View allAll Photos Tagged VisualArtist
A Glitch "Khonvoum(Χο Μπόρν) ~ Ètude IV”
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 #pixelsortingeffect
Title: #172. Painting... 24x24 inches, Acrylic on Canvas. Painting by Terry David Silvercloud (Butch).
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).
Visual artist/guitar;
Fukushima - Amsterdam herdenkt ramp in Japan;
Huis De Pinto, Amsterdam,
March 11th, 2017;
© co broerse
Today we celebrate fire. Not the kind you strike with a match, not the kind that warms your hands on a cold night, but the kind that walks into a room before you do and leaves scorch marks on the walls. And in Spain, they had a name for that kind of fire. They called it Lola Flores.
They used to say she couldn’t sing, couldn’t dance but nobody ever said she couldn’t burn. Because when Lola Flores stepped onto a stage, something happened to the air. The laws of physics took the night off. Gravity loosened its grip. Time leaned back in its chair and lit a cigarette.
Lola Flores came from Jerez de la Frontera, a place soaked in wine and dust and old songs that don’t belong to anyone anymore. Songs that pass from mouth to mouth like secrets. Flamenco songs don’t ask permission. They don’t knock. They come in through the window.
Lola didn’t interpret flamenco. She argued with it. She wrestled it to the ground and let it get back up just to do it again. They called her La Faraona, the Pharaoh, which tells you something. Pharaohs don’t audition. Pharaohs don’t explain themselves. They rule by presence alone. You don’t have to understand them, you just have to feel smaller in the room. She made movies where the plot didn’t matter. She sang songs where the notes weren’t the point. It was all about the moment when her heel hit the floor and the world snapped into focus.
There’s an old saying: “Lola Flores no sabe cantar, pero no se la pierdan.” That means -Lola Flores doesn’t know how to sing, but don’t miss her.
That’s a line that could apply to a lot of people who changed music. Plenty of singers had perfect voices and left no fingerprints behind. Others had cracks, dust, and blood in their sound and that’s where the truth leaked through. Lola sang the way storms sing. Off-key, unstoppable, necessary. She lived loud, loved loud, fought loud. She carried joy and tragedy in the same suitcase and never bothered to separate them. When she laughed, it sounded like defiance. When she cried, it sounded like a warning. And when she died, Spain didn’t just lose a performer. It lost a temperature.
(in other medium) m.youtube.com/watch?v=-NDjcixfEAA
So today, if you hear a rhythm that makes your foot tap without asking your brain for permission… If you hear a voice that doesn’t care whether it’s beautiful, only whether it’s real… That might be Lola Flores passing through the waves, cause fire doesn’t disappear, it just changes shape.
ink, watercolor on paper
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
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
~ FOLLOW ME & SUBSCRIBE ~
Instagram ~ louismontielt
Facebook ~ Louis Montiel
YouTube ~ 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 #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.
A Glitch “Crypto-Normativiste-Séduction ~ Ètude III”
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 #pixelsortingeffect
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
~ 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
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.
Today we hit somewhere between a dusty road in Veracruz and a late-night bar where the shadows lean heavier than the men, there’s a voice to celebrate. That voice belongs to Chavela Vargas. Raw, unvarnished, and carrying stories that don’t end neatly.
And then she makes me cry.
Chavela Vargas starts out in Puerto Rico, 1919, where the air is thick with salt and saints, and the future doesn’t quite fit right. Some folks are born into homes. Others are born into departures. Chavela was the second kind.
So she leaves.
Not all at once. Not dramatically. More like a slow fade-out. By the time she’s a teenager, she’s already on her way to Mexico, alone, chasing something she couldn’t name yet. Maybe it was freedom. Maybe it was a sound she hadn’t heard but somehow already remembered.
Mexico in those days wasn’t just a country, it was a crossroads of ghosts and guitars. And Chavela stepped into it like she was stepping onto a stage that’s been waiting for her longer than anyone knew. Repeatedly she said that Mexico was calling her and that the country became her best parent in life.
Now here’s where the story starts bending a little.
They say she lost her sight when she was young. Darkness came in, settled down, made itself at home. And for a while, that’s the world she lived in. But Chavela wasn’t one for accepting the script as written.
So somewhere along the line—out past the edges of the official maps—she finds herself among shamans. Not the kind you read about in tidy books, but the kind that live where stories and reality shake hands and don’t quite let go.
And they work on her.
Not like doctors. More like translators. Translating the language of the body back into something the spirit can understand. Smoke, chants, maybe a little firelight flickering against things you can’t quite see even if your eyes are open.
And one day, just like that, or maybe not like that at all, the darkness lifts.
Chavela Vargas wasn’t just singing rancheras, she was pulling them apart, turning them inside out, making them confess. Those old Mexican songs about love and loss, she didn’t dress them up. She walked in wearing pants when the world said dresses, lit a cigarette when the room said behave, and sang like the night owed her something. There’s a truth in her voice that doesn’t sit still. It trembles, it cracks, it burns a little. You hear it and you think about all the things people leave unsaid. The heartbreaks that never made it into letters, the names you don’t say out loud anymore. She took those silences and gave them shape.
And then I cry.
Time followed her around like a stray dog. She disappeared for a while, drifted into the kind of darkness that doesn’t make headlines. But then she came back—older, sharper, carrying every mile in her throat. And when she sang again, it wasn’t about perfection. It was about survival.
What I always loved and caught my eye and ears is that almost myth-like feeling about her. You can picture her under a dim light, red serape draped over her shoulders, holding a note like it might shatter if she lets it go too soon. And maybe that’s the point, she makes you hold it with her.
So if you ever find yourself alone, early morning, late at night, with the world turned down low, put on one of her songs. Let it play all the way through. Don’t skip ahead. Don’t look for the chorus. Just sit with it.
Because Chavela Vargas didn’t sing to entertain you. She sang because something inside her refused to stay quiet.
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.
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
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 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.
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
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...