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Visual artist/guitar;
Fukushima - Amsterdam herdenkt ramp in Japan;
Huis De Pinto, Amsterdam,
March 11th, 2017;
© co broerse
A Film Glitch “Regina Spectris (Morrigu)”
**Better Sensitive Experience Wear Headphones**
*See Complète Film in IGTV@louismontielt
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 #datamoshing #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.
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.
Title: #168. Painting... 24x24 inches, Acrylic on Canvas. Painting by Terry David Silvercloud (Butch).
Some afternoons seem stitched together by rain.
You can see it in that window, the drops falling slow and steady, tapping a rhythm on the glass like a quiet drummer keeping time for the street outside. People move by in coats and scarves, heads slightly bowed, the way folks do when the weather asks them to think a little deeper than usual. Inside, though, the world feels warmer.
There’s a small dog perched on a red cushion, looking out like a philosopher in a black coat. A dachshund. Long body, steady eyes. In Spanish we call them “perro salchicha”, si, that means “sausage dog”. Those dogs always seem to carry an old soul with them, like they’ve been around the block a few more times than the rest of us.
Watching the rain.
It reminds me of one of the dogs we had when growing up in Mexico. His name was Gumaro. Same kind of dog, low to the ground but full of heart. The kind that doesn’t just belong to a family… the kind that chooses one.
Gumaro chose my father.
Now the strange thing about loyalty is that sometimes it has to prove itself against the world. Twice people stole that dog. Maybe they saw something in him — the shine in his coat, the proud way he walked, or maybe just the quiet dignity dachshunds carry like a secret. But twice they took him away. And twice my father went and got him back.
You can picture it like an old border-town story, dusty roads, questions asked, doors knocked on, long car drives in the middle of the nights, somebody recognizing the dog that wouldn’t stop looking for home. Because that’s the thing about a loyal animal: even when you move them somewhere else, their compass still points toward the people they love. And Gumaro always pointed back.
Looking at this dog in the window, watching the rain fall on a quiet street somewhere far from where Gumaro ran his little patrols… you realize dogs understand time in a different way than we do. They don’t measure it in years or miles. They measure it in moments beside the people they trust.
A rainy afternoon.
A warm cushion.
A hand resting on their back.
Sometimes that’s all the world needs to be. And somewhere in that rhythm of rain on the glass, you can almost hear an old memory padding softly across the floor; long body, short legs, faithful heart still finding its way home.
A Glitch "Originale Peccatum (αμαρτία) ~ Ètude I”
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
Obra: En Casa/ En Kabul.
Autor: Tony Kushner.
Dirección: Carlos Gandolfo.
Labor: Diseño de Escenografía. (Junto a Carlos Gandolfo y Florencia Del Gener)
Diseño de Vestuario. (Junto a Florencia Del Gener).
Teatro: Complejo Teatral de Buenos Aires Teatro San Martín.
Sala Casacuberta
Temporada: 2004.
Fotos: Mariana Del Gener.
Obra: En Casa/ En Kabul.
Autor: Tony Kushner.
Dirección: Carlos Gandolfo.
Labor: Diseño de Escenografía. (Junto a Carlos Gandolfo y Florencia Del Gener)
Diseño de Vestuario. (Junto a Florencia Del Gener).
Teatro: Complejo Teatral de Buenos Aires Teatro San Martín.
Sala Casacuberta
Temporada: 2004.
Fotos: Mariana Del Gener.
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.
Copyright 2018. Norland D. Cruz. All Rights Reserved.
This image cannot be used, downloaded or reproduced in any form by anyone without my permission.
Happy International Women’s Day!
Let’s think of and thank all the women of the past, for all the strong fights they fought and the tremendous things they reached. Heroines!
Let’s think of and thank all women in present time for all the fights they are fighting here and there and everywhere cause every fight is for all of us.
Thank you!
Let’s applaud the men and hug the boys out there, those who are standing up for women and girls when they see things ain’t being equally treated. They exist too, I know a couple of them and that’s truly beautiful.
