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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
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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.
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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: #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.
- The restless perfectionist. The artist who took control over criticism by being his first -
You know, some people paint the light and some folks, they sculpt the shadow. That’s where today’s birthday-man Alberto Giacometti comes in.
He was a long, lean Swiss feline born in the mountains but ended up carving out ghosts in the cafés of Montparnasse. You’d see him out there in Paris, trench coat, cigarette dangling like a question mark, digging through the fog of existentialism with a lump of clay in his hand. Looked like he hadn’t slept since the war ended and maybe he hadn’t. He was sculpting people thinner than memory, longer than longing.
Giacometti didn’t care much for how things looked. What mattered to him was how they felt, especially when you stared too long. That’s why his figures seem worn thin, like they’ve endured something, stretched like taffy by time and regret. They resemble shadows that got tired of trailing behind and decided to stand on their own. He could spend months, years even, on a single head. Just a head. Scraping it down, building it back up. He said that every time he got close to the truth, it slipped away. Like trying to sculpt a dream after waking. His people, cast in plaster and bronze, stare into forever. He once said the closer he looked at others, the less he understood them. So he made them small. Distant. Elusive.
He was friends with Sartre, you know, that French philosopher who claimed life has no inherent meaning. Sartre once called Giacometti “the perfect existentialist artist.” And it’s hard to argue with that.
Since the late 18th century, European culture began to shape a new kind of practice, one considered essential to society: criticism. Sparked in large part by the impact of Kant’s philosophy, criticism became a vital tool for evaluating and reshaping both cultural artifacts and knowledge. It applied not just to the products of science or institutional thought, but also to everyday cultural practices. Of course, criticism wasn’t entirely new, it had roots in medieval scholastic traditions. But modern criticism introduced a radical innovation: methodological flexibility. It no longer relied on a fixed, essential canon. Instead, it demanded a consistent yet adaptable approach, one that offered stable tools of judgment without clinging to rigid definitions.
Giacometti embodied this spirit of criticism. He was relentlessly self-critical, and that restlessness drove his prolific, wide-ranging output. As Samuel Beckett once wrote:
“The more you fail, the more you succeed. Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.”
So here’s to Alberto Giacometti, the man who sculpted time, made emptiness visible, and left behind over 2,000 drawings and prints. A legacy of searching, scraping, seeing—and never quite arriving.
ink, watercolor on paper
contact ibarralona@gmail.com
Title: #142. Acrylic Painting... 24x24 inches, Acrylic on Canvas. Painting by Terry David Silvercloud (Butch).
Mandala and mask painted by me, mask form was made by fellow Banana Factory artist and sculptor Virginia Abbott.
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
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.
Original Caption: Thousands of people in all parts of the world laugh at and enjoy the antics of Mickey Mouse, the star of stars, but few know the pain staking and intricate work necessary in making of the popular films. Scores of artists and sound experts work in the Mickey Mouse Studios just outside of Los Angeles making thousands of drawings and accompaniment under the direction of Walt Disney, creator of Mickey Mouse. This photo shows Disney at his desk in his studio.
The house as a museum.
Now some people think museums are cold places. Marble floors. Guards who look like they’ve been guarding the same thought since 1963. But I’m indeed somewhere else where the walls lean in like they’ve got something to tell you, and every object is tagged with a memory instead of a date.
Lights are low, like they’re trying not to wake the ghosts. Plants stand around like they’ve been there longer than you have. A lamp glows the way a good song does, insisting. You don’t flip a switch so much as you arrive.
On the wall, pictures aren’t hung so much as collected. Not lined up like soldiers, but clustered like thoughts that refuse to be alphabetized. Masks, photographs, paintings, old diagrams of the human body, reminders that we’re all just exhibits with fragile joints and borrowed time. An Acapulco chair waits in the corner, not for sitting, but for thinking about sitting. There’s a difference.
