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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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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
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“Take it easy in the hotels! We are civilized art historians, not rock stars with a penchant for making a mess and throwing TV sets out the window. Berlin has many good clubs, bars, and restaurants, so avoid partying in the rooms. Apparently the hotel’s other guests are not quite as enthusiastic about this form of social activity.”
A postcard from the road. It says: take it easy at the hotel. See, we’re art historians, the civilized kind. Not the sort who play guitars through broken amplifiers and send television sets flying out of fourth-floor windows.
No sir. Our tools are quieter. A notebook, maybe a worn museum ticket, the soft echo of footsteps in a gallery somewhere between yesterday and tomorrow. But the message still stands: the night’s got plenty of places for living — clubs, cafés, bars glowing like streetlamps in a city like Berlin. Best to keep the hotel room for sleeping, or maybe staring at the ceiling and thinking about a painting that’s been staring back at people for five hundred years. Because an art historian, you see, walks the line between curiosity and restraint. A traveler in time, but one who tries not to disturb the neighbors.
Oh, I almost forgot! There’s another rule, a tip for you. A quiet commandment of the trade: never describe a building or a painting as “pampigt.” Hard word to pin down in English, something like “pompous,” “grandiose,” maybe a little too proud of its own velvet curtains. But whatever language you use, it’s a big no-no. Art historians are supposed to say things like “monumental,” “ceremonial,” or “richly articulated.” Sounds fancier, and it keeps the professors happy.
Obra: En Casa/ En Kabul.
Autor: Tony Kushner.
Dirección: Carlos Gandolfo.
Labor: Diseño de Escenografía. (Junto a Carlos Gandolfo y Florencia Del Gener)
Diseño de Vestuario. (Junto a Florencia Del Gener).
Teatro: Complejo Teatral de Buenos Aires Teatro San Martín.
Sala Casacuberta
Temporada: 2004.
Fotos: Mariana Del Gener.
Title: #142. Acrylic Painting... 24x24 inches, Acrylic on Canvas. Painting by Terry David Silvercloud (Butch).
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.
“La Espera”—the waiting.
You know, people think waiting is what happens before something else happens. But sometimes waiting is the thing itself. The train never arrives, the letter/postcard/message never comes, the rain keeps falling, and somehow your whole life gets built in the station.
Waiting inside a photograph that's waiting on a windowsill. A plant reaches upward toward a gray sky, as if it's heard some rumor about the sun. The window looks out over buildings that have seen thousands of people leave for work and return home wondering where the day went. His hands folded together. That's a universal language. Hands folded together say: "I'm staying here a while."
A chair. Not in a room, not in a photograph, but outside. Alone. Wet from the weather. Facing a road where cars come and go without introducing themselves. A black chair under a broad northern sky, sitting behind a rusted railing as though it's guarding a secret nobody asked for. Now that's the funny thing about chairs. They never move, but they're always expecting company. The chair on the windowsill and the chair by the roadside have never met, but they're engaged in the same profession. They are specialists in absence.
They hold a place open in the world. The plant waits for light. The road waits for travelers. The photograph waits for someone to recognize themselves in a stranger. The empty chair waits for a body. And the body, well, the body waits for a sign.
La espera.
People write songs about departures, but most of life is spent in the hallway before the door opens. The seed underground. The coffee cooling on the table. The phone that doesn't ring. The green light that stays red. The thought you almost remember.
Sometimes waiting happens indoors, beside a window. Sometimes it happens outdoors, under clouds. But it's the same weather.
A photograph remembers. A chair anticipates. Between memory and anticipation, that's where most of us live. Let’s spend some time there.
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.
Today we celebrate the dial somewhere between silence and something that almost sounds like meaning. That thin frequency where the words come in late, or not at all. We’re talking about Samuel Beckett.
Samuel Beckett wasn’t the kind of fella who’d fill up the room with chatter. He’d walk in, take a look around, and then maybe decide the room didn’t need him, or anybody else for that matter. He dealt in pauses. In waiting. In the long stretch between one thought and the next, where most folks get nervous and start talking just to prove they exist. Beckett didn’t trust that instinct. He once said, “Every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness.” And you can almost hear the resignation in it, like a man who kept writing anyway, even though he knew the ink was already too loud.
