I knew I was an artist when I realized that art was therapy for me. When I’m not painting I’m sad and angry. It has become a daily need to survive like… eat. Creation is for me a “vital outlet”, that is to say that I have to vomit the darkness that there is at the bottom of my guts so as not to sink while continuing to live with the people I love. It took me a long time to accept who I was. Today it is obvious. I eat, I shit, I paint and I sleep. I think that’s what being an artist is.
I have a lot of trouble communicating with others. I internalize everything so at some point it has TO EXPLODE ON THE CANVAS. To create, I draw inspiration from my own emotions and feelings that I can’t understand. Through the representation of the human body, I try to communicate these emotions. That’s why my paintings are very visceral: I have to dig into human bodies to see what’s inside.
You can then see in my paintings themes like identity, violence and love passion. Sometimes the spectators see monsters in my paintings but in my opinion, it is more about monstrous humans. It’s important to specify because it’s very different and it says a lot about the world in which we live.
I like to expand my pictorial universe on other supports. For a few years I have been sewing masks and costumes, and I have been doing performances. It’s as if my creatures in my paintings come out and become alive.
Cecily Brown is one of the artists I admire because she manages to find this balance between figuration and abstraction. In his work I see human bodies in motion but maybe my neighbor will see something else. I wish I could play with the viewer as well as she does. I love the idea of being able to inspire multiple stories through a single image.
Born in Russia, of Russian and Armenian descent, with both parents artists-designers who were often working on their projects from home, I was surrounded by art books, architectural models, paintings, and design projects. I was feeling very much a creatively equal part in this artistic household, learning practical skills from an early age and getting ad-hoc art history lessons from my dad: I loved nothing more than sculpting objects, drawing imaginary worlds and creatures for hours, taking myself away on fantastic travels aided by pen and paper.
I started receiving formal art school education from the age of 12. I then went on to study at St Petersburg Stiglitz Academy of Fine and Applied Arts, taking what was considered a more practical Interior Design degree there as one of the youngest students on the course. Having grown more and more disillusioned with the political situation in Russia, I had an opportunity to continue my education in the UK, where I decided to switch my degree to Fine Art Painting at the University of Brighton, a beautiful seaside town. Having graduated with a First Class Honours degree, I had a great chance to continue onto a 3 year postgraduate course at the Royal Academy Schools in London straight afterwards, eventually settling there for 15 years with my family, before moving to Spain.
My art practice since has encompassed a lot of different mediums: from drawing and painting to making art videos, experimental website design, creative writing, sound design, exhibition curation, and interior design. I’ve collaborated with my husband Daniel, (also an artist and writer,) on The Unstitute – a conceptual art website/online art laboratory which includes various online gallery spaces with monthly curated exhibitions, one-off projects, artists’ residencies, and a ‘zine. We developed a unique digital aesthetic with complex cultural dialogues, promoted and exhibited video artworks by over 130 artists from 33 countries, connecting to a global network of artists. The Unstitute also produced a number of independent short and feature films screened internationally. The Unstitute is free to visit and explore: www.theunstitute.org
My creative inspiration lies in all that excites me to try my hand at myself, a deeper exploration of my interests through practicing a new medium, learning and understanding the character of this practice and developing my own language in it. The themes I have looked deeply into are: French New Wave cinema (Godard, Truffaut, Resnais, Varda), post war Italian cinema (Fellini, Pasolini, Antonioni) and existential philosophy (Sartre, Nietzsche, Kierkegaard) which influenced a lot of video works, surrealist paintings (Carrington, Varo, Ernst), and the writings of Kafka and Deleuze – as well as other numerous sources. The fantastic architecture of Gaudi has been referenced in my design work, classical and experimental dance music has inspired my own sound design projects and developed my sensibilities. I like to mix disciplines, and I don’t feel the pressure of tying myself to making one type of thing; when it becomes a chore it lacks a particular kind of energy, an excitement to harness the subject, and to communicate in that language it needs to be left alone to breathe for a while.
Having come full circle, I’m now developing ideas through drawing again. Drawing, a very immediate medium, enables me to play with the material and with my mind. I use various surfaces around our old Catalan house with a 100 years worth of thin plaster washes that are rich in texture, cracks and chips, a detailed history of use that is translated into some faint, random marks, by rubbing the surface with graphite on paper. Sometimes, I close my eyes and choose colours and draw shapes at random, or I just scribble something on paper absentmindedly. Thus, I’m presented with a series of opportunities for ‘communication’ with the work. I get into a meditative, slightly detached state, letting expectations go as much as possible before letting the drawing speak to me, to open my mind to suggestions. I see frottage – the initial rubbing – as a basic skin or gauze that is tied over an already existing image; it’s a game of recovery of the image.
