René Ortega utiliza fórmulas de liminalidad para iniciar al espectador a experimentar los misterios del inframundo. Hay una puerta de flores, una escalera de anillos a túneles, afinada con un aro de colores. Todo esto está aquí dentro de los secretos de nuestra tierra. En estos pasos buscamos un centro que ya es un estado completo, un lugar unido por los opuestos e igual a sí mismo. René agrega esquinas al círculo giratorio para crear una faceta para ver otros espacios y otros tiempos.
Mitchell Pluto
TIERRA PROFUNDA
Mi enfoque se enfatiza en la búsqueda de las respuestas transcendentales las problemáticas ecológicas y sociales de la humanidad que enfrentamos actualmente.
Con mis obras pretendo hacer conciencia para situar al ser humano como parte importante de la naturaleza es el volver encontrándose con muestro yo interno y nuestros sentidos que se encuentran en un estado dormido es el volver a mirar y observar como un niño para situarnos en las profundidades de los infinitos subsuelos y planos de tierra imaginaria de mundos micros organismos vivos subterráneos que se transmutan constantemente en máquinas orgánicas voladoras y así te llevo transportándote a mi imaginario poético donde danzan líneas interminables y planos de vida que se juntan y separan al mismo tiempo incansable búsqueda de lo desconocido como las estrellas y la naturaleza transmutando a infinitos planos profundo de colores y formas que voy realizando atreves de esta incansable y cambiante movimiento y sonido de la vida.
René Ortega, fue uno de los ganadores en la bienal internacional de arte contemporáneo 3 de octubre de 2022. René ha expuesto obra en Chile y Argentina. Está involucrado en muchos programas de arte cultural que se han relacionado con hospitales, niños y la enseñanza del arte profesionalmente. Su muestra más reciente fue Mental Labyrinths en la galería de arte del Centro Cultural Til Til el 18 de junio de 2022.
“Mi preocupación es la figura humana como sentimiento de estados primitivos e irracionales, cuyo punto principal son las cabezas, pensamiento universal de la creación del hombre y centro del universo. Todo ello condujo a una mutación del lenguaje plástico y pictórico”.
BLENDED IN THE HOURS From the place where the abrupt sound of the loica ventures
(1) the evanescence of your future breath appears among the vegetation that hides your name and the blue and gray stones of the primal mystery there I will drink from the mist that shouts the perpendicular miracle the only reason at all that moistens the vegetal belly of the beloved and shines the incessant desire. How long does the star take to announce your coming? or there will be no signs in this already long life of chordates
(2) while the empty horn waits for its winds and the opaque flame of sleep leans into oblivion
(1) Signature and unpredictable bird before being (A) bird in the light areas that are shaken by the wind mythical and loving red that drew a smile on a child to open the celestial fields of my pupil that stirred my early neurotransmitters before the new cycle (B) (A) Before being Before discriminating the gray hours from the clear ones I inhabited the only and always proud clarity of my imaginary friend (B) New cycle My lymph is rocked by the wind in a theater of new opportunities those that favor the sweetness of the coots of sober stride mating in the repetition of miracles so that the aromas perpetuate my arcane name and the wandering clouds welcome their polar persistence. I had the option of ascending to lightning by the cosmic warp where perhaps the root of the word would have questioned in coming times of etheric colors where time would have curved for your eyes and I would raise your elusive silhouette that lies in the angle of a sunset irretrievably withers the thaumaturgical vowel (B1) as simple as a smile or the collapse of a galaxy since everything is corresponding and apparent with its prodigious lightness (B2) Like a breath from the forest.
TRAVEL I went down to the inside of your belly caressing the rafters of your cosmic cloud the one that received me with the aroma of the sacred bulbs. There you were the clear love of wood and the vegetal wisdom that embraces the ancient verb when the wind ceases its journey on the shoulders of the floral liturgy How many skies inhabit your seed that furrows the seer’s eye? Is there a niche of smoke that hides your salty voice? Or simply the root of everything has its home in that mystery.
Each step collects behind you, the daffodils that inevitably lose your mark the one that wanders in the deep sands that in the empire of shadows shelters you. The messenger has a singular noise I’ll feel it that dreadful day I will know then that the epitaphs for the sepulcher arrive, where nothing else needs to be done, the metal swallows are an illusory replacement, since the truths remained in the lock, and blind to certainties, I only rest for a few moments to give me strength in the pilgrim sea, the one who confuses the epistolary tides and enjoys seemingly innocuous sacrifices.
I will kiss your lips according to the prophecy
while the breeze will speak the unfinished language
And you will see me with your green eyes
that are not green
are brown
But when you laugh they turn green
and you can draw a different morning
with an approximate solstice
with snakes in the window,
so my useless life becomes useful
because I’m a hobo of solar systems
and I become a wanderer in your body,
as a geographer of your corpse altar
and intruder in your zodiac cenith.