Vivan las mujeres!
Vivan!
ink watercolor on paper
instagram loanaibarra
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
Well, gather around, wherever you are, and take a little trip with me up a staircase, second floor, somewhere in Malmö where the ghosts of objects whisper louder than the things themselves.
They call it “Plastbantarna”. Sounds like a diet, don’t it? But this ain’t about losing pounds, it’s about shedding a skin we didn’t even know we had. One day it’s all there: the wrappers, the wires, the quiet conveniences tucked into corners. Next day, gone. Vanished like a lover in a midnight song.
Now there’s this family, the Hesses, who decided to walk that line. No plastic. Not in the kitchen, not in the bathroom, not in the kids room, not hiding in the seams of daily life for a month. They turned to wood that creaks, glass that shatters if you’re careless, metal that remembers every touch, wool that breathes like a living thing. Ceramics too, fragile as promises.
And you start to wonder, what’s left when the invisible scaffolding disappears?
See, plastic’s a funny thing. It don’t ask for much attention. It just sits there, quiet as a paintbrush in your back pocket, shaping your life while pretending not to be part of it. Take it away, and suddenly you feel the weight of every choice, every toothbrush, every bottle, every little piece of the world you thought you owned.
But me, I’d be thinking about something else entirely. Not the toothbrush or the food containers. Not the chair legs or the light switches. No, I’d be standing there in a room that echoes a little too much, staring at a collection that spins stories in circles, my vinyls.
Those records, they ain’t just objects. They’re time machines with grooves carved like secret roads. And without plastic? Well, you can kiss those spinning black suns goodbye. No more needle dropping into a soft crackle that sounds like rain on a tin roof. No more album covers leaning like old friends against the wall. Silence would creep in, slow and deliberate. And maybe that’s the real question this exhibition’s asking, not just what we lose, but what we don’t even realize we’re holding onto. The hidden things. The unnoticed threads. The quiet dependencies that hum beneath the surface of a life. Because when the plastic disappears, it ain’t just the stuff that goes. It’s the rhythm, the ease, the illusion that everything’s gonna hold together without asking anything of you.
So you walk through that space, second floor, and you listen, not just with your ears, but with whatever it is inside you that remembers. You think about what you’d keep, what you’d lose, and what might slip through your fingers without you ever seeing it go. And somewhere in the distance, you might just hear it, the faint, fading echo of a record that used to spin.
A the little detour down a black-and-white back alley; ink illustrations and its repetition. That’s right, not paint, not pixels, not the neon glow of your phone screen, but good old-fashioned lines scratched out with care and purpose. Pen and ink. Black like a raven’s wing. Sharp like a switchblade in a gumshoe’s pocket.
They say the pen is mightier than the sword. But an ink illustration? Well, that’s somewhere in between, a duel at dawn between intention and improvisation. You never know where the next line’ll go, but you draw it anyway, hand shakin' or steady, tryin’ to trap lightning in a bottle.
Now I’m not talkin’ about doodles in the margins of a math book, although, who’s to say? Some of the best ideas started in the margins. Da Vinci did it. So did R. Crumb. Charles Dana Gibson made women outta lines so elegant they could stop traffic. Meanwhile, Edward Gorey, well, he drew things that made you feel like someone was watchin' from the other room.
And don’t get me started on Japanese ink work: sumi-e. They say a single brushstroke in sumi-e is like a poem with no words. Imagine that, a haiku made of shadows.
Some illustrators let the ink do the talkin'. Others fight it every inch of the way. Either way, it’s about makin’ something permanent out of somethin’ fluid. Like tryin’ to write a love letter with a storm cloud.