It’s like the whole of humanity, the natural world, the cosmos, all my sources and histories are squashed together in a tight bundle of stuff that constantly mutates and changes in a continuous movement, a dance that is hidden under the surface of drawing paper. You never know what you are going to find by scratching the surface. By gently drawing on this skeleton of marks, repeating its forms over and over, I start slowly beefing up the initial image, or I take layers off, exposing that image underneath, akin to archaeology. I can recognise various marks, characters, memories of small details like a gesture or a shine on the nose, and the stuff from daily life starts to poke through this initial wild collage of bits, merging and mutating in my unfocused eyes. By gently excavating a partial image with a soft brush as it were, by gentle strokes, I nurture that image into the light, extracting, distilling it from the initial marks. As if stroking the skin of paper over and over, massaging the organs, getting the inner machinery as it were to start kicking into action. This process produces a clearer idea of what the image is and what it wants; it starts working itself out, the cogs fall into place. When I feel that an image I’m working on is becoming independent, it starts constructing itself with that inner machinery confidently and becomes almost confrontational in its new independence, then my work is done. Art for me is an organic process which continues evolving in the eyes of the beholder.
An atypical course… Manitoba by its artist name lives and works in Biganos on the Arcachon basin. French international artist born in 1966 in Algéria, self taught psychedelic and visionary artist, began his career at 48 years old , he took a 180-degree turn and left his job as a chemist to devote himself to his revelation, painting. This total questioning allowed him to express his great freedom as an artist.
An Eye on Emptiness
In the heart of the moment,
where time unravels,
At the heart of oneself, where no one
Others can go, build
Where to rebuild from nothing
What completes us
To just have to be
Fill this emptiness
Who fills the gaps
As long as we dare to share
Without hesitation without shading
As beautiful nature made us
In the blood fire
From our boiler
To happiness that fills us
The heart, like the child, the bird
Who paws and whistles the curious
Impatience of in body
To be surprised to be...
And drill
The mystery,
There where
transparent
The silence
Of between
The
Words...
To the life
In love
An artist, on the one hand in reaction to societal behaviors that paralyze many minds. But also to shake off this gloom and this funny habit that humans have to complain and believe that everything comes from outside …
The Emergence of the Sunflower
Presentation in the sun
To the heliotrope thought
As we turn
Towards the star of light
I light the fuse
tinder, fungus
Trees, saprophyte
If any, getting rid of
Slag and other lures
Societal, for its petals
Get out of the futile, the straightjacket
Of what will you say
and leave the flower in the beak
Beat nature awakening
In and around you.
Let consciousness emancipate
Brillamos, a little, a lot
To insanity
the cat's paw Man
Live the emergence and cultivate our nature
And the one who welcomes us, a good vibe
The Dead Flower More
Manitoba takes us on a journey through its colorful and spiritual universe where shapes and colors combine infinity. His art transmits passion and thirst for life, inspired by an original movement in the spirit of an ancestral memory, close to the primary arts. The artist invites us to the source, of all these lives around us and this natural song of hope that grows beyond borders and other forms of conditioning. A little shamanic, he invites us into the silence between the words, as if out of time, for a moment …
Incubation is perhaps most easily understood in contrast to the art of Theurgy or ‘Work of the Gods.’ Theurgy is a process of anabasis or magical ascent whereby practitioners, such as the early Neoplatonists, especially Iamblichus and Proclus, achieved henosis or mystical union with a deity or the demiurge. However, anabasis was not always of primary importance, or even of interest, to many of the ancient Greek philosophers and magicians. More than five hundred years before the Neoplatonists arrived on the scene, Presocratic poets and philosophers, including Pythagoras and Parmenides, were preoccupied instead with katabasis—a dreamy descent to the domain of the dead, and to the dark goddess who rules over that realm.
Mirror Gazing Ecdysis Mitchell Pluto 2022
For the Platonists, katabasis was understood as the descent of the soul into a body upon incarnation. Hades, additionally, was allegorized and viewed as the very world in which we, as incorporated beings, inhabit. Socrates says to Callicles in Plato’s Gorgias, for instance, “[perhaps] in reality we’re dead. Once I even heard one of the wise men say that we are now dead and that our bodies are our tombs.” Again, in the Phaedo, Plato has Socrates say to Simmias of Thebes, “[we], who dwell in the hollows of [the earth], are unaware of this and we think we live above.” And, later in the same dialogue, “Those who are deemed to have lived an extremely pious life are freed and released from the regions of the earth as from a prison; they make their way up to a pure dwelling place and live on the surface of the earth.” Therefore, the only way to go, for Plato and his successors, was up—in an anabatic flight to the demiurge, through the various planetary spheres that separate the divine nous and Monad from the sensible world below. Theurgy was the means by which such an anabasis was accomplished. The Presocratics, conversely, leaving Mount Olympus to the gods, for the most part, focused their energies instead upon katabasis; on transporting themselves to the netherworld.
