak grief. A battered paperback of Frankenstein, margins scribbled to hell, that’s a clavicle. Something fragile I keep breaking and resetting. A field guide to birds, the one with the duct-taped spine? That’s a shoulder blade. Wings I never grew, but inherited anyway.
And altars? Oh, there are altars. A postcard of Shiva sent from a friend visiting India for the uncountable time, like a slipped disc, reminding me the spine is a sacred ladder, he knew I would love it and I love it. There is a wonderful smelling geranium from my mother making it feel just like paradise to my bestie Carlitos Bukowski. Something tender that’s still holding. And a photograph of my father in a silver frame, crooked smile, Beatles hair, eyes full of silence. That’s a rib. Maybe the sixth. The one that aches in the rain. Even the dust plays a part. Settling in the joints, softening the hard edges. Like cartilage. Like memory. The shelf itself bows a little in the middle. That’s age. That’s the weight of living. You carry enough stories, you sag. It’s natural. It’s honest.
So when I talk about the skeletal system, I’m not just talking bones and marrow. I’m talking about the structure I built to keep myself from collapsing. And yeah, it creaks sometimes. It’s not perfect. But it’s mine. And it stands.
//keep standing straight, your always anatomically Loana Ibarra