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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.
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
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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.
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
You know, there’s a certain kind of morning that only shows up in the far-north countries, where the sun’s got a mind of its own and decides to clock in around four. Not the brash sun of summer noon, not the lazy sun of winter, no, this one’s a shy guest, creeping in like it’s got an appointment no one told you about.
And there standing by the window with a cup of coffee, real coffee, the kind you make slow, in that Italian espresso way that sounds like a small engine warming up for a journey. The room’s already filled with this soft, unearned daylight, the kind that slips across the floorboards without asking permission. You look up, and there’s that Egon Schiele portrait on the wall. A face like a secret. Lines like they’re humming their own tune. It watches us the way art does when it’s too early for anything but honesty.
The smell in the room is its own kind of symphony. Books that have lived longer than you’ve been paying rent. Vinyl records stacked like old friends with stories that don’t mind being repeated. Lilies in a jar that breathe out their perfume like they’re trying to tell you about last night’s dream. And all of it folds itself into the scent of that espresso. Bitter, warm, alive.
You take a sip. Outside, the world hasn’t quite remembered itself yet. The pigeons are dancing their morning dance, birds clear their throats. A bicycle chain rattles somewhere down the street. But inside, you’ve already stepped into the day. The sunlight’s climbing, the steam’s rising, and for just a moment you feel like you’re listening to a record that only exists once, only plays now, and only for you.
Early morning in Sweden. Coffee by the window. And the day just beginning to hum its tune.
A Glitch “Hecatérides(Ἑκατεριδες)~Ètude III”
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
Gyorgy Nemeth (Hungarian, b.1959) – Digital Abstract No. 6, Szingy Digital Art, Szingy Gallery Budapest
There are records that you buy, and then there are records that somehow seem to buy you.
I’m thinking about Yma Sumac today, and particularly Mambo! Part 2, that little Capitol EP with the four songs on it: “Malambo No. 1,” “Five Bottles Mambo,” “Indian Carnival,” and “Jungla.” Four songs, four little doors into a room that shouldn’t really exist anymore.
The record itself comes from that strange moment in the 1950s when the mambo was everywhere, when rhythm seemed to have escaped from the dance hall and was wandering around the world looking for trouble. Yma Sumac was there in the middle of it, with Billy May arranging and conducting the Rico Mambo Orchestra, and Moisés Vivanco supplying much of the musical architecture. The original Mambo! sessions were recorded in Hollywood in 1954.
And Yma Sumac?
Well, Yma Sumac didn't exactly sing a song.
She arrived at it.
She descended upon it.
She climbed inside it and came out somewhere above the roof.
She had this voice that could sound like it belonged to a woman standing beside you in a nightclub and, one second later, like something had opened up in the Andes and was calling across the mountains. The whole business is difficult to explain, which is probably why it's so much fun.
And then there's my part of the story.
I found the original record in perfect shape.
The record. The sleeve. Everything.
I got it for four euros!
It was sitting in a box belonging to a man on the street. I’ve met him before, two years ago or so. Same attitude.
And here's the strange thing:
I don't mean a record dealer standing behind a table with a price list and a magnifying glass. I mean a man who seemed to have simply appeared there, with just one solitary box of records, just like the first time, as though he'd been placed there by some minor god of forgotten vinyl.
I stopped.
I looked.
And there it was.
Yma Sumac.
It’s yours. Four euros, he said.
I paid him.
And then, as quickly as he had appeared, he disappeared.
Now, I don't know where he went.
Maybe he packed up his records and went home.
Maybe he moved three streets over. Maybe he was never really there in the first place.
But I had the record.
And sometimes that's enough evidence.
So let's put the needle down.
First comes “Malambo No. 1.”
Malambo is an old South American dance tradition, and here it gets swept into the great 1950s mambo machine. The orchestra comes in with all that brass and percussion, and Yma is somewhere above it, moving through the arrangement as if she has been given a map that nobody else can read.
This is the thing about Yma: the orchestra doesn't make her sound enormous.
She makes the orchestra sound small.
There are moments when the brass is charging along and suddenly she rises above it all, and you think: what exactly did they put in the microphone that afternoon?
You can imagine Billy May standing there with the orchestra, trying to keep everybody together while Yma Sumac is turning the human voice into weather.
