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Kim Weller "CYMK Pillows" 2002
metal chain, glitter, pom poms, leatherette, batting, image transfer, resin
Davor Gromilović is a visual artist currently residing in Sombor, Serbia (born in Yugoslavia, 1985).
Although contemporary drawing represents the primary field of his creative exploration and development, he also shows creative abilities and genuine commitment to other artistic forms such as painting, illustration, graphics, murals, art fanzines, etc.
His work is narrative and often inspired by fantastic motives of fairy tales, folk-art, pop surrealism, sci-fi, and even by north renaissance masters of painting, as well as by his personal experiences and inner world. In his work one notices a dominant use of symbols, his inner world and complex reflections from which he develops ideas and specific intimate aesthetics. Complex, but at the same time purified, strongly imaginative but well-thought-out works adorn this artist’s rich oeuvre.
His work has been published in numerous books, magazines and publications from around the world.
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)
A small, accidental archive, two adjacent panels that stage a quiet but pointed dialogue between public authority and private gesture.
On the left, a palimpsest of stickers and printed matter layered onto a municipal sign; on the right, a cropped, intimate view of a body—foot, hand, and ornament—resting on a rough urban ground. The diptych format invites comparison, even tension.
The left panel is dense with iconography. At its base lies a sign for camera surveillance, its official typography partially obscured but still legible enough to signal the language of state oversight. Across it, a series of stickers interrupts the bureaucratic clarity. Their edges are torn, their surfaces abraded, producing what art historians might call a “stratigraphy of dissent”: each layer a trace of a different moment of intervention. The phrase “alla poliser är dumma” (“all police are stupid”) appears not as a pristine slogan but as something weathered, already contested by time and removal. This matters. It situates the statement not as a singular act of protest but as part of an ongoing negotiation over the visual field of the street.
One sticker depicts figures in motion, a confrontation reduced to high-contrast silhouettes. Another, partially effaced, suggests an image of collapse or repose beneath a cloud-like burst, recalling the visual language of catastrophe or spectacle. These are not stable images; they flicker between legibility and decay. In iconographic terms, they borrow from mass media—news photography, graphic illustration—yet their degradation returns them to anonymity. The official sign beneath them promises visibility (“you are being watched”), while the stickers assert a counter-visibility that resists containment.
The right panel shifts register. Here, the human body enters, but only in fragments: a foot in a woven leather shoe, a leg in fishnet, a hand adorned with a ring. The textures are tactile—mesh against skin, polished metal against the matte roughness of concrete. If the left side is about inscription on public surfaces, the right is about embodiment within that same space. The stance is casual, almost offhand, yet the cropping makes it deliberate. The figure does not look at us; instead, we encounter them through their contact with the ground. It is a study in presence rather than declaration.
Together, the panels suggest a conversation between systems of control and individual style. The surveillance sign implies a gaze from above, impersonal and continuous. The stickers interrupt that gaze, inserting subjectivity, anger, humor. The body on the right answers in a different language, fashion as a kind of everyday authorship, a way of marking oneself without words. If the left side is a battleground of messages, the right is a quieter assertion: I am here, on this ground, in these textures.
There’s also a temporal dimension worth noting. The left panel accumulates time, each sticker a residue of past action. The right panel feels immediate, a present-tense moment. The diptych thus oscillates between duration and instant, archive and encounter. And if one were to let the voice drift slightly, like a late-night radio host spinning records between thoughts: you could say the street is humming here. Layers of paper, glue, ink, and footsteps—everybody leaving a mark, everybody getting covered over. The sign says you’re being watched, but the walls are talking back, and the ground remembers the weight of every passerby. Somewhere between the official notice and the scuffed leather shoe, you get a rhythm—authority on one channel, improvisation on the other. And the song, as always, is still being written.
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. ...
Well now, friends and neighbors, today we celebrate a man who sat behind a keyboard and opened doors. Not the kind with hinges and brass handles, the other kind. The kind that swing inward when the lights are low and the mind’s feeling restless.
Ray Manzarek.
Born on the west side of Chicago, where the wind cuts through your coat and the trains rattle your dreams into rhythm. Chicago’s a city that knows about the blues. Knows about brick and smoke and the long road out. Ray Manzarek took all that with him when he headed west, chasing sun instead of snow. You can leave Chicago, but it doesn’t always leave you.
Out in California, where the palm trees lean like they’re listening for secrets, Manzarek met a poet who didn’t want to just write words, he wanted to set them on fire. Jim Morrison had the storm; Ray had the switch that turned the lightning into sound.
Now most folks think of rock ’n’ roll as guitars slung low and drums kicked hard. But Ray, he made the organ sing like it was raised in a cathedral and baptized in a roadside bar. He played a Vox Continental like it owed him money. Notes curling up like incense smoke, winding through the rafters of whatever room he happened to be in.
Some players hide behind their instruments. Ray Manzarek didn’t hide. He built landscapes. You could walk through his chords. There was something classical in the way he held a melody steady while everything else threatened to drift off into the desert. He was the hinge on the gate, the engine in the getaway car.
The Doors, that name wasn’t about carpentry. It was about thresholds. About stepping from one state of mind into another. Manzarek understood that. He’d studied film, philosophy, the old European composers, not to mention jazz! He knew that a song could be a little movie for your ears. And when Morrison’s voice rolled in like thunder over the Pacific, Manzarek’s keys laid down the highway it traveled on. There’s a certain kind of musician who knows when not to play. He had that gift too. Silence can be louder than a drum kit if you let it breathe. He’d leave a little space in the corner of a song, like an empty chair at the table, and that space would start talking back to you.
He didn’t play bass with his hands on a bass guitar, oh no, he worked those bass lines with his left hand on a keyboard. Split his mind in two, maybe three. That’s a rare thing. Like patting your head, rubbing your stomach, and solving a riddle all at once. But he made it look easy. Smooth as a late-night DJ spinning records nobody else dared to spin.
Fame came knocking, and it knocked loud. The ’60s were a carnival - bright lights, strange mirrors, cotton candy skies. The Doors walked right into the funhouse and brought their own soundtrack. Manzarek stood steady through it all. When the carnival packed up and the dust settled, he kept the music alive. Guarded the flame like a lighthouse keeper who knows ships are still out there, even if you can’t see them.
There’s something about keyboard players. They sit instead of strut. They anchor instead of roam. But don’t mistake stillness for quiet. Ray Manzarek’s playing had motion in it, like a river under ice. You might not see the current, but it’s there, strong and patient. He had a laugh that sounded like he knew something you didn’t and a the most pleasant smile whenever he played. Maybe he knew that music isn’t just about youth or rebellion or breaking things. Maybe he knew it’s about opening doors inside yourself and having the courage to walk through.
When he passed on in 2013, it wasn’t silence that followed. It was echo. You can still hear him if you listen close oh that swirling organ, that carnival waltz in minor key, that sense that something mysterious is just around the corner of the next chord.
So today, wherever you are, sitting on a bus, driving down a long stretch of highway, sitting by a window with the city humming below, or just staring at the ceiling while the day does its work, tip your hat to Ray Manzarek. The man who proved that a keyboard could roar, whisper, and prophesy all in the same breath.
Some folks open doors. Some folks walk through them. And some, like Ray Manzarek, build the frame, oil the hinges, and hand you the key.
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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A Glitch "Sanitarium (Σανατόριο) ~ Ètude I”
by ™℗®© Louis M o n t i e l
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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
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.
instagram loanaibarra
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
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.