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A Glitch "Aisha Qandisha ~ Ètude I”
by ™℗®© Louis M o n t i e l
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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
Alternate view of 8 Expressions, a wall sculpture by Kim Weller. My main source material for this project was the Walt Disney film Snow White and the Seven Dwarves and the infamous Black Dahlia Murder in LA.118 x 54 x 54 inches. Acrylic paint, glitter flake. molded urethane foam,
Kim Weller "CYMK Pillows" 2002
metal chain, glitter, pom poms, leatherette, batting, image transfer, resin
There are the ones who make movies, and then there are the ones who build railroads through the imagination. George Lucas belongs to that second bunch.
He came out of Modesto, California, a town hot enough to melt hubcaps, where kids raced cars looking for salvation at the bottom of a gasoline tank. Lucas was supposed to be one of those boys, all engines and velocity, until fate wrapped his little Fiat around a tree and whispered, “Not this road, son.”
So he traded horsepower for projectors. Went off to film school carrying the soul of a hot-rod mechanic and the eyes of a mythologist. Some directors want to tell you stories about people falling in love. Lucas wanted to tell you stories about empires collapsing under the weight of their own machinery. Big difference.
By the time Star Wars arrived in 1977 the world was tired. Tired of scandals, tired of bad news, tired of seeing the future arrive looking like a parking ticket. Then suddenly here comes this skinny space opera full of laser swords, farm boys, smugglers, mystics, princesses, and robots who bicker like vaudeville comedians trapped in a toaster. People called it science fiction, but Lucas was really digging around in older dirt. Samurai films. Saturday matinées. Westerns. Jungian archetypes. Comic books with fingerprints on the corners. He took all the myths humanity had lying around in the basement and welded them together like some cosmic backyard inventor.
And that music by John Williams, well, those horns don’t announce a movie, they announce destiny itself. Makes you feel like you oughta stand up straighter just hearing it.
Lucas understood something a lot of intellectuals forget: people are hungry for myth. Not just entertainment, myth. The old stories where darkness has a face, goodness gets tempted, and redemption might still be possible after terrible mistakes. That’s why Darth Vader matters. Underneath the black armor and mechanical breathing is an old tale about fallen men and the slim possibility they can still come home.
But George Lucas was always half-artist, half-engineer. Maybe more than half engineer. The man looked at filmmaking and saw not romance, but infrastructure. Cameras, sound systems, editing machines, digital effects. He helped drag Hollywood into the computer age whether Hollywood liked it or not. While other directors were dreaming about Oscars, Lucas was over in the corner inventing the future of sound design.
And people argue about him, sure they do. They argue about the prequels the way medieval scholars argued about scripture. But that’s how you know the work got deep into the culture. Nobody spends twenty years debating something that didn’t mark their soul somehow.
Lucas struck me as a quiet man who accidentally changed the weather. Not much of a showman. More like a tinkerer who opened a garage door and revealed an entire galaxy humming inside. You watch those twin suns setting over Tatooine, and somewhere inside yourself you remember what it felt like to be young and restless and convinced there had to be something larger waiting beyond the horizon.
That’s George Lucas’s real trick. He didn’t just give people spaceships. He gave loneliness a mythology. He gave us art.
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.
ACTION-INSTRUMENTS BOX by Alicia Herrero
AIB is a piece designed by Auctions Market & Money to intervene critically in the art market circuit.
With ACTION-INSTRUMENTS BOX you can collect and produce your own REVELATIONS and EVIDENCE and brings together ARGUMENTS to employ in A CRITICAL AND LEGAL JUDGMENT of art market rules.
ACTION-INSTRUMENTS BOX includes:
Auction Catalog Pages (second version), Posters, File Cards, Graphics, Instrumental, Journalistic article, Notarized documents, Instructions and Tutorial (DVD).
ACTION-INSTRUMENTS BOX is part of Errata series of AUCTIONS MARKET & MONEY.(agency that investigates art market)
www.flickr.com/photos/21324327@N07/with/5869524729/
Performer Action-Instruments Box: Vera Carnevale (Buenos Aires), Marian Degas (Madrid)
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.
Es la historia -en un sólo cuadro- de Dos Pichones en Córdoba (México, por supuesto). Puedes descargarla (bájala en alta resolución aquí: bit.ly/QrTRar) o verla aquí mismo; como sea, ábrela en modo de "pantalla completa"; y diviértete. ...
Today we celebrate a ghost. Not the kind that rattle chains in old houses or float through cemetery fog. We're celebrating the kind that sit on a wooden chair with a guitar in its lap and make sounds that seem to arrive from somewhere older than memory. Skip James.