Then comes “Five Bottles Mambo.”
Five bottles. That's the whole invitation. Five bottles and a mambo. It's one of those wonderful pieces of mid-century musical imagination where somebody looks at an ordinary object and thinks, Yes, but can we dance to it?
And they can.
The track has that playful, almost cartoon-like quality that runs through parts of the Mambo! record. The mambo is no longer just a dance; it's becoming a kind of theatrical language. Bottles become percussion, syllables become rhythm, and Yma becomes the person in the room who knows exactly how strange the whole thing is.
You don't need to understand every sound.
You just need to follow it.
Then we get to “Indian Carnival.”
And this is where the record starts to feel like a carnival that has forgotten where it was supposed to stop.
The title itself tells you what Capitol was selling: colour, mystery, movement, the promise of somewhere exotic just beyond the edge of the living room. That was part of the mythology surrounding Yma Sumac.
And then there's “Jungla.”
Jungle. You can almost see the word sitting there on the label.
Capitol Records.
Yma Sumac.
Jungla.
You put the record on in 2026 and suddenly you're standing in somebody else's imagination from seventy-two years ago.
That's what I like about old records.
They don't merely preserve music.
They preserve mistakes, fantasies, fashions, fears, hopes, bad ideas, good ideas, strange ideas, and the way one generation imagined the world outside its own front door.
And Mambo! Part 2 is full of that.
It's not a history lesson. It's a postcard from a place that may never have existed quite the way the postcard suggested. But the music is real. That voice is real. That little piece of vinyl is real. And my four-euro copy is real too. Perfect condition. Sleeve and record. Four euros. From a man who appeared on the street with a box and then vanished.
You tell me that's not a story.
I'll tell you to turn the record over.
There might be another one on the other side.
“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.
Today, we celebrate the man who played left-handed but wrote with his right... the guy whose melodies are smoother than a glass of cognac on a Liverpool night. That’s right — Sir Paul McCartney.
They used to call him the cute one. But don't let the mop top fool ya, behind those puppy dog eyes is a mind like a melody factory, crankin’ out hits like Henry Ford rolled off Model T’s.
Paul was born in 1942. That’s the same year Bing Crosby was singin’ about white Christmases and Glenn Miller was disappearin’ over the English Channel. McCartney came from good stock; his daddy played ragtime on the piano and gave Paul his first instrument: a trumpet. But the trumpet went out the window when Paul heard Elvis on the radio. That guitar slung low changed everything.
They say he met John Lennon at a church picnic. A hot day, some warm beer, and two songwriters crossin' paths like freight trains at a midnight switch. They started writin’ together, tighter than two strings on a steel guitar. The Beatles got goin’, and the world tilted just a little bit more toward the strange and the beautiful. Paul was the romantic one he gave us “Yesterday,” and “Here, There and Everywhere.” But don’t be fooled he could also turn on the gasoline and light it too. Just listen to “Helter Skelter”, that ain’t no lullaby. After the Beatles, Paul didn’t fade. He kept movin’, like a rolling stone on a mission. Wings took flight with “Band on the Run,” and he wrote songs for frogs, orchestras and to other youngsters out there. The guy can do it all — rock, pop, classical, even a little electronic now and then. He’s like a jukebox made outta stardust and stubbornness.
They gave him a knighthood, but Paul was already royalty, the kind you don't need a crown to recognize. He’s been on more stages than a Shakespeare company and written more melodies than a mockingbird on a sugar high.
So here’s to Paul, the oldie with a bass like a rifle and a heart full of harmony.
ink watercolor on paper
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
Two different ways of approaching self-portraiture. The result of a reasoned meditation, which art requires.
“Loanification” 70cm x 100cm
Acrylic, embroidery on canvas.
“Untitled”
Watercolor, embroidery 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.
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
Kim Weller "CYMK Pillows" 2002
metal chain, glitter, pom poms, leatherette, batting, image transfer, resin
A Glitch “Áditi(Āditiás-terra mater) ~ Ètude II”
by ™℗®© Louis M o n t i e l
~ FOLLOW ME & SUBSCRIBE ~
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Facebook ~ Louis Montiel
YouTube ~ Louis M o n t i e l
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