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Anna Maria Janiszewska is a photographer, visual and installation artist best known for her analogue photographic work. Having grown up Poland and moving to Ireland in her early twenties she studied at the Institute of Art, Design & Technology in Dun Laoghaire and Ireland’s National College of Art and Design. Janiszewska is interested in using photographic tools and processes to rupture the reality of the everyday, skewing documentary and fiction in order to highlight alternative ways of seeing and experiencing. Over the years her photographic works have been exhibited in many places in Ireland and Poland.
Title: #140. Acrylic Painting... 24x24 inches, Acrylic on Canvas. Painting by Terry David Silvercloud (Butch).
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.
Le projet « Accident » s’inscrit dans une démarche visant à s’interroger sur le Moment Présent.
Notre vie se réalise dans le temps présent. Mais cette réalisation, n’est-elle pas plus souvent le fruit d’un « accident » ?
« Accident » est vu comme une mise en situation par le prisme d’un œil dysfonctionnant aléatoirement.
Songs that walk right up to your heart, knock on the door, and don’t leave until you answer. That brings us to celebrate a man who knew a thing or two about doors. Juan Gabriel.
Juan Gabriel was born Alberto Aguilera Valadez and he for sure didn’t come out of a velvet curtain. He came out of the dust. Orphaned young, raised in places where hope was rationed out like sugar, he learned early that if you wanted something to sing back to you, you had to sing first. And sing he did. Loud enough for the whole of Mexico to hear. Loud enough for the brokenhearted, the lovelorn, the ones leaning against vinyls at 2 a.m.
Juan Gabriel wrote songs the way some folks write letters they never send. Full of longing. Full of tears that don’t quite fall. Songs like “Amor Eterno.” That one doesn’t just play, it stays. It moves into the room, sits down next to you, puts a hand on your shoulder, and says, “Yeah, I know.” And that voice, well, that wasn’t trained to behave. It bent and cracked and soared when it felt like it. Sometimes it sounded like it was chasing the melody. Other times the melody was chasing him. That’s the good stuff. That’s when the truth slips out.
But Juan Gabriel also wrote for the ones leaving their country behind. “Canción 187”, “Song 187”, tells the story of a disillusioned Mexican man who migrates north in search of work. He faces rejection, immigration problems, and discrimination in cities such as San Francisco, Los Angeles, and Arizona, before returning to his hometown in Michoacán, where he comes to value his land and family. The song concludes with a critique of the mentality of “quarrelsome gringos” and of discrimination.
-Adios gringos peleoneros
Buenos pa' las guerras son
Ellos creen que Dios es blanco
Y es mas moreno que yo-
—-
-Goodbye, warmongering gringos,
Masters of war and strife.
They imagine God as white,
Yet He’s darker-skinned than me-
Now, that’s a brave way of closing a song.
Juan Gabriel dressed how he wanted, moved how he wanted, loved how he wanted, at a time when doing any of that could get you shoved into the shadows. But he didn’t step back. He stepped forward, sequins first, heart wide open. He showed people that vulnerability could be louder than machismo, that tenderness could fill a stadium.
You know, there are songwriters who tell you what they think. And then there are songwriters who tell you what you think, before you even know it yourself. Juan Gabriel was one of those. He wrote for mothers, for abandoned lovers, for people waving goodbye at bus stations, for ghosts that never quite left the house.
He once said, “Lo que se ve no se pregunta.” What you can see doesn’t need to be asked. That’s a songwriter talking. That’s someone who knows the song already told the truth.
So today, if you’re listening alone, or driving with stereo low, or missing someone whose name you don’t say out loud anymore, remember that Juan Gabriel’s got a song for you. He already wrote it. A long time ago. Just for this moment.
ink, watercolor on paper
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
Well now, friends and neighbors, today we celebrate a man who sat behind a keyboard and opened doors. Not the kind with hinges and brass handles, the other kind. The kind that swing inward when the lights are low and the mind’s feeling restless.
Ray Manzarek.
Born on the west side of Chicago, where the wind cuts through your coat and the trains rattle your dreams into rhythm. Chicago’s a city that knows about the blues. Knows about brick and smoke and the long road out. Ray Manzarek took all that with him when he headed west, chasing sun instead of snow. You can leave Chicago, but it doesn’t always leave you.
Out in California, where the palm trees lean like they’re listening for secrets, Manzarek met a poet who didn’t want to just write words, he wanted to set them on fire. Jim Morrison had the storm; Ray had the switch that turned the lightning into sound.
Now most folks think of rock ’n’ roll as guitars slung low and drums kicked hard. But Ray, he made the organ sing like it was raised in a cathedral and baptized in a roadside bar. He played a Vox Continental like it owed him money. Notes curling up like incense smoke, winding through the rafters of whatever room he happened to be in.
Some players hide behind their instruments. Ray Manzarek didn’t hide. He built landscapes. You could walk through his chords. There was something classical in the way he held a melody steady while everything else threatened to drift off into the desert. He was the hinge on the gate, the engine in the getaway car.
The Doors, that name wasn’t about carpentry. It was about thresholds. About stepping from one state of mind into another. Manzarek understood that. He’d studied film, philosophy, the old European composers, not to mention jazz! He knew that a song could be a little movie for your ears. And when Morrison’s voice rolled in like thunder over the Pacific, Manzarek’s keys laid down the highway it traveled on. There’s a certain kind of musician who knows when not to play. He had that gift too. Silence can be louder than a drum kit if you let it breathe. He’d leave a little space in the corner of a song, like an empty chair at the table, and that space would start talking back to you.