Dream Mare Mitchell Pluto 2022
The means by which these iatromanteia or “healer-seers” directed this delirious drop was via the use of an ancient divination and healing technique known as incubation. In ancient Greece, this was generally done inside of sacred and secluded caves that were sacred to certain gods, daimons, nymphs, and other metaphysical entities. Eventually, the practice would be translated to special temples dedicated to the technique, and finally into a special incubation chamber, usually positioned adjacent to the temple itself. The ancient Ionian Greek philosopher, recognized as the ‘Father of Western Philosophy,’ Pythagoras of Samos, for example, is said to have descended to Hades by entering an underground cave. While Pythagoras left no writings of his own, the late Neoplatonic philosopher, Algis Uždavinys, a past head of the Department of Humanities at the Vilnius Academy of Fine Arts, Kaunas, explains,
the subterranean tomb-like chamber represents Hades for Pythagoras. Hence, Pythagoras descended into Hades, that is, the subterranean holy chamber (like the Holy of Holies, entered by the Jewish High Priest on the occasion of Yom Kippur) that he had made himself, according to Diogenes Laertius (Vitae phil. 2). When he came up, withered and looking like a Shaiva ascetic, he said that “he had been down to Hades and even read out his experiences [aloud to the crowd].”
A similarly famous although obscure Presocratic philosopher, Parmenides of Elea, celebrated as both the ‘Father of Logic’ and the ‘Father of Metaphysics,’ wrote a dactylic hexametrical poem recounting his trip to Hades, and the underworld goddess whom he encountered. At the junction of three roads, the goddess instructed Parmenides as to the true nature of reality. His proem to “Peri Physeôs” begins,
The mares that carry me as far as longing can reach rode on, once they had come and fetched me onto the legendary road of the divinity, the road that carries the man who knows through the vast and dark unknown. […] And the goddess welcomed me kindly and took my right hand in hers and spoke these words as she addressed me…
In his proem, the divinity proceeded to instruct Parmenides in the laws of logic that we know today. That is, it was a mysterious, underworld goddess from whom Parmenides received the very rules of reason, with which he returned to the land of the living for the inauguration a new era. To a world which turned on mythos—mythology—Parmenides introduced the novel pivot of logos—logic. Although, we must admit that the weird way in which the ‘Father of Logic’ acquired that understanding appears to contradict the very laws with which he was entrusted. Moreover, Parmenides’ words may provide us with a subtle indication of just what incubation may have entailed for these heroes of Hades. The first thing the poet mentions are the mares that pull his chariot. The chariot is a token of the sun god, whose solar vehicle is pulled throughout the skies by a handsome team of heavenly horses. Indeed, ever since the time of the worship of Shammesh or Utu, the sun god of ancient Mesopotamia, the chariot has been the province of the Sol. But, the sun isn’t just about the light—for, the sun also journeys into the Underworld, like Osiris in the Dwat, through the dark, intuitive animations of Aidoneus’ alcazar. Every time we venture into sleep, we quietly and blindly slide into the Stables of Silence. Hence the false etymology suggested by the word nightmares, ‘horses of the dark.’ Like the Hunter’s three-legged horse in the fairytale of the Princess and the Tree, these ‘nightmares’ “know everything”—including the invisible way to the “legendary road” that leads to “the divinity.” The archaic techniques of dream incubation are akin to these mystical, Moiraic mares, and they alone are possessed of the potential to move us from the familiar to the fringe—down the alien road that carries the “man who knows” through the “vast and dark unknown.”