We got artists who use nib pens, brush pens, crow quills, and fountain pens that leak like an old Chevy. They dip into wells of India ink , which, incidentally, ain't from India at all. But that’s a story for another time.
ink on paper
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
Some records arrive like a parade. Others come in through the kitchen window after midnight, carrying the smell of salt water and old amplifiers. “Crazy for You” 2010, by Best Coast is one of those records. It's the sound of California without the postcards—the beaches after the crowds have gone home, the radio humming in a car that's been parked too long, the kind of love that burns fast enough to leave its name on the walls. I’ve been loving it since it was born.
People have been writing songs about wanting somebody since somebody was invented. From Tin Pan Alley to garage bands rehearsing in rented lockups, the story hasn't changed much. The names do. The guitars get louder or quieter. But that ache—that beautiful inconvenience—keeps finding new melodies.
Bethany Cosentino doesn't try to outrun that tradition. She leans into it. Her voice doesn't ask permission; it confesses like bubblegum in your mouth. She sings as though she's reading yesterday's diary and discovering she's still living in it. There's no elaborate disguise, no smoke machine to hide behind. Just melodies that know exactly where they're going and feelings that don't. The guitars glow instead of sparkle. Every chord seems to have been left out in the Pacific fog until the edges softened. The fuzz isn't there to make the music heavier. It's there to make the memories blur in all the right places. Beneath the distortion is craftsmanship that's almost old-fashioned. These are pop songs built with the confidence that two or three chords, honestly played, can still tell the truth.
The remarkable thing about “Crazy for You” is how little it asks of the listener. It doesn't demand to be decoded or admired from a distance. It simply asks you to remember the last time you wanted someone to call, the last drive taken with no destination, the last afternoon when a three-minute song somehow understood your whole week. That's harder than it sounds. Simplicity is expensive. Plenty of artists mistake repetition for honesty. Best Coast know the difference. Every familiar phrase lands because it's carried by conviction rather than calculation. They understand that the oldest stories become new every time somebody means them.
The album lasts barely long enough to finish a cup of coffee, but it lingers like a faded Polaroid tucked inside a favorite book. It belongs to that rare class of records that become companions instead of monuments. You don't visit them once a decade to admire their greatness. You leave them by the turntable because they'll probably make sense again tomorrow. The last track “When I’m With You” is indeed an explosion, a marvelous perfect ending.
In the end, “Crazy for You” isn't trying to reinvent rock and roll. It's reminding you why rock and roll survived in the first place: a guitar with a little static, a melody you can whistle without realizing it, and a heart stubborn enough to keep believing that the next chorus might change everything—even if only until the song fades out. This album consists of no track to skip.
A pictorial work is defined as a visual stimulus that produces an aesthetic impact on the viewer and transmits a message, in addition to capturing its historical and cultural context. The ancestral classification of aesthetic activities was referred to again by Charles Batteux in his theory of fine arts, thus returning to the importance of music and its evolution. Few artistic objects have been able to create multiple and sensory effects while also being massive products as the vinyl cover.
One of the most fascinating characteristics of music is its instant capacity to exalt the senses, that magical effect that allows you to disconnect from everyday reality to get lost in a sound and multi-sensory journey. For some artists, music needs visual art to be attractive and visual art needs music to create a new experience. This is how these two fine arts have always been linked. In fact it is very likely that there is not even a clear separation.
So, why is this musical and pictorial work as an archive important to lift, keep alive and respect just like the great paintings of the Renaissance? What does it say about our present and what can it tell forthcoming generations?
The vinyl cover is not merely packaging; it is a portable altarpiece. It is the fresco of the industrial age, the illuminated manuscript of electricity. To dismiss it as design ephemera is to misunderstand how images migrate from cathedral walls to department store bins. When The Beatles released “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band”, the cover was not a marketing device but a manifesto in collage, a crowded Renaissance of pop that rivaled the perspectival ambition of a Florentine chapel. When Pink Floyd encased “The Dark Side of the Moon” in a prism, it offered a metaphysical diagram as severe and iconic as a Suprematist cross.