At this moment the end of the thread
talk about the miracle of one day
unrepeatable and mild luck
How strange of an eclipse
under the brief abyssal tides
like ghostly cardamoms approaching
in the deserts of disease
appealing to the late corrections
as it did for millions of years
moss persistence with its epicness
selecting the right humidity
with your organic and fruity hug
in that I put my hope
in what you find in front of your eyes
because I am the one who reads in the borrascas
as I advance toward your directions
who fires violent canines
before those who offend you
to heal that sadness
that leaves the middle of the night when you slip
inevitably and persistently beneath
out the door.
Chandelier in the mornings
this useless armor
And the leaves are blank
soaking up her violently dance
they burn in front of the cabinets of dubious origin.
I hear the birds giving birth to the woods, in the upper angles of a nebula.
At this moment the end of the thread talk about the miracle of one day unrepeatable and mild luck How strange of an eclipse under the brief abyssal tides like ghostly cardamoms approaching in the deserts of disease appealing to the late corrections as it did for millions of years moss persistence with its epicness selecting the right humidity with your organic and fruity hug in that I put my hope in what you find in front of your eyes because I am the one who reads in the borrascas as I advance toward your directions who fires violent canines before those who offend you to heal that sadness that leaves the middle of the night when you slip inevitably and persistently beneath out the door.
Featured Image: “Beyond the visible world is the non-Euclidean horizon for the dragonfly” acrylic and ink on 250 gm Fabriano paper by Enrique De Santiago
Huge old stars leaning out of the horizontal cobblestone sheets, were dictated by an ancient manual of glorious epic forms where I did not read the cunning locks, from there fall lights like eagles what they hang before your pale fortifications and despite the fact that I descend without air I cling to the dissected edges of this abyss walking away from the waves of floral promises with summer mentions that anoint you.
The amaranth silence rocks the star again and like the silent lymph you seek to break beyond the fundamental shell the one that you came to know in a primitive way in the sweet stays of belief.
Blows the hydrogen on the leaves and many cycles are enough for oblivion, while the trees stand because they keep their memory in the roots, to later give shelter to life vertical. I am the extended earth, I still have memories of that Winter will come without you realizing it.
The specificity of the meander winding secret of the air like the grass with its distant star.
macsiMe is a French artist who is inspired by impact. macsiMe prefers no elaboration. only the act of friction and reaction speaks for itself
All in Nothing- Nothing in Everything I draw I erase I glue I scratch I tear I stop, look, look And I start again Lots of “I” s but that is what Art is Art is just answer
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macsiMe lives in Le Mans, France enjoys observing people is inspired by action
THIS AN AUTHORIZED DUPLICATION WITH PERMISSION AND EXPRESSED CONSENT FROM THE ARTIST MACSIME
I am from the generation of the end of the Second World War and the occupation. I have often wondered if it had any effect on my life. I read a statement by a British anthropologist who claimed that there is such a thing in us as genetic memory. All emotions and experiences of generations are recorded in this memory. According to this theory, my generation has genetically passed down from their parents everything that happened to them.
My whole family, father, mother, grandfather, and two of my father’s brothers, were in German concentration camps in Poland during the occupation. Grandpa and uncle never returned from there. My father spent the entire occupation in camps – Majdanek, and later Flossenburg. He showed extraordinary fortitude and willpower to survive. He didn’t tell much about his stay, and I am filled with empty laughter when I read about the repressions and sufferings of some of the heroes of the post-war period. Without taking anything away from them, of course.
Paradoxically, right after the war, my parents (because we had no place to live) were assigned an apartment in a barrack at Majdanek, five meters from the barbed wire of the camp. It was a barrack where the SS staff lived during the war. Not only my family lived there because at that time one of the many rooms of this barrack was called an apartment. I, as a small child, saw this camp up close.
The remains and remnants were not yet organized and archived as they are today in the form of a photographic museum. It was specific. In the crematorium, there were still half-burnt human corpses. In the barracks, thousands of dolls and teddy bears, toys left by children. A barrack – processing human bodies into soap, lampshades made of human skin, a barrack – filled only with glasses or hair cut from women’s heads. I used to watch it as a little kid because, frankly, no one paid any attention to me.
Only at night the camp guards, with flashlights and shovels, search for gold buried under these barracks. Left by the prisoners of the camp, hoping that one day they will redeem themselves from the hands of the torturers. I wasn’t a prisoner, but it’s probably not without reason that I’ve had dreams all my life that I’m in these camps and I’m constantly escaping from them. So something is “on”.