He didn’t play bass with his hands on a bass guitar, oh no, he worked those bass lines with his left hand on a keyboard. Split his mind in two, maybe three. That’s a rare thing. Like patting your head, rubbing your stomach, and solving a riddle all at once. But he made it look easy. Smooth as a late-night DJ spinning records nobody else dared to spin.
Fame came knocking, and it knocked loud. The ’60s were a carnival - bright lights, strange mirrors, cotton candy skies. The Doors walked right into the funhouse and brought their own soundtrack. Manzarek stood steady through it all. When the carnival packed up and the dust settled, he kept the music alive. Guarded the flame like a lighthouse keeper who knows ships are still out there, even if you can’t see them.
There’s something about keyboard players. They sit instead of strut. They anchor instead of roam. But don’t mistake stillness for quiet. Ray Manzarek’s playing had motion in it, like a river under ice. You might not see the current, but it’s there, strong and patient. He had a laugh that sounded like he knew something you didn’t and a the most pleasant smile whenever he played. Maybe he knew that music isn’t just about youth or rebellion or breaking things. Maybe he knew it’s about opening doors inside yourself and having the courage to walk through.
When he passed on in 2013, it wasn’t silence that followed. It was echo. You can still hear him if you listen close oh that swirling organ, that carnival waltz in minor key, that sense that something mysterious is just around the corner of the next chord.
So today, wherever you are, sitting on a bus, driving down a long stretch of highway, sitting by a window with the city humming below, or just staring at the ceiling while the day does its work, tip your hat to Ray Manzarek. The man who proved that a keyboard could roar, whisper, and prophesy all in the same breath.
Some folks open doors. Some folks walk through them. And some, like Ray Manzarek, build the frame, oil the hinges, and hand you the key.
ink, watercolor on paper
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
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 "Somnophilie (Σονοφιλία) ~ Ètude II”
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
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#visualartists #glitchart #glitch #glitché #pixelsorting #glitchartistscollective #glitchvideo #datamosh #digitalglitch #videoglitch #hyperspektiv #minimalart #videoart #dfkt #pixelsorter #artistsvisual #glitchartoninstagram #glitchartscollective #glitcharts #glitchartistcommunity #glitchartwork #error #glitchartists #glitchartcommunity #glitchartistcollective #glitchartist #pixelsortingart #proceduralart #creativecodeart #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.
A Glitch "Pigofilia(φιλία) ~ Ètude XIX”
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
~ 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 #glitchportrait
Ocular Solution - What would you do if you had a time machine? 🍺 🍄 🌲 🍔 #ozwyz #artwork #funky #hypnotic #visualartist #mushroom #hallucinogenic #pnwartist #dream #dailyart #hotart #glitch #intense #sparkling #queer #mindexpanding #multimedia #versicolored #psychedelic #visuals #newyork #myoriginalart #artpiece #artistic #artist #graphicartist #tacomawa #weirdart instagr.am/p/CP1LpxbHR2S/
Superwoman. Award-winning artist, printmaker, PAP president, visual artist, architect, teacher. Ma. Victoria Abano.
No Carrier (background) demonstrates one of his custom-developed NES graphics cartridges. Alex (middleground R), Nullsleep (middleground L), and noteNdo (foreground) observe.
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
A Glitch “Hecatérides(Ἑκατεριδες)~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 #glitchportrait
Gyorgy Nemeth (Hungarian, b.1959) – Digital Abstract No. 6, Szingy Digital Art, Szingy Gallery Budapest
Fashion And Culture 23
Fashion And Culture: Mexicans in Toronto
Photographer: Ernesto De la Vega
Nikon D5100
Lens 18 – 55
Spoke Club, Toronto, Ontario, Canada
Toronto 2013
“Death Ed is a public health outreach project based at the Institute for Palliative Care in Lund, Sweden. Our goal is to get people talking more about death and dying and create a culture around end-of-life which is less stigmatising, isolating, and fear-provoking. We believe that once we start talking about death more, we can feel more informed and empowered to make decisions and ascertain good care at the end of life.”
The Institute for Palliative Care (PUC) has been developing better ways to educate healthcare professionals and create new tools for understanding and creating quality end-of-life care since 2013. Starting in 2018, PUC is expanding itself into the realm of public health through the Death Ed project.
“I paint mostly — I paint, and do sculptures, and I illustrate, and death is actually a big theme that is with me all the time while I’m working. I don’t think it’s conscious that I try to involve it, it just always comes up in some way in the end. I portrait myself a lot. I’m always there in my art, and then I involve death in it.”
“I was doing this research on open coffins around Latin America, and I realised that many countries have this tradition where you visit the person who has died. They are lying in the coffin, with glass on top so you can see them dead. But, they make them really beautiful, with fabrics around, and you can see the face really well. So, I did myself like that — a painting of my face, surrounded by flowers. And it’s quite dimensional, like an open coffin. I’ve done a lot like that — I’ve made these masks too. In Mexico, there is a big focus on skulls, so I always use those. I also use something that’s very ‘me’ inside it too. So you can see, ‘ah it’s Loana, but in skull form!’”
The interview laid foundation for an artist talk at the Institute for Palliative Care at Lund University for both medicine students, doctors, pathologists and people handling bodies after life
For complete interview “Handling fear of death: how art can be the best medicine”
deatheducationlund.com/2018/04/24/handling-fear-of-death-...
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
Title: #132. Acrylic Painting... 24x24 inches, Acrylic on Canvas. Painting by Terry David Silvercloud (Butch).
“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.