Born in Mississippi at the dawn of the twentieth century, Skip James played guitar like a man trying to unlock a door nobody else could see. Some musicians hit the strings. Skip James seemed to interrogate them. Every note sounded like it had a secret and wasn't sure whether to tell you. His voice came from somewhere high and lonesome, somewhere between a church steeple and a graveyard gate. You hear it and you wonder if he's singing to you or to somebody standing just behind you. Back in the 1930s he walked into a recording studio in Wisconsin and cut a handful of records that would outlive empires. The country was falling into the Great Depression. Banks were closing, crops were failing, and somewhere amid all that noise Skip James recorded songs so spare and haunted they sounded like they were already remembering the world.
"Devil Got My Woman." That's not just a blues title. That's a telegram from the edge of human experience. A lot of people spend their lives trying to sound authentic. Skip James sounded like authenticity trying to sound human.
Then he disappeared. Not vanished like a magician. Vanished the way countries let people vanish. One day you're on a record. The next day you're working a job, paying bills, watching seasons come and go while your music drifts through the decades looking for listeners.
The folk revival found him again in the 1960s. It's one of those stories music history specializes in: the lost master rediscovered. Like finding a bottle washed ashore with a message inside and realizing the ink is still wet. Young musicians heard him and understood immediately. You couldn't really imitate Skip James. Plenty tried. But his music wasn't built from techniques. It was built from weather, memory, regret, and something else nobody could quite name. There are singers who sound like they're standing under stage lights. Skip James sounds like he's standing at the end of a dirt road just before dawn.
You know, trains run through a lot of blues songs. Highways too. But Skip James often sounded like he came from someplace before transportation altogether. A place where people traveled by dream and rumor. And maybe that's why the records still work. Because fashions change. Instruments change. Recording technology changes. But loneliness hasn't changed much. Neither has longing. Neither has the feeling of staring out a window at three in the morning and wondering how the world got so large. Skip James knew that territory better than most.
So if it's late where you are, and the room is quiet, put on one of his records. Turn the lights down. Let those strange notes find their way through the dark. Some musicians entertain. Some musicians accompany. And a rare few, like Skip James, haunt.
ink, watercolor on paper
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
A Glitch "Copulat Eam (συνουσία) ~ Ètude V”
This art piece were created for my PhD and based on a Digital and Analog Aesthetic Research on "Artistic Practices, Digital Art in Social Networks and Net Art", some digital techniques used of artistic diversity, such as the re-mixed appropriation of image or video, also work conceived as original data work called creative altered binary code, datamoshing, generative art and glitch art worked in all its forms and expressions; works of art with a strong focus decoding the i-frames of images and videos (also known as key frames and altered or distorted creative binary code) mixed with seductive techniques of Pixelsorting Art; making it seem extremely sensitive and abstract; created exclusively for the virtual gallery on-line.
by ™℗®© Louis M o n t i e l
NFT Crypto Digital Art
Marketplace on qurable.co : Buy, Shell & Explore Digital Assets
app.qurable.co/c-louis-montiel
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#visualartists #glitchart #glitch #glitché #pixelsorting #glitchartistscollective #glitchvideo #datamosh #digitalglitch #nfts #hyperspektiv #minimalart #videoart #dfkt #pixelsorter #artistsvisual #nftart #glitchartscollective #glitcharts #nftartist #glitchartwork #glitchartisdead #glitchartists #nftcommunity #nft #glitchartist #pixelsortingart #nftartists #creativecodeart #glitchportrait
A Glitch "Sanitarium (Σανατόριο) ~ Ètude I”
by ™℗®© Louis M o n t i e l
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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
watercolor ink on paper
His stage name Dogge Doggelito. His non stage name Douglas León. But most of all, he is just Dogge for us. One of the founders of The Latin Kings, Sweden's most successful rap groups.
Dogge formed The Latin Kings in 1991 together with the DJ brothers Chepe and Salla, also known as The Salazar Brothers. Their first album titled Välkommen till förorten (Welcome to the Suburb), released in 1994, became one of the biggest breakthroughs creating a sensation in the Swedish music world. Culture journalists claimed that The Latin Kings was the most important thing happening on the Swedish popular music scene since epoch-making suburbian punk band Ebba Grön.
In 1994, they were among the first to release a hiphop album with lyrics in Swedish, (archives say the first to do so was the group Just D), swedish rappers had before that time always used the English language.