To walk through a contemporary museum today is, too often, to encounter the bureaucratization of shock: vinyl slogans enlarged to architectural scale, ready-made provocations laminated into safety. The gesture repeats itself with a deadpan smirk, as if irony were still a subversive tool and not the exhausted currency of curatorial fashion.
One hears the ghost of Camille Paglia demanding a return to awe, to the Dionysian voltage that once electrified art before it was house-trained by grant committees. She would remind us that true art is dangerous because it channels primal forces, not because it prints profanity in Helvetica.
The vinyl sleeve, at its height, carried that voltage. It was erotic, theatrical, mythic. It did not apologize for beauty; it weaponized it. In an era when the museum gift shop threatens to outshine the gallery, we should ask whether the most democratic art of the late twentieth century was not hanging on bedroom walls, thumbtacked above turntables, absorbing cigarette smoke and adolescent longing. These covers were handled, worn, inhabited. They were not sanctified behind glass but baptized in use.
There is, as Donald Kuspit has argued in other contexts, a difference between art that sublimates and art that merely simulates profundity. The vinyl cover often sublimated: it condensed political unrest, sexual revolution, technological optimism, and spiritual hunger into a single square meter of cardboard. It metabolized chaos into composition. Compare this with the cool sterility of much installation art today, which announces its criticality like a press release. The vinyl cover never needed wall text; its theology was immediate.
I hear Tom Wolfe sharpening his white suit against the spectacle of contemporary art fairs—status rituals disguised as radicalism—while overlooking the riotous sincerity of graphic designers who dared to imagine mass culture as a cathedral. The audacity was not in pretending to despise commerce but in infiltrating it, smuggling high symbolism into suburban living rooms. That was Pop’s true revenge.
And what would the authentic, bold, woman of my taste, mexican art critic Avelina Lésper say of a museum that elevates a crumpled tarp yet ignores the visual intelligence of an album sleeve that shaped a generation’s imagination?
I know.
She would likely denounce the fraud of institutional validation divorced from craft. The vinyl cover required drawing, typography, composition, printing mastery—skills now often eclipsed by conceptual grandstanding. It demanded collaboration between musician, photographer, illustrator, and art director: a gesamtkunstwerk of the reproducible age. James Elkins might gently remind us that images survive not because institutions decree their importance but because viewers continue to look at them.
The question, then, is phenomenological: what do we see when we see a vinyl cover? We see time crystallized. We see hairstyles, political anxieties, utopian dreams. We see the analog texture of a pre-digital world where scale mattered, where the square format became an arena for formal experimentation as rigorous as any canvas.
To preserve and elevate these musical-pictorial artifacts is not nostalgia; it is historiography. They tell future generations that art once circulated hand to hand, that beauty could be mass-produced without being spiritually bankrupt, that the boundary between high and low culture was porous and productive. They testify to an era when the aesthetic experience began before the needle touched the groove.
If the Renaissance altarpiece instructed the faithful how to see the divine, the vinyl cover instructed the modern subject how to see the self—fragmented, ecstatic, rebellious, yearning. It is an archive of desire. And perhaps what disturbs the contemporary museum is precisely this: that meaning once erupted from collaboration, craft, and public hunger, not from theoretical opacity.
To defend the vinyl cover as fine art is to defend intensity against indifference, form against formlessness, and memory against the amnesia of trends. It is to insist that art does not become noble by being scarce, but by being necessary.
up: detail "The Garden of Earthly Delights", between 1490-1510, Hieronmyus Bosch.
down: “Little Creatures”, 1985, The Talking Heads, album cover created by the much outsider artist Howard Finster.
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artist, couple, digital, drawing, filmmaker, hopscotchers, LOVE, lovers, nomads, reviews, tips, travel, travel couple, travelling, tricks, videos, visual artist #Insta-Posts
hopscotchers.org/chana-masala-grao-de-bico-com-tomate-ceb...
Title: #150. Acrylic Painting... 24x24 inches, Acrylic on Canvas. Painting by Terry David Silvercloud (Butch). Like all artists, I like to experiment with paint, colour and composition. There is always an accidental outcome from these kinds of works. You don't know quite what you will get.