P.D. Newman October 16, 2022
P.D. Newman
P.D. Newman is an independent researcher located in the southern US, specializing in the history of the use of entheogenic substances in religious rituals and initiatory rites. He is the author of the books, Alchemically Stoned: The Psychedelic Secret of Freemasonry, Angels in Vermilion: The Philosophers’ Stone from Dee to DMT, and the forthcoming title, Day Trips and Night Flights: Anabasis, Katabasis, and Entheogenic Ekstasis in Myth and Rite. The Secret Teachings of All Ages (TV Series documentary) 2023
The Hug Acrylic on canvas 60x80cm Hoda Hussein 2022
14 September 2022 7:17 pm Earth Greenwich time zone
A letter from Oranous to Pluto on the Sleep Temple
Who believed their bed was a four-legged bear taking them on their back for a night sky ride as their own bear cub? I did. And I always woke up in the morning and kept my eyes shut till I hear family voices in the house so I am sure my parent bear landed me in the right place to start another day acting like a human. It takes practice to master acting like a human this is why we have to do it every day. But we must also not forget who we are this is why parent Bear kept their legs and body in the human house but with their tail and head on their own and took me as their child on journeys and trips at night where I can be in awareness of all that is. No wonder it was very difficult to pretend I am afraid of the scarab that landed on my hand in the nursery! I was not. The teachers were. And that was weird to me. I suppose I also was weird for them. However, I kept that memory of the friend scarab insect that tickle my palm and I still smile at that. Who would think I had an oil well in my salon where I bathed in whenever exhausted and opened my veins to it renewing my blood completely in sessions where Hathor was standing at my back massaging me? Okay well, I had a Native American tribe settling their tipi in my living room so… Let’s say this is normal in my life. So what is a sleep temple or a dream temple? I am! Well, I guess we all are in a way. Always just believed in a sacred temple where the blood circulates around the heart like pilgrims around the sacred cube of “Ka’ba” hence ka and ba. But as I can move and I am not still at all I prefer to see myself as a Mer-ka-ba “boat in Arabic”. Oh, how I loved this when I knew that Mer meant beloved in the ancient Egyptian language! Yes I know I am loved and visited but all types of loving beings. This is so beautiful! Still, I don’t think I learned yet to act humanely perfectly and instead I look for my equals who also could not really perfect the like human acting. There is something beautiful in our imperfections. Kind of childish and more related to the womb than birth. A whole multiverse moving changing developing evolving in action inside the womb of space. A multiverse that is in fact one single child in process of becoming. Did I tell you I once dreamed of having surgery on my lungs and my heart? Well, I did. And the woman doctor gave me a prescription. That I followed! I would not be that committed following a prescription of a daily life touchable doctor, so-called “real” anyway.
Hugs Bye for now
Hoda Hussein
Hoda Hussein
Egyptian creative writer poetess and novelist, artist painter and translator. Published many poetry books and novels in Arabic language. Represented Egypt in poetry and novels festivals and encounters in several countries like Yemen, Spain, India, France, Cuba, and Chile. Made creative writing workshops for kids in many schools in Cairo Egypt. Received rewards for poetry, novels and for translations in Chile, Macedonia and Egypt Was entitled as a universal ambassador for peace by the peace ambassadors circle that works under the UNESCO
The Inhabitant of the Dream Temple Verónica Cabanillas Samaniego
The temple of dreams is located in principle in an unlimited place, it is not exactly an island, it is the sky itself in immense melancholy, surrounded by the sea and in the absence of farewells. Towards all directions a path towards you, and I discover each treasure at the bottom of the word. In the absence and presence of everything, I hear bordering a harmonious song flowing like an infinite abyss around us.
The Temple of Sleep in self. Verónica Cabanillas Samaniego
The paradise that we have penetrated and invented is resolved like the design of a luminous dream, which we glimpsed to see a long time ago, until we rediscover the trace, shake off the dust and build the raft that takes us from me to you and vice versa, yes, on this side the sleep is deep, in this temple of gods we are simple people, trying to take forever a piece of heaven and looking for a dignified death, where our names are heard and pronounced only by hallucinated insects and dogs on the last day of the humanity, we only dream that on the last day of the world we will not forget to feed them, and the last poem we wrote and the last brush stroke on the white we gave, undermine my pain to the depths, and be reborn in a beautiful pack of dogs, in another time, another planet, another galaxy as far as we can see in the temple of dreams. Because only the measure of the vision is equal to the measure of what is imagined and because everything that one builds is the measure of what he managed to imagine. In the temple of dreams I realized that, and why I was already here
Verónica Cabanillas Samaniego. Algarrobo, Chile, Octubre 2022.
Verónica Cabanillas Samaniego
Verónica Cabanillas Samaniego (Lima, 1981), is a poet and visual artist. She has exhibited individually in Lima and collectively in Europe and Latin America: El asombro del colmillo, Le Petit Canibaal, Valencia (2014); Ludwig Zeller, composing the illusion, Taller de Rokha Gallery, Santiago de Chile (2017); One hundred years of Surrealism, Espacio Matta Cultural Center, Santiago de Chile (2019-2020), International exhibition of surrealism, Kudak Gallery, Cairo-Egypt (2022), Echo of contemporary surrealism, French Institute of Alexandria, Egypt (2022). She published in 2014 TUyYO by desktop publishing and participates in various poetry anthologies: IXQUIC. International Anthology of Feminist Poetry (Editorial Verbum, Madrid, 2018); Wagered deep on the run of six rats to see which would catch the first fire / Surrealist and Outsiders (RW Spryszak, Chicago, 2018); Liberoamericanas, 80 contemporary poets (Liberoamerica, Spain / Argentina / Uruguay, 2018); Narrow doors in wide green fields / Surrealists and Outsiders (RW Spryszak, Chicago, 2019). She has participated in the V Lima Poetry Festival (2014); IV Antifil Alternative Book Fair, Lima (2019). Her visual work is published in Derrame magazine (Chile), Canibaal (Spain), La vertèbre et le rossignol N ° 5, Vies de Saint-Artaud (Canada), Vol (France), The Room (Egypt). She is part of the book 120 nights of Eros, a compendium of surrealist women made by Floriano Martins, ARC editions, Brazil (2021). She currently co-directs with Magdalena Benavente the magazine Honidi Magazine, in Algarrobo, Chile.
