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According to codices
the Aztecs had a wide range of hairstyles that were worn by people of different professions and ranks throughout the empire
whilst the vast majority of commoners wore their hair in a similar fashion, warriors distinguished their rank by wearing elaborate styles or hair ornaments
whilst officials also showed their position through ornaments and special cuts, priests grew their hair long
the hair of these priests was very long and so matted that it could not be separated or disentangled and most of them had their ears scarified, and their hair was clotted with blood
—
According to Jodorowsky
panic fables by
Alejandro Jodorowsky
series of symbols
nº:16
what is the significance of the braid of hair?
hair symbolizes natural humanity,
sexual forces, the libido
when the hair is let down, it means that the individual is not controlling these forces
the braid symbolizes a wise ordering of human powers
the hair is divided into three parts, corresponding to the three principal centers of the human
the kad,
which is 4 finger widths below the navel (pure animal action), the instinct
the ot,
which is in the heart (pure feelings), affectivity
the pat,
which is in the forehead between the eyes (pure thought), the intellect
when these three centers are tamed, ordered, and united by the braid of the will, enlightening power can circulate through the spinal column
// july 16, 1972
p. 244
Small prototype for my newest suite of large-scale sculptures. Hollywood icons and tabloid culture figure in prominently as my source material here. I've been working on this series for over a year now with hopes to debut them in Hollywood, USA.
A Glitch “Beauté Sage(pulchritudo lauta) ~ Ètude II”
by ™℗®© Louis M o n t i e l
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A Glitch "Sosies (σόσια) ~ Ètude XII”
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
NFT Crypto Digital Art
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Genius savage of a woman who painted her revenge with precision -Artemisia Gentileschi, the inventor of psychomagic.
Today we celebrate a place where the paint never dries and time don’t mean nothing. Revenge. Or maybe Redemption. Or maybe just Painting. You decide.
Now let me tell you about a woman who knew something about all three. Her name? Artemisia Gentileschi. That’s right. Sounds like a name you’d hear on a foggy night in Rome whispers in a church, or scrawled on the back of a blood-red canvas. She was born in 1593. That’s over four hundred years ago, but her work? Yes, it still cuts like a knife.
She wasn’t just dabbling in flowers and fruit bowls. No. Artemisia painted violence. Power. Women who weren’t gonna take it anymore. Judith slaying Holofernes? She painted that. Not once but twice. And let me tell you, she didn’t flinch. You see, when Artemisia was a young girl, she studied under her father, Orazio. He painted too. Caravaggio was the name on everyone’s lips back then, tenebrism, they called it. Light and shadow. Like life. Like this page. Caravaggio put God in the alleyway. Artemisia? She put herself in the story.
Now, history ain’t always kind, and it sure wasn’t kind to her. She was assaulted by a so-called tutor. And when she took him to court, because oh she did, which was rare and raw and brave, they made her prove it. Tortured her with thumbscrews to “make sure she was telling the truth.” Imagine that.
In one of her letters, she writes:
‘My illustrious lordship, I’ll show you what a woman can do.’
And what a woman can endure. One afternoon, Agostino Tassi, a landscape artist, entered the house through a door left open by workmen and, Artemisia recounted, ‘having found me painting, said to me: “Don’t paint so much, don’t paint so much”.’ Tassi grabbed the girl’s brushes and palette and hurled them across the room, then bundled her into her bedroom and locked the door. ‘He threw me on to the edge of the bed, pushing me with a hand on my breast, and he put a knee between my thighs to prevent me from closing them. Lifting my clothes, he placed a hand with a handkerchief on my mouth to keep me from screaming. I scratched his face and pulled his hair and, before he penetrated me again, I grasped his penis so tight that I even removed a piece of flesh,’ she said. Artemisia said she took a knife from a drawer and threatened Tassi with it. ‘I want to kill you because you have shamed me,’ she shouted.
We know this from Artemisia’s 400-page testimony, held in the State Archives in Rome. The trial against the Tassi lasted seven months and was the most shocking of the century. He was more than twice her age, serial liar, pervert and social climber who had raped his sister-in-law and was suspected of murdering his missing wife.
Alejandro Jodorowsky 1929-, contrasts Freud’s “science” with his own “magic” and chronicles sessions in which he and his assistants try to effect cures using methods resembling performance art.
Psychomagic presents the shamanic and genealogical principles Jodorowsky discovered to create a healing therapy that could use the powers of dreams, art, and theater to empower individuals to heal wounds that in some cases had traveled through generations. The concrete and often surreal poetic actions Jodorowsky employs are part of an elaborate strategy intended to break apart the dysfunctional persona with whom the patient identifies in order to connect with a deeper self. That is when true transformation can manifest.
