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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
A sensual close-up capturing delicate hand gestures over a woman's waist adorned with golden jewelry. Taken at sunrise by a peaceful lake, this photo reflects feminine expression, elegance, and body awareness.
Model: Alina — psychologist and visual creator from Kyiv. Official image for artistic and identity confirmation purposes.
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.
A Glitch “Crypto-Normativiste-Séduction ~ Ètude III”
by ™℗®© Louis M o n t i e l
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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
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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
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.
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.
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.
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...
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.