Rene Fernando Ortega Villarroel
FROM THE SOUL.
The melody of silence. I search endlessly for labyrinths across the fields I will find. Plants have eyes and they see me. I spill my blood of color pigments. With the wind I always seek to know infinite mountains wrinkled by time. That golden light lets me dominate, with veiled rain and magical scents from my hidden memories of a man of the land. Luminous nature with an open belly shows me a trace of the sun. Conscientious without desolation, living nature, the plants have begun to love me.
DESDE EL ALMA.
La melodía del silencio. Yo busco laberintos sin cesar a campo traviesa voy a encontrar. Las plantas tienen ojos y me ven. Derramo mi sangre de pigmentos de color. Con el viento siempre busco conocer infinitas montañas arrugadas por el tiempo. Esa luz dorada me deja dominar, con lluvias veladas y olores mágicos de mis recuerdos ocultos de un hombre de tierra. Naturaleza lumínica y de vientre abierto me muestra un trazo del sol. De conciencia sin desolación, naturaleza viva las plantas han comenzado a quererme.
Rene Fernando Ortega Villarroel Santiago, Chile, Octubre 2022
Rene Fernando Ortega Villarroel
René Ortega, was one of the winners in the international biennial of contemporary art October 3, 2022. Rene has exhibited work in Chile and Argentina. He is involved in many cultural art programs that have related to hospitals, children and teaching art professionally. His most recent show was Mental Labyrinthsat the Til Til Cultural Center Art gallery on June 18, 2022
“My concern is the human figure as a feeling of primitive and irrational states, whose main point are the heads, universal thought of the creation of man and center of the universe. All this led to a mutation of the plastic and pictorial language”.
Featured art photo Rene Fernando Ortega Villarroel
Texts extracted from the unpublished collection of poems “Ciénaga”
5 21 seconds they play your name Like a shooting star I count the spaces To lose myself in the water.
6 We are stopped by the claws of the wind It’s time to sleep they tell us we are asleep Like fugitive silhouettes We have gone astray.
7 The angel of the paths leads our light his hands lengthen the stems of the day stretch contours.
8 My cloud brings pieces of time closer I’m gloomy like these worm-eaten plants Someone else will come from the night To collect some forgotten landscape.
9 Unexpectedly I open my eyes towards you I like to hear whispers from the outside line Your eyes open other doors And they stay sheltered from the shade.
10 Since that time I remember you You slowly invade my landscapes Cold voices bring the threads of that web closer They surround the absent body.
11 I will open my eyes once more When the stars dwell in our bodies And a drop slipped through the skin Suspend all reefs high.
12 Violet petals fall successively on us The wind is gone, but the shadow remains Water slides streams into the night And the last fire extinguishes my stars.
Poems extracted from the book “Poemas de sur”
House and Plum IV
Stealth remains attentive to all caresses My kisses keep looking for their route And I remember the first home, the smells tremble with their laughter Your look weighs on the eyelids of the imagination The smells will come to dream of the intimate past So long without looking back Memory takes so long It’s something illusory like the blue roses in the garden The bridge where I whisper a name a silhouette arrives tired to tell me that figure sits in the memories And I can no longer hide in the holes of the old walls but if the shadow is your name I will continue whispering inside the empty space and the walls will see their signs in the passing of things beyond we will continue drawing in the rooms and they will continue to walk through those passages where the smoke today flies calmly.
House and plum V
We remember the fog visits us through the window The green eyes returned to tour our nights And an old walker passed through the house We return to the site of the visits The lamps lulled the traveling sound Only God listens to us on this winter Friday And I whisper to you not to repeat things Our gestures turn off the lights Fall memories unwrap That house creaked in the front room Eyes flickered subject to the crackle A voice speaks words I don’t know them anymore, the voice is barely heard Between the trees you fly to contemplate the past And the tree held by the foreign night We are silent to hear each other in this stillness Sleeping trees glow in the dark They stretch their arms towards the house in the silence The wind returns And we as relic-weary passengers We take care of the necessary gestures Things twinkle distrustful of destiny And only tonight can they blink in regret Because the trees examine our deep voices And no one will be able to descend from the passageway And listen to the unknown song.
