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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 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
A Glitch “Hecatérides(Ἑκατεριδες)~Ètude III”
by ™℗®© Louis M o n t i e l
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Gyorgy Nemeth (Hungarian, b.1959) – Digital Abstract No. 6, Szingy Digital Art, Szingy Gallery Budapest
“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
Well, gather around folks, there’s a tale to tell about a lady on an album cover who wears a spell. It’s Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness, 1995, The Smashing Pumpkins’ ride on a rollercoaster sky alive.
Now, that face you see, all longing and pale, came drifting down from a painting, a French tale. Jean Baptiste Greuze, 1797, called it The Souvenir, eyes like they’re carrying decades of fear. But the body, oh, the body it’s from another age, Raphael’s Saint Catherine, 1507 on the page. A Renaissance echo stitched into a collage, a Frankenstein dream, born from a visual mirage.
You see, Billy Corgan had plans, Victorian in kind, a band in oil paints, a moment in time. But John Craig, the illustrator, got the album in his ear, and whispered, “Let me wander, let me steer.” Faxes flew like pigeons in the wind, Corgan said, “Go ahead,” let the magic begin.
A color copier spun the colors just right, celestial backgrounds from old books, a child’s delight. Craig spread faces across his table, a dozen or more, picked the one that sang, let the Raphael dress soar. Rippling like rivers, primary colors ablaze, a cover born from chaos, yet calm as a gaze.
And so it stands, this icon in history, a lady of sadness, of beauty, of mystery. Not just a picture, but a song without sound, a floating vision where melancholy’s crowned.
So, that’s it, you’re welcome.
//your always nerdy Loana Ibarra
A Glitch “Áditi(Āditiás-terra mater) ~ Ètude II”
by ™℗®© Louis M o n t i e l
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A Glitch ”Hunah K’uh (Χουνάκου) ~ Ètude II”
by ™℗®© Louis M o n t i e l
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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.
As an art student at the university in Barcelona, I learned that some of the most memorable experiences happen unexpectedly, often when art and music cross paths with everyday life.
One day, I bought a ticket to see Billy Corgan at Apolo for just 28 euros. It already felt like a rare opportunity, but the evening turned into something far more memorable than I could have imagined. Two years earlier, in Sweden, I had the chance to shake Billy Corgan's hand and speak to him for the first time. It was one of those brief encounters that stays with you, a small but unforgettable moment with someone whose music had traveled with me for years.
Then, in Barcelona, something even stranger happened. Before the show at Apolo, I suddenly noticed Billy Corgan standing right beside me. There was no crowd surrounding him, no commotion, no one rushing over for photographs. He was simply there, looking toward the stage.
From his tallest he smiled at me (always had a crush on his teeth, so, lucky me ‘ait?) and said he was checking the stage, seeing how it looked from the audience. For a few minutes we talked casually, as though this were the most ordinary thing in the world. What amazed me was that the people around us hardly seemed to recognize him. Here was one of the most distinctive figures in alternative rock, standing among the audience and chatting freely, yet most people appeared unaware of who he was.
For 28 euros, I got far more than a concert ticket. I witnessed a small, unexpected moment of humanity: a grand artist quietly standing among his audience, looking at the stage before the lights came up, while most people walked past without realizing who was beside them.
You ever hear a voice that feels like it’s been waiting for you longer than you’ve been alive? Jaime Sabines, he’s one of those.
Jaime Sabines didn’t come dressed like a poet. No velvet, no ivory tower. He came like a man who just stepped out for cigarettes and came back holding the universe in a paper bag. Born down in Chiapas, where the heat sticks to your thoughts and time moves like a tired animal, Sabines wrote the way people confess: quick, uneven, necessary.
Some poets build cathedrals out of language… Sabines? He built a kitchen table. Sat you down. Poured you something strong. Then he’d say the kind of things that make you look at your hands like you forgot they were yours.