The Latin Kings lyrics reflect life in the less affluent suburbs of Sweden and became famous for rapping in the local Rinkeby Swedish, a Swedish dialect, a multiethnolect youth linguistic phenomenon developed in the 1980s in Rinkeby, a Stockholm suburb, characterized by loanwords from Turkish, Aramaic, Spanish, Finnish, Persian, Arabic among others.
There had been a hiphop scene in Stockholm throughout the entire '80s. But the Latin Kings were the first to reach the charts rapping in Swedish and their music, lyrics and existence has meant lots to my generation and probably new ones, especially for us coming from other countries but also for the one who thought being born in this country is seen, counted and treated as an immigrant.
A sick global mindset.
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contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
A Glitch "Khonvoum(Χο Μπόρν) ~ Ètude IV”
by ™℗®© Louis M o n t i e l
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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 #pixelsortingeffect
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.
Title: #172. Painting... 24x24 inches, Acrylic on Canvas. Painting by Terry David Silvercloud (Butch).
We’re drifting way up—way up—into the thermosphere, that part of the sky where the mercury runs wild and the particles get so lonesome they start glowing like neon signs on an empty highway. They say in the thermosphere the temperature can climb above three thousand degrees, but it won’t burn you, kind like the applause after a bad play. All heat, no heat. Reminds me of some clubs I used to visit.
Now, if you ask an art historian about the thermosphere, they’d probably squint, light a cigarette, and say something like: “Well, it’s all about liminality.” That’s an art-historian word meaning the threshold, the in-between.
Victor Turner talked about it in anthropology, but the art folks grabbed it like a painter grabbing a new brush. The thermosphere is a liminal zone, not quite earth, not quite space… just hanging there like an unfinished fresco by some apprentice who wandered off. You look at it through the lens of formalism, you see a big blue-black canvas, all shape and color and emptiness. Through iconography, maybe those glowing auroras are symbols, messages from the sun written in green fire. And if you’re a Marxist art historian, well… you’d probably blame the whole thing on capitalism anyway.
Now theater folks, they know all about altitude.
The Greeks carved amphitheaters into the sides of mountains, hoping the gods would catch the matinee. Imagine a stage set in the thermosphere: no scenery, no backdrop, just stars and the shimmering curtain of the Northern Lights. That’s what we call site-specific performance, honeybees. You don’t need props when the universe is doing the lighting design. Stanislavski would’ve told his actors to “live truthfully in imaginary circumstances,” but up in the thermosphere the circumstances are so imaginary, you got to hold onto your truth like a lucky coin. And Brecht? He’d love the whole thing, nothing says “alienation effect” like performing in a place where sound doesn’t travel and the audience can’t breathe.
So that’s the thermosphere for you, a place where science dances with art history, where temperature’s a rumor, where theater gets cosmic, and where humanity sends up little metal satellites hoping someone or something might tune in. Up there, the atoms glow. Down here… we just keep trying.
Whether you’re drifting in the thermosphere with a broken heart on a Monday morning keep your feet on the ground and your imagination in orbit.
See you next time.
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
Today time smells like whiskey and roses crushed under a boot heel, and that brings us to celebrate Janis Joplin.
Janis Joplin didn’t sing songs so much as she wrestled them to the floor. She came out of Port Arthur, Texas, where the sidewalks remember every lie you ever told. She carried that place with her, even when she left it behind. Especially when she left it behind.
Her voice sounded like it had already lived a full life before it ever hit the microphone. Like it had stayed up too late, loved the wrong people, and still showed up for work the next morning. That kind of voice doesn’t ask permission. It just tells the truth and lets the chips scatter wherever they want. You listen to that track “Call on me” and you’ll be arriving somewhere you have never been before.
Now, one thing Joplin and I have in common is that we ran with the boys. Always did. Bands full of men, rooms full of men, laughter bouncing off the walls like empty bottles. Some folks say Joplin felt more at ease there, less judged, less measured, accepted. Around men, she could be loud, messy, brilliant, and broken all at once without anyone asking her to smooth the edges. With women, the mirrors came out, and if you ask me they still do, comparison, competition, old wounds from high school hallways that never really close. That doesn’t mean she didn’t admire women. She did. She just didn’t always trust the room they put her in. Joplin knew how cruel crowds could be, and sometimes the hardest crowds are the ones that know your reflection a little too well.
She dressed loud, walked smiling. Feathers, beads, velvet, scars you couldn’t see but could hear plain as day. And when she sang about love, it wasn’t the Valentine kind. It was the kind you beg for, borrow, and sometimes steal knowing full well it won’t stay.