Writer born in Viña del Mar, Chile. Professor of language and communication at PUCV, poet and literary critic. In 2012, she published her first book, The Invisible Eyes of the Wind. She has published in renowned Chilean and foreign digital media: Babelia (Spain), Letras de Chile (Chile), Triplov and Athena de Portugal, among others. During the year 2017 she participates in the Xaleshem group with poetic texts for the surrealist anthologies: “Composing the illusion” in honor of Ludwig Zeller and “Full Moon”, in honor of Susana Wald. In 2018, she integrates the feminist anthology IXQUIC released both in Europe and in Latin America. In 2020 she participates reviewing the conversation book “Shuffle poetry, Surrealism in Latin America” by Alfonso Peña (Costa Rica), also writes a poetic prose text for the book “Arcano 16, La torre“, by the same author. Likewise, she participates in the book “120 notes of Eros. Written portraits of surrealist women” by Floriano Martins (Brazilian surrealist poet, writer, visual artist and cultural manager). In this year (2021) she publishes her second poetry book Poética de la erotica, amores y desamores by Marciano editores, Santiago.
Featured art photo Peppermint Patty girl Oil, collage Mitchell Pluto 2022
Delphine Cadoré French Outsider Artist born in Paris 1972
Immerse yourself in a universe where, under the gaze of the painter, the shapes come undone, round off and blend together. Guessing a fish that reminds us of the softness, the slowness, the fluidity of water.
The one where we all bathed, in the hollow of our mothers’ bellies. Meet the wolf, in all its guises: nurturer, progenitor, and also the least tender who ate the grandmother. A wolf, disturbing and comforting, like the passage of time; it swallows, digests and ends up carrying within itself lives and entire cities.
Discover, here and there, the bird, bearer of poetry. Light and soft, it soothes and lifts your head into the clouds. Then meet a woman who bathes in these waters, in this atmosphere of dream and creation. In this atmosphere where life explodes, the children clinging to the breast, and the vaginas still open from childbirth.
Delphine Cadoré offers us to discover her universe where metaphors rub shoulders with life, the real, the most visceral.
She paints in a powerful energy in which she embeds supports and techniques. She draws, inks, paints, coats, scratches, cuts… for the magic to work. And the magic works: we are caught up in the movement, and each canvas lifts us a little more into this universe of raw poetry.
I don’t consider myself an artist, I think that each of us is, but some have forgotten that, children are artists in their own right because they have retained this spontaneity that we later lack.
I have no real artistic influence, I like Francis Bacon as well as Paul Gauguin and many others, it’s quite heterogeneous in fact and I discover great artists every day via social networks. As a child, I had the chance to rub shoulders with many artists, illustrators, photographers, musicians, we lived in a community, so I think I always drew.
I am the mother of 4 children, two of whom are already adults and on their own, but I still have two little ones! it’s not always easy to reconcile my work and everyday life! I would say that what I miss the most is the time and above all a studio, a real studio!
Inner space, mathematical entities, organic architecture and time doors from the liminal mind of artist René Ortega
From TvoTiltil October 3, 2022
El artista plástico y vecino de Huertos Familiares, René Ortega, resultó uno de los ganadores en la bienal internacional de arte contemporáneo que se desarrolló la semana pasada en Cali Colombia. En el encuentro participaron más de 3000 pinturas y representantes de 15 países y fue trinfador en la categoría de arte abstracto. La premiación se llevó a cabo en la Universidad Santiago de Cali. Sin duda es el logro y reconocimiento más importante en mi carrera hasta la fecha nos indicó el artista hace instantes.
The plastic artist and neighbor of Huertos Familiares, René Ortega, was one of the winners in the international biennial of contemporary art that took place last week in Cali, Colombia. More than 3,000 paintings and representatives from 15 countries participated in the meeting and it was the winner in the category of abstract art. The award ceremony was held at the Santiago de Cali University. Without a doubt, it is the most important achievement and recognition in my career to date, the artist told us moments ago.
Rene Fernando Ortega Villarroel
Feature art photo was selected as the award-winning work.
Life Death The sense What are they worth? Ties to Life the illusion of being special unique That everything hidden will be revealed and bring peace The fall God Crying The vacuum the tear The torture of ignorance. The worst of wheat the howling of the cattle The bark of the stubborn The silence of the wise (To whom God gave a name and assigned a Path) Fall and worry our fate Our truth the poppy has bloomed The morphine has deadened the pain But the power of God gives us the strength to continue… to continue WHERE?
TWO NOISES
There are only two noises left In the relaxed silences after the bloodless waters of the cold There are only two noises left Between the waking dream Field where all the faded desires lie While in his fury the candid blood born in his look at the dawn In your breathing relief After the suns of August and the snows of July
There are only two noises left My body knows its moment in the soul Half bite and half die
There are only two noises left
Kisses and debauchery
What will become of so much love? What will become of so much thirst?
I WILL GET LOST
I will lose myself as those sleepless nights are lost. As the swallows fly uncertainly in their freedom. Thus, like the breath drowned in a puddle of muddy tears between slopes whipped by a harsh winter. I’ll get lost on those dead end streets in the midst of a time without stay. Suffering soul Deep sorrow of the soul. I will write her name in crystals in the catacombs where lost loves lie in each fragment deposited on a paper evicted from oblivion between puddles of muddy tears on slopes whipped by a harsh winter.