Most writers, they build things: castles, cities, whole worlds buzzing with voices. Beckett? He stripped it all down. Took away the furniture, dimmed the lights, maybe left you with a tree that might not even matter and a couple of souls passing time because time’s all they’ve got. And even that feels like too much.
He lived through a century that had a lot to say for itself—wars, noise, declarations—but Beckett’s work feels like what’s left after all that shouting burns out. The echo. The ash. The quiet question nobody can quite phrase right. And yet, there’s something almost musical in the way he lets things fall apart. Like a song that forgets its own melody but keeps humming anyway. Not because it believes in anything but because stopping would mean there’s that silence again. You get the sense Beckett wasn’t trying to explain the human condition so much as sit with it. Let it breathe. Or wheeze. Or just stare off into the distance waiting for something that may or may not arrive.
So if you find yourself in a moment where the words feel heavy, where everything you say sounds like it’s getting in the way of something truer, well, you might already be keeping Beckett company. And that’s not the worst place to be.
ink, watercolor on paper
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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
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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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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
Son of Big Daddy Roth (site-specific sculpture)
152 x 92 x 80 inches
Polystyrene, polyurethane foam, sand, acrylic paint, wire, pompoms, glue and glitter flake, google eyes
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.
As far as I know, we don't need a global pandemic like the one that occurred in 2020 to heed the call.
“Support Your Artist 2020.” That was a strange year. Streets went quiet. Curtains didn’t rise. The amplifiers stayed cold. Museums turned into locked boxes full of ghosts. You could hear a pin drop in places that used to shake the walls. Back then they said, “This is temporary.” They said, “When the pandemic’s over, things will come back.”
Well… things always come back different. Like a song you haven’t heard in years, you recognize it, but it’s sitting in another key now. But here’s the thing:
Supporting artists was never about the pandemic.
The pandemic just pulled the curtain back. Artists have always lived in the cracks. Between applause and rent. Between “exposure” and groceries. Folks love the song, love the painting, love the movie, but when the hat comes around, suddenly everyone’s looking at the floor.
People say, “Art is important.” They say, “Music saved my life.” They say, “I couldn’t get through that time without books, without films, without songs.” But importance doesn’t pay the electric bill. And gratitude doesn’t buy materials neither pays the rent. Artists don’t disappear when the crisis ends. They disappear when nobody’s watching.
That T-shirt says 2020, but it might as well say 1920. Or 1975. Or next year. Or now. Because the struggle isn’t seasonal. It’s structural. You don’t support artists because the world is falling apart, you support them because they help you understand the pieces. Painters paint whether the gallery is open or not. Songwriters write whether anyone’s listening or not. Poets keep tapping at the wall, even when the echo fades. And here’s the quiet truth: If you want art when times are hard, you have to support artists when times are normal. If you want songs during the storm, you can’t abandon the singers when the sky clears.
So this shirt? It’s not a relic. It’s a reminder. Support your artist, not because something went wrong in 2020, but because something goes wrong when we stop listening, seeing, reading.
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Sitting on the right Joan Hus. The author of the historical novel 'Ballet Russe' answering questions during an interview with members of a reading group.
Will algae farms be the farms of the future? Can washed-up jellyfish be repurposed to make a durable material? Are algae the solution for clean energy harvesting? Through performance and talks, we explored aquatic life in the framework of harvesting. Sound and visual artist Sabina Ahn, designer Charlotte van Alem and researcher Dr. Ben van den Broek contemplated these questions and more.
www.mediamatic.net/en/aquatic-harvesting
Photography by Anisa Xhomaqi
May my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth if I do not remember you.
Selfportrait in the studio.
instagram loanaibarra
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©2010 Atelier Visit. All rights reserved. www.ateliervisit.com
Santa Barbara Visual Artist, Mary Heebner, shares some of her time with Atelier Visit. Her interview was filmed in Los Angeles at Edward Cella Art+Architecture where she was opening her solo show. Exhibit is running through April 17, 2010 at Edward Cella Art+Architecture located at 6018 Wilshire Blvd. Los Angeles, CA 90036.