In a museum like this, nothing’s behind glass. The books are shelved low, where you can reach them without asking permission, my friend’s kids and my nephews are more than welcome to touch everything, cause I know the feeling of wanting to touch but not being allowed to. Terrible feeling.
The desk it’s still warm from the last idea that passed through. That globe of light on the table, well, that’s not a lamp, that’s the moon clocking in for the night shift.
Every room is curated, but by instinct, not budget. No plaques, no arrows on the floor. You wander. I linger. I recognize myself in things I didn’t know I left there.
In my home, scent is part of the collection. It drifts from room to room, curling around the frames, settling into the spines of the books. Museums usually tell you not to touch, but this one gets you through the nose first. That’s how it sneaks past your defenses.
And then there’s the music.
Vinyl, spinning slow, like it’s got nowhere better to be. You can hear the room inside the sound, little pops and cracks like the house clearing its throat before it speaks. The song doesn’t fill the space so much as measure it. Corners soften. Shadows find their rhythm. Even the furniture seems to listen.
My inherited record player from grandpa sits there like a modest altar. No blinking lights, no digital promises. Just gravity and groove. Each side of an album feels like a gallery wing: you commit, you stay, you don’t skip ahead unless you’re ready to admit you’re restless.
Incense in the air, flowers in a jar, vinyl on the turntable, now the house isn’t just a museum, it’s a broadcast. A late-night transmission to anyone tuned in closely enough. Every song leaves a residue. Every smell leaves a trace. By morning, the walls remember what I played and how long I stayed up with it.
Some houses echo. Mine hums. Some museums tell you what mattered. My home tells you what still does.
So if your house feels a little crowded with objects, a little heavy with stories, don’t rush to clean it up. You might just be living in a permanent exhibition. Open late. Free admission. No gift shop on the way out.
A Glitch "Flâneur à l'intérieur (identitatis) ~ Ètude III”
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 ~
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Facebook ~ 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
Today we celebrate volume or maybe just the space things take up when they refuse to be ignored.
Somewhere in Medellín, where the mountains hold the city like a secret, a man named Fernando Botero started stretching the world. Not pulling it apart, more like inflating it, the way a dream swells just before you wake up.
Botero, didn’t paint people the way they are. He painted them the way they feel when nobody’s looking. Big hands, wide faces, bodies that seem to carry more than just themselves. You look at one of his figures and you might think they’ve been eating too well, but stay a while, and you realize they’re holding history, humor, maybe even a little sorrow tucked into the folds.
He once said he wasn’t painting fat… he was painting volume. And volume, well, that’s a tricky thing. It’s not about size it’s about presence. Some folks walk into a room and disappear. Others fill it without saying a word. Botero painted the kind of silence that has weight to it.
You see it in his sculptures too, those bronze figures sitting out in the open air, like they’ve always been there, waiting for the world to catch up. They don’t rush. They don’t bend. Time moves around them, like a river splitting around a stone. There’s a kind of mischief in his work. A wink, maybe. Kings and generals, dancers and saints, all given the same generous proportions, like he’s reminding you that power and vulnerability wear the same coat, just stitched a little differently.
And if you listen close you might hear something. A low hum, maybe a distant accordion, maybe just the echo of footsteps on a cobbled street at dusk. That’s Botero’s world. Slower, fuller, a little surreal… but not so far from our own.
So next time you see one of those figures, round as a memory, steady as an old song, don’t laugh too quickly. Or do. He wouldn’t mind. Just don’t walk away too fast.
Some art doesn’t ask to be understood. It just asks you to stay long enough to feel its weight.
ink on paper
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Doors. Or maybe windows. Sometimes they're the samething if you're standing on the right side of history. Which brings us to the one we celebrate today. Aldous Huxley.
Some people write novels. Some people build monuments out of sentences. Huxley was the kind of writer who'd hand you a map of the monument, ask whether you'd noticed the echoes, and then quietly remove the roof so you could see the stars.
