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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
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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.
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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Facebook ~ Louis Montiel
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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
“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