He wrote about love, sure, but not the kind that floats. His love had weight. It dragged chains. It got sick. It stayed too long or left too early. He could take something as simple as missing someone and turn it into a room you couldn’t find the door out of. And death… yeah, death walked through his lines like it had a key.
When his father died, Sabines didn’t dress it up in metaphor and moonlight. He wrote it raw. Like grief was sitting right there in the chair across from him, breathing. You read those poems and you don’t feel like you’re reading, you feel like you’re overhearing something you weren’t supposed to. There’s a kind of honesty there, the dangerous kind. The kind that doesn’t ask for anything to be. You get the sense Sabines didn’t trust poetry much. Or maybe he trusted it too much to lie with it. So he kept it close to the ground, close to the body. No tricks. No disguises. Just the truth, walking in without knocking. And maybe that’s why he lingers like a melody you can’t quite place, but it follows you out into the street anyway.
So if you find yourself awake some night, thoughts circling like they got nowhere to land, you might hear him. Not loud. Not polished. Just a man, telling it like it is. Somehow, that’s more than enough.
—
ESPERO CURARME DE TI
Espero curarme de ti en unos días.
Debo dejar de fumarte, de beberte, de pensarte. Es posible. Siguiendo las prescripciones de la moral en turno. Me receto tiempo, abstinencia, soledad.
¿Te parece bien que te quiera nada más una semana? No es mucho, ni es poco, es bastante. En una semana se puede reunir todas las palabras de amor que se han pronunciado sobre la tierra y se les puede prender fuego. Te voy a calentar con esa hoguera del amor quemado. Y también el silencio. Porque las mejores palabras del amor están entre dos gentes que no se dicen nada.
Hay que quemar también ese otro lenguaje lateral y subversivo del que ama. (Tú sabes cómo te digo que te quiero cuando digo: «qué calor hace», «dame agua», «¿sabes manejar?», «se hizo de noche»... Entre las gentes, a un lado de tus gentes y las mías, te he dicho «ya es tarde», y tú sabías que decía «te quiero»).
Una semana más para reunir todo el amor del tiempo. Para dártelo. Para que hagas con él lo que quieras: guardarlo, acariciarlo, tirarlo a la basura. No sirve, es cierto. Sólo quiero una semana para entender las cosas. Porque esto es muy parecido a estar saliendo de un manicomio para entrar a un panteón.
//1959, J. Sabines
—
I HOPE TO HEAL FROM YOU
I hope to heal from you in a few days.
I must stop smoking you, drinking you, thinking you. It’s possible. Following the prescriptions of the moment’s morality. I prescribe for myself time, abstinence, solitude.
Does it seem alright to you if I love you for just one more week? It’s not much, nor is it little—it’s enough. In a week you can gather all the words of love that have been spoken on earth and set them on fire. I will warm you with that bonfire of burned love. And also with silence. Because the best words of love are between two people who say nothing to each other.
We must also burn that other sideways, subversive language of the one who loves. (You know how I tell you I love you when I say: “it’s hot,” “give me water,” “can you drive?”, “it’s gotten late”… Among people, off to the side of your people and mine, I’ve said to you “it’s late,” and you knew I meant “I love you.”)
One more week to gather all the love of time. To give it to you. So you can do with it whatever you want: keep it, caress it, throw it away. It’s no use, that’s true. I only want a week to understand things. Because this is very much like leaving an asylum to enter a graveyard.
//1959, J. Sabines
ink, watercolor on paper
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com
Interpretes-criadores: Marcio Antunes, sabrina Viana, Renato de Sena, Gustavo Fonseca
Direcao de video e arte: Douglas Caleja
Orientacao: Joana Ribeiro
Cenografia: Rene Salazar
Op. de video: Felipe Collyer
Op. de luz: Ge Lisboa
Direcao: Gustavo Fonseca
A Glitch "Kinjiki (couleurs interdites) ~ 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 #pixelsortingeffect