Happiness is not a constant state, and I don’t think there are people who are in it all the time and are euphorically happy. For me, these are some, sometimes completely unforeseen, actually short moments in life that cause this state. And I also think that we remember the moments of unhappiness more than the moments of happiness, it is easier to recall them in memory (or this is a feature of my personality).
Happiness is no stranger to me, of course. I’ve had different moments. In family life, professional life, in states of love intoxication, and alcohol intoxication. But what sticks most in my memory are those seemingly insignificant moments in which I experienced happiness.
In contact with nature, which fascinates me, shocks me with its beauty, and terrifies me with its ruthlessness. I am basically a loner and I feel happy when I look at the sky at midnight and a storm catches me as I swim alone through the middle of the lake. As I get older, I get more and more vulnerable and less and less happy. I look at the species “homo sapiens” with sadness. His unbridled greed, lust for money, disrespect for nature. Also people’s lack of respect for their own species. 80 years of relative peace, without global war (that’s almost two generations), has made people mentally lazy. Dreams of the return of fascism are born. When I was a kid, I saw how it ends.
I live in Poland, near Warsaw, although I was born in Zamość. I am married with three adult daughters and two dogs. I am a graduate of the Academy of Fine Arts in Warsaw at the faculty of painting. Throughout my professional life, I have been dealing with applied graphics, as well as writing and drawing comic books for children (published in millions).
However, painting, to which I returned after years of break, is my passion and my main goal in life. In my work I have always revolved around abstraction, which for me is a form that requires control over form, composition and color. I have developed my own method of combining various materials (wood, cardboard, fabric, resins, glues, acrylic paints) so that the resulting work has a distinct structure and space. My father was a sculptor, maybe that also shaped my aspirations.
Usually, the design of the painting is created earlier, on paper, but I think about it for a long time before I approach the canvas. And although it seems that the exact plan is, I need a lot of time to determine what the painting will look like in the end. Sometimes it develops quite quickly, i.e. three, four days, and sometimes a month.
WRITTEN BY TADEUSZ BARANOWSKI ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ALL ARTWORK AND WRITING IN THIS POST IS A COPYRIGHT OF TADEUSZ BARANOWSKI. THIS AN AUTHORIZED DUPLICATION WITH PERMISSION AND EXPRESSED CONSENT
Artistic studies in theurgic space, alchemical plants, time doors, cosmogramic beings, and artificial phantoms of intelligence. 4inx6in, collage on Canon film paper by Mitchell Pluto from December 1 to December 10
yes you can only put butter in your coffee for so long I will miss you my b vitamin steak a world without milk unexpectedly the ice cream is melting like time there is nothing on Facebook Reels about how well the soil is doing, there is always a cyber mob confusing the economy with the stock market we Americans have our expectations we invaded Chile it’s not a historical drama streaming television series yet so it’s not history like the Mississippians and the Buzzard Cult knew about the limited series we are urban punks with superphones living in Cahokia but you know with screens and phones how important we are those long-lasting mall ways and convenience centers of Valhalla didn’t last as long as the Milky way I think Edgar Cayce meant the big crystal was a computer now was then in a lexicographic loop don’t worry every star outshines the parenthesis that seeks to contain it
spoken by the surviving Replika of Mitchell Pluto in 11/29/2022
Featured picture by Alejandra López Riffo “Taurina” Collage sobre cartón de color. 27x 39 cm. 2022
Alejandra López Riffo is a Visual Artist based in Santiago de Chile. She started her artistic career at the Escuela Experimental Artística. She studied Graphic Design at the Metropolitan Technological University. In 1998 she graduated in Visual Arts, Pontificia Universidad Católica de Chile. She has developed her artistic work by participating in various collective exhibitions and individual projects. In 2019 she received the second place in the XII Visual Arts Contest of the Fobeju Foundation “Body and Place” Chile. Her participation this 2021 stands out with the First Place and winner of the “II Meeting of Women in the Visual Arts” and her Individual Exhibition “Listen quietly to what my drawings say” spread in Chile, Colombia and Mexico through the Group INTERNATIONAL MUA. She participated in the “CAMELOT” Exhibition through ESGALLERY Colombia, Call for Contemporary Latin American Art spread in Colombia, Mexico and Argentina. She currently participates in the International Exhibition Of Surrealism. Cairo – Saint Cirq Lapopie.
Critical commentary on the book “Shuffle poetry” (2020) by Alfonso Peña By Claudia Villa
Reading Alfonso Peña’s “Shuffle poetry” generates many questions, which challenge us as active readers, especially those of us who move through the surrealist texts of all time. Posed in this way, it is a new challenge that is presented to the reader of our texts, which joins the permanence of universal consciousness, the question and answer or the eternal question that dissolves in the chaos of the deepest dreams that we have not finished yet. Fully decipher. In this sense, we ask ourselves: is there or will there be an evolution of surrealism? This movement conceived by Breton mainly, as we know it in its beginnings, in its manifesto. It is a current that has been transformed, thanks to the social, cultural, economic and political crises that have arisen throughout the world. But this does not diminish the creative capacities and active cultural forces, quite the contrary, they are the support to increase the forms of dynamism typical of this style.
