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Title: #149. Acrylic Painting... 24x24 inches, Acrylic on Canvas. Painting by Terry David Silvercloud (Butch).
A Glitch “Unveiled Nuditate(γύμνια) ~ Ètude VII”
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
“La caída. Scene from a bed.”
Leaves. Not the kind that crunch under your boots in autumn, but one particular leaf. A fig leaf. Medium in size. Big in meaning.
You ever wonder why in all those Renaissance paintings, Adam and Eve are walking around stark naked one minute, and the next they’re wearing nature’s original wardrobe malfunction? That little green fig leaf. Strategically placed. Tastefully awkward. Well, that fig leaf’s been covering up more than just the basics. It’s been hiding our shame, our secrets, and maybe even a little bit of truth.
Back in the Book of Genesis, Adam and Eve eat the fruit, not an apple, no, that’s just PR spin. Could’ve been a fig for all we know. They take a bite, and suddenly they realize they’re naked. Boom. Shame is born. They grab the nearest foliage, fig leaves and fashion themselves a couple of impromptu aprons. So the fig leaf became a symbol. Not just of modesty but of the moment human beings became self-conscious. A veil between innocence and experience.
Later on, artists in the 15th century they were painting naked gods and goddesses left and right. But some folks upstairs didn’t like all that skin. So what did they do? They slapped fig leaves on statues, painted them on frescoes. Even poor Michelangelo's David had to deal with a marble fig leaf cover-up. Must’ve been drafty in Florence.
In the end, the fig leaf is a cover-up in every sense. It’s what we use when the truth is just a little too much to bear. When honesty gets uncomfortable. When being human starts to feel like a problem that needs hiding. And here’s the kicker; sometimes the fig leaf tells you more than what it’s trying to hide. Like a lie that reveals a little too much about the liar.
So next time you see a fig leaf from bed, don’t just look at what it’s covering. Think about why it’s there. And what we’re all trying to hide. Keep your leaves clean, and your secrets cleaner.
//watercolor on cardboard, 26cm x 19cm
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
Something a little different, something they don’t tell you in the big city or down at the bar. Talking to your inner child. You know, the little you that’s still hanging out, somewhere deep inside. But don’t you go thinking we’re gonna start having a therapy session here, no, we’re just gonna explore it the old fashioned way.
Now, let me ask you, remember when you were a kid? Couldn’t be more than, what, three, maybe four? Life was a whole different flavor back then, ‘ait? You didn’t worry about paying bills or making the rent, you just worried about getting the best seat at the table, or maybe the biggest slice of the birthday cake made by grandma’s hand. But the thing is, that little kid still lives in you. I guess. Somewhere deep inside, maybe a little dusty, maybe a little bruised, but they’re still there.
Some people, they call this part of you ‘your inner child.’ Seems a little funny, huh? We all got that kid still hanging around inside us, even if we don’t wanna admit it. But let me tell you, if you don’t talk to that kid once in a while, well, things can get mighty messy. Just like a song with too many chords, too much dissonance, not enough harmony.
So, let’s say you find yourself in a bad spot, stuck in a rut, or just feeling like you’re a long way from home. What do you do? You gotta find that little kid inside you, pull them up to the front seat, and have a chat. It’s not about fixing things, no no. It’s about listening. That little kid’s still got dreams, you know? They’ve still got hope in their pocket, and if you listen close, you might hear it. Might even remember what you were like before all the rules and the worries and the weariness of the world came along.
You see, this isn’t just about nostalgia or looking back. This is about connecting the dots between who you were and who you’re gonna be. And sometimes, the best way to make peace with where you’re going is to spend a little time with who you used to be. It’s like a song that started in the past but don’t stop playing in the present. It keeps going and maybe it even helps you find a way to keep moving forward.
You might be thinking —what does it mean, talking to your inner child? Well, I’ll tell you. It’s about giving yourself permission to feel a little wild again. To remember what it was like when you had nothing to lose. It’s about nurturing the parts of you that haven’t been tainted by the tough times, the hard knocks, and the ‘ought-to-be’ way of living. You gotta let that little kid out to play every now and then, ‘cause I’m sure they know a thing or two about living. And if you listen close enough, they might teach you something you forgot.