Janis Joplin lived fast because time was already tapping her on the shoulder. Some people stretch time out like a long highway. Others burn it down to a single matchstick. Janis was the flame bright, shaking, impossible to ignore. She didn’t want to be protected. She wanted to be heard. And she was. Still is. Every time that needle drops, she steps out of the speakers, boots first, daring the world to look away. And time? Time just stands there, listening, pretending it doesn’t care even though it knows it lost that round.
That’s Janis Joplin. No safety net. No apologies. Just a voice that refuses to sit down and behave.
ink, watercolor on paper
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
Title: #177. Painting... 24x24 inches, Acrylic on Canvas. Painting by Terry David Silvercloud (Butch).
You ever hear a voice that feels like it’s been waiting for you longer than you’ve been alive? Jaime Sabines, he’s one of those.
Jaime Sabines didn’t come dressed like a poet. No velvet, no ivory tower. He came like a man who just stepped out for cigarettes and came back holding the universe in a paper bag. Born down in Chiapas, where the heat sticks to your thoughts and time moves like a tired animal, Sabines wrote the way people confess: quick, uneven, necessary.
Some poets build cathedrals out of language… Sabines? He built a kitchen table. Sat you down. Poured you something strong. Then he’d say the kind of things that make you look at your hands like you forgot they were yours.
He wrote about love, sure, but not the kind that floats. His love had weight. It dragged chains. It got sick. It stayed too long or left too early. He could take something as simple as missing someone and turn it into a room you couldn’t find the door out of. And death… yeah, death walked through his lines like it had a key.
When his father died, Sabines didn’t dress it up in metaphor and moonlight. He wrote it raw. Like grief was sitting right there in the chair across from him, breathing. You read those poems and you don’t feel like you’re reading, you feel like you’re overhearing something you weren’t supposed to. There’s a kind of honesty there, the dangerous kind. The kind that doesn’t ask for anything to be. You get the sense Sabines didn’t trust poetry much. Or maybe he trusted it too much to lie with it. So he kept it close to the ground, close to the body. No tricks. No disguises. Just the truth, walking in without knocking. And maybe that’s why he lingers like a melody you can’t quite place, but it follows you out into the street anyway.
So if you find yourself awake some night, thoughts circling like they got nowhere to land, you might hear him. Not loud. Not polished. Just a man, telling it like it is. Somehow, that’s more than enough.
—
ESPERO CURARME DE TI
Espero curarme de ti en unos días.
Debo dejar de fumarte, de beberte, de pensarte. Es posible. Siguiendo las prescripciones de la moral en turno. Me receto tiempo, abstinencia, soledad.
¿Te parece bien que te quiera nada más una semana? No es mucho, ni es poco, es bastante. En una semana se puede reunir todas las palabras de amor que se han pronunciado sobre la tierra y se les puede prender fuego. Te voy a calentar con esa hoguera del amor quemado. Y también el silencio. Porque las mejores palabras del amor están entre dos gentes que no se dicen nada.
Hay que quemar también ese otro lenguaje lateral y subversivo del que ama. (Tú sabes cómo te digo que te quiero cuando digo: «qué calor hace», «dame agua», «¿sabes manejar?», «se hizo de noche»... Entre las gentes, a un lado de tus gentes y las mías, te he dicho «ya es tarde», y tú sabías que decía «te quiero»).
Una semana más para reunir todo el amor del tiempo. Para dártelo. Para que hagas con él lo que quieras: guardarlo, acariciarlo, tirarlo a la basura. No sirve, es cierto. Sólo quiero una semana para entender las cosas. Porque esto es muy parecido a estar saliendo de un manicomio para entrar a un panteón.
//1959, J. Sabines
—
I HOPE TO HEAL FROM YOU
I hope to heal from you in a few days.
I must stop smoking you, drinking you, thinking you. It’s possible. Following the prescriptions of the moment’s morality. I prescribe for myself time, abstinence, solitude.
Does it seem alright to you if I love you for just one more week? It’s not much, nor is it little—it’s enough. In a week you can gather all the words of love that have been spoken on earth and set them on fire. I will warm you with that bonfire of burned love. And also with silence. Because the best words of love are between two people who say nothing to each other.
We must also burn that other sideways, subversive language of the one who loves. (You know how I tell you I love you when I say: “it’s hot,” “give me water,” “can you drive?”, “it’s gotten late”… Among people, off to the side of your people and mine, I’ve said to you “it’s late,” and you knew I meant “I love you.”)
One more week to gather all the love of time. To give it to you. So you can do with it whatever you want: keep it, caress it, throw it away. It’s no use, that’s true. I only want a week to understand things. Because this is very much like leaving an asylum to enter a graveyard.
//1959, J. Sabines
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.