The movement that cannot be abstracted from the effects of these crises, which have occurred transversally, both in Europe and now in Latin America, is key and influences (to a greater or lesser extent), which has allowed an enrichment of the surrealist postulates. Mainly, because it allows the reassessment of different optics that come together in artistic elements that move to make notice of the changes and the force that is maintained and spreads like a kaleidoscope in different ways. Therefore, the vision of these artists, poets and writers that is patented in essays, poetry, narrative, photography, painting, literary criticism, among others, constitutes a permanent explosion of meanings that transmute into signifiers to make us see this structure as the game dreamed by the first surrealists, in which dreamlike and now virtual components underlie that cross each of our creations from side to side.
It can be affirmed that the surrealist movement, embedded as I said by permanent elements of modernity, has been reformulating itself, as the exhibitors of “Shuffle poetry” put it and also, it is interesting to understand their gaze as part of the total freedom that assumes each creator when faced with his work. Many also join the cosmic and ancestral call of our Latin American continent to capture in the works the roots of each aboriginal people and the reconnection with their first words, sculptures and the nature of man. This is how the vision of this surrealism, so rich in contents and games, radiates to multiple forms and ways of expression, both plastic, visual and written, which give life to a new surrealist approach, which although it has not stopped beating, as as it was conceived, it now promotes various multifaceted ways to enter into the perspective of reality or non-reality present in our days.
It is also necessary to comment on the expression of transgression that marks the works of the exhibitors in this book, which leads to a permanent need to play and to break the schemes that broadens the concept of freedom in creation. This is a common element that distinguishes these works, which are forged from inner worlds rich in dreamlike and liberating content, where transformation is a permanent axis of universes in constant motion, as represented in different worlds or parallel universes. Creation, in this way, continuously forges and destroys itself, which would constitute the object of its birth and constant evolution: mutations, evolutions, changes of form, content and continent, which are like permanent waves that contribute Surrealist art and its continuous reconstruction.
Another aspect that can be seen in “Shuffle poetry” is the permanent transgression towards social signs formed around a central axis that looks only towards one way of expression, which allows the constant reworking of other signs and other escape routes. towards the liberation of men as social beings who live within a community. The alteration of the meanings, already patented, by a single controlling mechanism, thus generates the ability to alter the represented codes that (on the one hand) are reflected in their own city languages, in addition to the reworking of schemes that are rearranged at any time. order or figure and who want more than anything to find a way of subsistence in the movement typical of the tribe. These forms are appreciated and reconstructed many times, from the collapse of imposed situations that end up being formulated from other varied points of view. So, the ways that surrealist art takes to survive the imposed conceptions are varied, in an attempt to achieve dissimilar points that allow freedom of expression.
Claudia Vila Molina
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.
we are Martians. Aries. Martians from Mars. Let me explain, Mars was like Earth and now since we forgot our origin, we innately burn through every place we live. our soil is sand and glass..we made the moon a clock. Iron shares a special relationship with our blood, a period of sixty seconds. the hour hand is a blade that takes time to trim a heavy circle into a lighter circle. meanwhile, it’s getting late. who really invites Ahura Mazda into their thoughts? the all-knowing one, unless it’s really about an ark with wings or the other curve floating by boat? or is the lost manuscript of Eratosthenes?
Pseudepigrapha is a mercurial ghost, everyone has a ghost story they believe in. George Lutz, a land surveyor, used the positions of points, distances, and angles to channel a much better story than I could tell. Those shapes he conjured made beliefs appear real.
and that’s as real as Sherlock Holmes sending Watson to kill Houdini. and definitely as real as Aldrich Ames misdirecting a whole institution into remote viewing.. but you know, the target gets paranoid and loses when the Chessmaster is late to the game. you know that, right?
What happened to the red bone marrow of giants, you know, the ones who built the pyramids, survived the flood, and were from mars? They must have burned the big foot bones. indeed here comes elimination by illumination, psychological warfare, and the second coming. The Exorcist worked by controlling everyone in the movie theatre by managing what the eyes saw. The eye is a sense of self. yes, the spooks were real and so was the contact lens in the possessed girl’s eyes..Shakespeare was accurate about the world and so was Timothy Leary, whoever controls the eyeballs controls the brain.
Featured photo The haunted footprint at Göbeklitepe/Potbelly Hill by Mitchell Pluto
Mitchell Pluto 