In Journey to Ixtlan, by Carlos Castañeda, Don Juan Matus talks about "stopping the world", a concept that encourages you to break free from the repetitive thought patterns and societal conditioning that obscure your true self. In a way, it’s about reclaiming a state of mind and being where you’re more in tune with the raw, unfiltered essence of existence, much like a child experiences the world before layers of judgment and "oughts" are layered on. Don Juan might not speak about the inner child in the language we’d use today, but his teachings align closely with the idea of returning to a more pure, unshaped state of being; a space where you are not bound by the limits of your adult self and can reconnect with a more authentic, spontaneous, and instinctive part of who you are. So, while not the exact term or concept as the modern psychology, it’s definitely in the spirit of what he teaches: to reconnect with your untainted, full potential. That’s the essence of reclaiming your "inner child" in the shamanic sense.
Next time you’re wandering around in the wilderness of your own mind, look for that little voice, maybe it’s humming a tune you used to sing, or maybe it’s telling you to take the long road home. Either way, don’t forget to stop and listen. The road’s a little smoother when you’re traveling with a friend. And sometimes that friend is you.
Well, Loana por Dios, that’s enough rambling.
ca. 1960s, France --- Charles Lapicque displays a painting and a variety of palettes in his studio. France, ca. 1960s. --- Image by © Paul Almasy/CORBIS
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
In 1953 the Peruvian-American opera soprano Yma Sumac and her husband, the composer Moisés Vivanco, were pioneering a new form of music, one whose emphasis on sound and texture would not be approached again until the 1970s.
In 1954 Yma Sumac released her fourth studio album - Mambo! There are many critics saying that this album lack of Sumac’s voice potential. I do not agree one bit. That “Chicken Talk” is out of this world and oh me oh my for “Goomba Boomba”.
Mambo! is one sfumato sound archive once again showing the singers full capacity of flexible and controlled vocals operating in the most complex and magical way along with the many sounds and instruments a traditional mambo orchestra is formed by.
I said it once and twice and probably again next time: Sumac is five singers in one, warbles like a bird, hoots like an owl, produces bell-like coloratura passages one minute, and exotica dusky contralto tones the next, all of this in her own fearless manner.
Bendita.
Today we celebrate the winding frequency where the past hums like an old amp left buzzing after the show. I’m talking about bass player. Not just any bassist, but the kind that doesn’t shout: it anchors, it waits, it knows.
Today we celebrate D'arcy Elizabeth Wretzky. Came drifting out of the Midwest like a quiet storm rolling over flat land, the kind you don’t notice until the sky’s already changed color. She didn’t chase the spotlight. No, she stood just off to the side, where the shadows live, and that’s where she built her sound.
Now bass players, they’re a different breed. They don’t deal in fireworks, they deal in gravity. And D’arcy, she had that gravity. Notes that felt less like they were played and more like they’d always been there, just waiting for someone to uncover them. She found herself in the company of a band that dealt in dream and distortion—The Smashing Pumpkins. A name like that sounds like a contradiction, like something sweet breaking apart. And maybe that’s what they were. Noise and melody, beauty and abrasion, all tied together in threads that could unravel if you pulled too hard. But they didn’t unravel. Not then. And part of the reason was that low-end heartbeat she carried.
You listen to those records—Gish, Siamese Dream, Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness—and you might first hear the swirl, the fuzz, the soaring voices. But underneath, there’s a steady hand guiding the whole thing through the fog. That’s D’arcy. Holding the line while the guitars reach for the sky.
She had a presence that didn’t beg for attention, but once you noticed it, you couldn’t un-hear it. Like a shadow that turns out to be the shape of the whole room.
The Pumpkins weren’t just a band; they were a kind of weather system. And D’arcy, she was part of the pressure that made it all move. Without that, the storm doesn’t come. But like all things built on tension and time, it didn’t last forever. Nothing ever does. Still, those moments, captured in tape hiss and feedback, they stick around. They echo.
So if you find yourself wandering through those records, maybe with the lights low and the world quiet, listen close. Past the noise, past the shimmer. There’s a bass line there, steady as a pulse, telling you where you are. And sometimes, that’s all the direction you need
watercolor, ink 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
~ FOLLOW ME & SUBSCRIBE ~
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Facebook ~ Louis Montiel
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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/