SEPIA
As I watched the roll roll of your wheels I rolled off the ledges of cement buildings There is no time… Just muzzled birds who observe my mourning of fluorescent colors I’m looking for a bloody drink Lower the face to the bottom Bottomless background. soul of lockdowns absence of soul there are no greens SEPIA only…
LONELY
Lonely my autumn sighs pass by Lonely the night of stars without wicks
Of loves in transit to the corridor of oblivion Presence of leaves dancing as our love faded In the middle of our world always unfinished Present as the cold through my careless open windows
I live and die I smile and agonize I dance and fall on cement floors in dark spaces in adornment people
I wonder-
In what unknown wind do I find you? In what shade of September? In what square of yesteryear do you walk your nostalgia your unlived times your life in my absence my presence not available or our words always so petty?
Alone Alone in the midst of eclipsing clouds And suns that don’t kill
Alone in the siesta of the day While the good runs adrift In that ocean that I never get to cross
What’s up?-that nothing in me is enough that my passing is the passing of a deaf bird in a night cloak of mirrors?
devoid of me devoid of all abandoned by my lyrics Unable to happen in life All that I no longer say
FOR A SHIRAZ
ruby meteorites Imitate God’s Sediment
meaning to the air that the air I lack
That I need one last sip of a great Syrah To say, what my lyrics hide
The costume without forgetting Your body smells like grapes and my body smells like you…
Poet, narrator and reciter of the soul. Social Communicator, law graduate. At the end of 2015 she published her first book of poetry, stories and haiku “Ecos errantes” In 2016 together with 18 Chilean women poets she published her poetic work in the anthology “Mujeres al fin del mundo” (poetic voice of Chilean women), awarded by the Chilean Society of Writers with the “National Reading Fund”, with presence in all National Libraries. In 2017, together with outstanding national poets, he presents his work in the Anthology “Underworld¨ “Blood brother”, “Without borders” (Society of Writers “Without borders”. 2018), “ After poetry, in 2019 and “After Poetry: the festival of poetry”, in 2020 he publishes his work in the International Poetic Anthologies “Palabras Necessarios”, 2021, among others . The artist vigorously participates in literary, poetic, cultural and environmental dissemination activities. She also participates in different poetry forums, where she maintains a constant literary and poetic activism in social networks and groups of poets in America and Europe. In 2021, she publishes her second bilingual poetry book “Sé un poeta (be a poem)”. Since 2017 she is a member of the cultural corporation of writers and artists “Les enfants terribles” and of the Society of Chilean Writers (SECH). Poet invited to the II National Poetry Meeting, 2021.
Featured art photo Scyphomancy Oil on 9inx12in coldpress Mitchell Pluto 2022
The He is more poet than me He provokes in me the excitement of lucifer I wish to flee from the three nails of the crucifixion My wrists don’t hurt so much anymore. like sore ankles I don’t limp anymore The sky turns to water in your presence I know how to float in flooded graves mercury nights Enigma of the writer with hair on his face Under the moon Howl with foreign voices
OBEY ME
From afar he looked like a man It was a shadow in the form of a man From afar he looked like a poet It was a form of man with the voice of a poet In the light he looked like an angel In the dark Repugnant smelly I liked Come! Come my love! You will see that the reflection of my water is salty Obey me
MARRIAGE OF THE DEAD
To not blame the men We got married in the presence of a dead man reflection echo We got married in the presence of a dead man With my heart in my hand fevers cramps Friend of my heart drowned in poetry We got married in the presence of a dead man They dug a grave We were put Next to each other in the wet mud The crying comes from the empty graves We got married in the presence of a dead man The earth has forgiven us
INSOMNIA
We look more beautiful in black More beautiful than the widows of our enemies I reversed your death with a love spell I pierced your flesh blood stakes I descended into madness to rescue you Men In angel I returned you You festered like a poem under insomnia nobody’s Geometry geometry of gods We look more beautiful in black More beautiful than the widows of our enemies. crazy pupils Kiss Me! as if you don’t know me impregnate me again and again Throw the stone and hide I will murder our children in the name of love bite me howls
SPECTRAL SILHOUETTE
spectral silhouette I got tangled up in your hair It rains in a city full of leaves yellow autumn I visit you in the asylum where reason is lost I see you insanely talking with the virgin she doesn’t listen to you My joints creak like an old door I dry myself I am your light you tell me Cocoon light when I take you in hugs Under the cold light of fluorescent tubes We are the closest thing to Michelangelo’s Pietá I cleanse your drugged body They have cooked your mouth I give you to drink the rain You have aged more than me One by one I have seen your teeth fall Even so I still consider you handsome my sick poet Smoker Created in the image and likeness of your mother We make a blood pact Crying Of the wall The shadow The smoke from your big hands Touching me You hypnotize the voices The time stops naked I walk in the rain I collect flowers.