Artemisia Gentileschi did it already back then, let’s analyze her one of her masterpieces painted between 1612-1613; “Judith Beheading Holofernes”, Artemisia would have been familiar with Caravaggio’s painting of the same Old Testament scene. But hers, which hangs in Florence’s Uffizi gallery, is even more graphic. It takes the two women all their strength to pin down the man as Judith busies herself in severing Holofernes’s head, blood dripping down the sheets and spattering her dress. She painted this after the rape and before Tassi’s trial, the violence serving as some sort of revenge for the day when Tassi pinned her down and stole her virginity.
She kept painting. Hell yeah she painted through the pain. Painted through the whispers and the stares. Painted like the brush was her sword and the canvas was the world tryin’ to silence her. And every time she dipped her brush in oil, she said: I am here.
Her paintings? They weren’t soft. They had grit, and grace, and blood under the fingernails. She made the Bible roar, made mythology sweat. She gave women agency. Made ‘em real. Made ‘em fight back.
Some folks say she was just followin’ her father’s style. I say: maybe she learned the notes from him, but she wrote her own damn song.
So next time you're at a museum, and you see a woman with a sword and a look that could stop a man cold check the signature. It might say Gentileschi. And you’ll know: she’s still here. Still tellin’ her truth.
ink, watercolor on paper
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(A lamp-A mirror -I thought of Borges of his moon and his mirror-)
LA LUNA
Hay tanta soledad en ese oro.
La luna de las noches no es la luna
que vio el primer Adán. Los largos siglos
de la vigilia humana la han colmado
de antiguo llanto. Mírala. Es tu espejo.
//Jorge Luis Borges, 1960
——
THE MOON
There is such loneliness in that gold.
The moon of the nights is not the moon
who the first Adam saw. The long centuries
of human vigil have filled her
with ancient lament. Look at her. She is your mirror.
//Jorge Luis Borges, 1960
A shadow is an honest thing. It follows you around all day, never asks for money, never votes, never explains itself. Sometimes it's longer than you are, sometimes it disappears altogether. You can't fold it into your suitcase, but it'll still arrive before you do.
There was a fellow named Walter Benjamin who knew something about shadows. He walked through cities the way some people walk through dreams. Most folks see a storefront and think about buying a pair of shoes. Benjamin saw the whole history of desire reflected in the window glass. He believed every old arcade, every forgotten toy, every train ticket left in a coat pocket carried a secret message from history, if only you looked sideways at it. The trouble with history is that it doesn't always arrive marching in a parade. Sometimes it slips in through the back door wearing yesterday's overcoat.
Benjamin spent a lot of time thinking about what happens when the world becomes easier to copy than to remember. A photograph, a postcard, a film reel—they all promised to preserve things. Funny thing is, sometimes preserving something is the fastest way to lose what made it alive in the first place. Like pressing a flower inside a dictionary. You save the petals but misplace the spring.
Then you've got Ian Curtis. Different road, same weather. He stood on stage as though electricity had mistaken him for a human being. Some singers tell you what they're feeling. Curtis sounded like he'd wandered into a room where feelings had already happened and all that remained was the echo bouncing off concrete walls. His voice carried the weight of factory smoke before you'd even seen the chimneys. People called it post-punk. Labels are useful if you're organizing soup cans. They don't help much with ghosts.
Benjamin wandered cities collecting fragments. Curtis wandered inside himself collecting silences. One searched libraries and railway stations. The other found whole landscapes between one heartbeat and the next. Neither seemed interested in easy answers. Maybe because easy answers usually arrive after the question has packed up and left town.
You know, trains show up in a lot of songs. They carry lovers away, bring soldiers home, haul coal, cotton, dreams and disappointment. Benjamin's last journey crossed mountains where maps became arguments. Curtis sang about motion that somehow never escaped gravity. That's the strange thing about movement. You can travel a thousand miles and still wake up in the same room inside your own head.
There's an old saying that every generation thinks it's living at the end of the world. Maybe that's true. But every generation also leaves behind ticket stubs, photographs with folded corners, cigarette burns on café tables, handwritten notes in the margins of borrowed books. Somebody comes along later and mistakes those leftovers for a map. Maybe that's all philosophy ever was. Maybe that's all a rock and roll song ever needed to be. You don't always beat the darkness. Sometimes you just learn its rhythm well enough to keep dancing until morning.
ink, watercolor on paper
contact ibarraloana@gmail.com