Today we’re drifting through the fog and lantern light to celebrate a man who painted storms in black and white, Akira Kurosawa.
Akira Kurosawa didn’t just make pictures, he summoned them. Like calling spirits out of the wind. Born in Tokyo when the century was still stretching its legs, he grew up watching a world that kept breaking and rebuilding itself, like a mirror that never quite forgets the cracks. And maybe that’s why his stories feel the way they do, like they’ve already lived a few lifetimes before you ever press play.
You ever notice how the rain falls different in his films? It doesn’t just fall, it confesses. It accuses. It washes things clean and then dirties them right back up again. And the wind… oh, that wind… it don’t blow, it argues. It pushes men into corners they didn’t know they were standing in.
Kurosawa had a way of telling a story from all sides at once, like turning a prism in the sun. Truth in his world ain’t a straight line it’s a circle, maybe even a maze. One man says one thing, another swears the opposite, and somewhere in between sits something that looks like the truth but won’t shake your hand.
And his heroes, they ain’t always heroes. Sometimes they’re tired. Sometimes they’re broke. Sometimes they’re just passing through, carrying a sword or a secret or a little bit of both. But when the moment comes, they stand up anyway. Not because they’re sure, but because they can’t stand sitting down.
Kurosawa made samurai feel like poets and poets feel like fighters. Took old stories and set them loose in a modern world that wasn’t sure it still believed in them. And yet, there they were, cutting through doubt like steel through silk.
Folks say cinema’s a young man’s game, but Kurosawa made it feel ancient. Like it had roots deep in the ground, tangled up with myth and memory and the kind of dreams you only remember halfway.
So if you ever find yourself caught between shadows and sunlight, wondering which way the truth bends you might already be walking through one of his scenes. Keep your eyes open, your stories close, and don’t trust the weather, it’s always trying to tell you something.
watercolor, ink 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.
Title: #142. Acrylic Painting... 24x24 inches, Acrylic on Canvas. Painting by Terry David Silvercloud (Butch).
Archive tells (construction noise) 13 June 2012
I for sure can not recall and no clue why en Ingles.
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.
D843_005
08/04/2017 : Le Puy-Sainte-Réparade, Château La Coste : exposition Mountains and Seas (Ai Weiwei)
Etant donnés
“La Espera”—the waiting.
You know, people think waiting is what happens before something else happens. But sometimes waiting is the thing itself. The train never arrives, the letter/postcard/message never comes, the rain keeps falling, and somehow your whole life gets built in the station.
Waiting inside a photograph that's waiting on a windowsill. A plant reaches upward toward a gray sky, as if it's heard some rumor about the sun. The window looks out over buildings that have seen thousands of people leave for work and return home wondering where the day went. His hands folded together. That's a universal language. Hands folded together say: "I'm staying here a while."
A chair. Not in a room, not in a photograph, but outside. Alone. Wet from the weather. Facing a road where cars come and go without introducing themselves. A black chair under a broad northern sky, sitting behind a rusted railing as though it's guarding a secret nobody asked for. Now that's the funny thing about chairs. They never move, but they're always expecting company. The chair on the windowsill and the chair by the roadside have never met, but they're engaged in the same profession. They are specialists in absence.
They hold a place open in the world. The plant waits for light. The road waits for travelers. The photograph waits for someone to recognize themselves in a stranger. The empty chair waits for a body. And the body, well, the body waits for a sign.
La espera.
People write songs about departures, but most of life is spent in the hallway before the door opens. The seed underground. The coffee cooling on the table. The phone that doesn't ring. The green light that stays red. The thought you almost remember.
Sometimes waiting happens indoors, beside a window. Sometimes it happens outdoors, under clouds. But it's the same weather.
A photograph remembers. A chair anticipates. Between memory and anticipation, that's where most of us live. Let’s spend some time there.