The poet Leopoldo María Panero, died last night at 65 years old at the Juan Carlos I Psychiatric Hospital in Las Palmas de Gran Canaria, where he lived as a boarder in open regime. Panero will be cremated tomorrow at the San Miguel Funeral Home of Las Palmas de Gran Canaria, where his body will be veiled starting at 2:00 p.m. today. The Corpse of the Poet he will remain in the funeral home for a little over 24 hours, until proceed to incinerate him, something that is scheduled for 4:30 p.m. tomorrow. Source: ABC.es Culture, July 7, 2014
CRAZY PUPILS
The most ruthless of all souls She is moved by the song of night crickets The most brutal of all souls Talk to the stars on a waning moon the most despised Sing with the voice of a nightingale stays there hours and hours and hours hearing the wind the most ungrateful soul wash the feet of tramps Heals hand wounds Feed the pigeons in the squares Smile at the children on the street tour the cemetery Read verses about the graves Searching abandoned tombstones Rest in sealed sepulchers. Accompanies the silence that passes forgetting and she gets tired falls off she turns off sleep Until the dandelions touch her fingers She can’t open her tired eyelids crazy’s pupils get bigger hands are filled with oblivion.
LOST LANGUAGE
Speak Write poetry miss the word Language that bewitches the impure in spirit Verses saved from the waters Illegitimate child Where does my tongue come from? stumbles on the palate I inject sounds speeches rumors Where do my eyes come from? Observe the bubbles of the fish mating Fertilize under the water of the river.
MOON WOMAN
Moonlit woman windy sunrise Fall from the placenta to the volcano burn the soul Germinate in root mutate into bird poet’s whisper I belong to the wind to the reflection of the sea
Controversial, transgressive, provocative, direct, loving, desolate This is the poetry of Victoria Morrison in this new book: “Crazy Pupils”. the forty four poems that the collection of poems brings together come from the limits most extreme humans; tenderness and cruelty in hands of the disturbed beauty of some verses that bother and move, as the voice should be, when you are in the center of the tragedy. Love, madness, death, oblivion, govern the order of this collection of poems. In this scheme, the poetry of Victoria Morrison is a way of exhibiting the torture to which existence subjects us just by breathing.
Dante Cajales Meneses Cau Cau, Puchuncavi, Chile, February 2020
Feature art photo Eyes series. Óscar César Mata, Latex and watercolor pencil. Buenos Aires, Argentina.
be you the stray who returns into the mist of our bodies.
Ignition
I wonder if you’re touching the sky now as I extend my sight to these mountains what part of space will be created with your presence? What ocean will I cross to incinerate you slowly?
Prophecy
Your body dissolves things to announce a moan or remote end of the night that no longer hides anything not even a new way of shivering
Estrangement
You look at me as if I were your fetish you touch me when we’re alone I am nothing of that nor the shadow of our own steps.
Secrets
The mirror projects two lovers at the edge of the night the itinerary of its own history is broken They don’t sleep because they know how to distinguish whispers that fly by and saturate the air of people looking through the keyhole and are suddenly reflected in a pool It is not true to say that these bodies look at each other it would be better to sketch the moment when they intersect with the dark but aligned as they were they knew how to possess themselves and stood out against the background of shadows of a white that was dreamed at night and he did not even stop to contemplate the stars but if he looked at himself naked except when she unbuttoned her dress.
Writer born in Viña del Mar, Chile. Professor of language and communication at PUCV, poet and literary critic. In 2012, she published her first book, The Invisible Eyes of the Wind. She has published in renowned Chilean and foreign digital media: Babelia (Spain), Letras de Chile (Chile), Triplov and Athena de Portugal, among others. During the year 2017 she participates in the Xaleshem group with poetic texts for the surrealist anthologies: “Composing the illusion” in honor of Ludwig Zeller and “Full Moon”, in honor of Susana Wald. In 2018, she integrates the feminist anthology IXQUIC released both in Europe and in Latin America. In 2020 she participates reviewing the conversation book “Shuffle poetry, Surrealism in Latin America” by Alfonso Peña (Costa Rica), also writes a poetic prose text for the book “Arcano 16, La torre“, by the same author. Likewise, she participates in the book “120 notes of Eros. Written portraits of surrealist women” by Floriano Martins (Brazilian surrealist poet, writer, visual artist and cultural manager). In this year (2021) she publishes her second poetry book Poética de la erotica, amores y desamores by Marciano editores, Santiago.
Feature art photo Sun Set Women Oil, collage by Mitchell Pluto 2022
Mitchell Pluto 