He came from a family where ideas seemed to grow on trees. Scientists, scholars, people who looked at the world through microscopes and bookshelves. Huxley looked through both, then wondered who was doing the looking. That's a dangerous habit. Usually leads to philosophy, occasionally to California.
His best-known book imagined a future where everyone was comfortable, entertained, chemically adjusted and too content to ask awkward questions. Funny thing about the future—it always arrives wearing different clothes than you expected. One decade thinks it'll be flying cars, the next discovers it's notifications.
Huxley had weak eyesight for much of his life, which might explain why he spent so much time trying to see beyond the obvious. Sometimes the people who can't see the details notice the pattern first. They hear the orchestra while the rest of us are arguing about the violin.
He travelled, lectured, thought about consciousness long before it became a section in the bookshop next to mindfulness journals and expensive candles. He was interested in the machinery of perception, not just what we see, but how reality gets assembled somewhere behind the eyes. That's a question old mystics, jazz musicians and people awake at three in the morning have all wrestled with. His books aren't really predictions. They’re weather reports for the human condition. They remind you that every invention solves one problem and invents two more. Every paradise comes with a maintenance manual.
Funny thing about writers: they leave fingerprints on people they've never met. Somebody reads a page at seventeen and spends then ext fifty years asking different questions because of it. That's not fame. That's gardening.
So wherever you are today, whether you're reading under a tree, driving through the dark, or just trying to remember where you left your glasses, spare a thought for Aldous Huxley—a man who kept opening windows in rooms most people thought were finished. And if one of those windows lets in a little strange light, don't be too quick to pull the curtain. Sometimes that's how the day finds you.
ink, watercolor on paper
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Title: #156. Acrylic Painting... 24x24 inches, Acrylic on Canvas. Painting by Terry David Silvercloud (Butch).
A Glitch "Aetherea Submission (αιθέρια υποταγή) ~ Ètude IX”
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
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.
Today’s topic? Drummers.
Backbone of the band.
Timekeepers of the soul.
Now there’s a lotta great ones. Buddy Rich could make a snare drum sound like a stick of dynamite. Charlie Watts could make it look easy peasy. Max Roach could make it sing like a bird caught in a thunderstorm. But today we celebrate a man from Liverpool who hit the skins with the swagger of a sailor and the grin of a man who knows he's in on the joke; Ringo Starr.
Born Richard Starkey. July 7th, 1940.
He was sick as a child, missed a lotta school but maybe that gave him time to dream. 'Cause pretty soon, he was playin’ in the clubs on the River Mersey, wearin’ flashy rings and beatin’ drums like they owed him money.
He joined a band called Rory Storm and the Hurricanes. That was before the hurricanes got downgraded and the Beatles got upgraded. He replaced Pete Best, and the girls cried foul, until they heard him play. Ringo wasn’t the flashiest. He didn’t have that Keith Moon madness, or Ginger Baker’s hurricane fury. But hey! Ringo had feel. He swung. He shuffled. He played for the song. And sometimes that’s harder than playing fast.
John said he was the heart of the band.
Paul said no one else could do what he did.
George? Well, George just smiled and let his guitar talk.
Now, Ringo wasn’t just a drummer. He sang, too. “Octopus’s Garden”, a kid’s song on the surface, but really, let’s be honest, it’s about finding peace in a world gone mad. Kind of like Ringo himself, a peaceful man in a band that changed the world.
After the Beatles, he kept on rollin’. Made movies. Released solo records. Had a hit with “Photograph,” a song that sounded like it missed somebody real bad.
And he’s still out there, 85 years today, traveling with the All-Starr Band, spreading that good-time gospel. Peace and love. Peace and love. He says it so much, it starts sounding like a prayer.
So here’s to Ringo Starr. The drummer who didn’t need to prove anything. The beat beneath the Beatlemania.
ink, watercolor on paper
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