L’ancien chef se trouve sur le mur à Guangzhou.

The former chairman found himself on a wall in Guangzhou.

La nostalgie des années 1970, quand plusieurs produits sont encore “fabriqué à Hong Kong”, comme le “school bag” ici. Ne négligez pas les matières plastiques, car c’était le domaine où remporte le premier million de dollars pour Li, La Shing, l’homme d’affaires le plus riche à Hong Kong.

Nostalgia 1970s, when things were still “made in Hong Kong”. This is an ad for a “school bag”, which is more like a briefcase, as seen in Hong Kong Museum of History. Don’t underestimate plastics. Li, Ka Shing, the richest man in Hong Kong, started his empire with a plastic manufacturing factory!

What? on the streets of Shanghai in 2009? No, we did not resurrect Andy to do a replica. This is just another mélange of art + commercialism + globalisation, as seen in a touristy area.

Quoi? On a ressuscité Andy Warhol pour peindre un portrait à nouveau de Mao à Shanghai en 2009? Non, C’est purement un autre exemple de l’art + le commerce + la mondialisation, montré ici dans un coin fréquenté par les touristes.

Bon soyons franc, je reviens de vacances à Cuba et je suis pas super au courrant des dernière mouvance de Street Art de la semaine. Alors j’vous propose un petit aperçu en images des murs de la capitale Cubaine et de l’impression que j’en ai eu.

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This series of photos from Matt Siber is inspired by the proliferation of very tall signs in the American Mid-West and spreading to highways around the world. Floating Logos seeks to draw attention to this form of advertising by making the signs look completely surreal. Matt Siber is an artist from Chicago. Most of his work revolves around urban signs and photography.

Finally hope, Jiansong Chen, China

What do artists, galleries, curators, corporate and individual sponsors, art collectors, the average Joe and Jane, non-profit organizations, etc. have in common? They are all stakeholders of Common Ground - mixing new media, art, philanthropy and environmental projects. Its world touring collection opened on 9 Nov 2008 at Huan Tie Times Art in Beijing.

Ce regroupement des personnes concernées nous fournit un milieu sur place autant que virtuel, pour sensibiliser le public les enjeux envrionnementaux en soutenant des organismes sans but lucratif. If one could link some of the exhibits in one line: As we can’t really reset the clock, it is perhaps time to reflect upon our flowing thoughts to stop the circle of sorrow .

For more of the digital artwork organized in four online galleries, including all the works mentioned in this post, point to commonground2008.cn or commonground2008.com.

Image taken by wednesday181, Flickr Creative Commons

Mucha produced a flurry of paintings, posters, advertisements, and book illustrations, as well as designs for jewellery, carpets, wallpaper, and theatre sets in what came to be known as the Art Nouveau style.

J’ai vu dernièrement l’exposition de Zeina El Khalil dans le studio de création du quartier de l’Université Américaine de Beyrouth. Zeina El Khalil fait parler d’elle ici et son site ( www.ziggydoodle.com ) présente ses travaux en mixed média depuis 2002, ses dessins, ses installations, ses peintures et ses autres inventions diverses ( comme les mariées qu’elle fait défiler au marathon de Beyrouth habillées de rose )… Zeina El Khalil voit tout en rose depuis qu’elle a commencé à peindre et elle exagère si peu !

Elle explore les thèmes de la mort, qu’elle a éprouvée alors que les siens quittaient ce monde, et de la guerre qu’elle craint chaque jour en voyant les différents partis s’armer de plus en plus autour d’elle. Elle a aussi écrit son journal pendant la guerre de 2006 ( www.commonplacesproject.org/blog/?p=90 ). Des millions d’internautes ont pu suivre avec elle l’actualité de loin. Elle est enfin, cofondatrice de l’espace Xanadu a NY ( www.xanaduart.com ) et elle expose actuellement ses oeuvres à Londres dans la gallerie Flawless.

By popular demand, HVW8 production house is now featuring a limited edition print of the original Barak Obama piece that was recently showcased at the Manifest Hope Show ( see video below) at the Democratic National Convention in Denver, and in the July issue of Juxtapoz.

These high quality HVW8 Barak reproductions are quite affordable in hopes of spreading the message - and fine art - to as many as possible. Buy your deal of a 150 dollar print here.

MANIFEST HOPE GALLERY SHOW

I am working as a bike courier to pay some bills and am taking
some cityspk shots of my city as i ride through my day. I have the classic
album by gza, liquid swords going on strong in my headphones and on my fixed gear.

The confluence of melody and city, a series of moments frozen in time,
the streets come alive to sing in sync with the wu-tang. My premise
takes shape in the form of a straddling my bike, my hung over head
taking flight into the moment. The music shakes me out of my slumber.
I get all sentimental and picture my lonesome swoopinh through the
urban high pressure cooker like a solitary bird in a Zen haiku.
Peddling into what would be a typical humid morning of deliveries.

I am working as a bike courier to pay some bills and am taking some
cityspk shots of my city as i ride through my day. I have the classic
album by gza, liquid swords going on strong in my headphones.

The confluence of melody and city, a series of moments frozen in time,
the streets come alive to sing in sync with the wu-tang. My premise
takes shape in the form of a straddling my bike, my hung over head
taking flight into the moment. The music shakes me out of my slumber.
I get all sentimental and picture my lonesome swoopinh through the
urban high pressure cooker like a solitary bird in a Zen haiku.
Peddling into what would be a typical humid morning of deliveries.

As the music builds awakens me senses to the sweet simplicities of
life: moss covered cobblestone, 13 piles of garbage in a two mile
abandoned stretch of sidewalk (could this be bad luck?), a condom
submerged in an oil slicked puddle, an ARRET sign transformed with red
spray paint to read A R T, at a downtown intersection the stillness
echoes in the void. I pull out my camera to capture all of these
things. Montreal.

The boundaries blur between city, music and self. The street signs
begin to speak. The city starts to kick its vernacular in time to the
music, through any words in the visual landscape — discarded bingo
cards, graffiti, neon signs, tattoos, vanity license plates. They
start assembling sentences, a message.

The streets begin to animate with the bustle of people. I weave nimbly
between sidewalk and street, narrowly missing the parades of suits and
cabs.

These words can be seen as the poetry magnets and this web site a
fridge. So it is my day of deliveries is interspersed with clicks. And
so it goes, that i keep shooting till the end is upon me. I am bloody
drenched.

My final delivery is to a high rise. The towering tombstone punches a
hole in the sky.
I do a trick to get off my bike, locking it up lickity split. The
mavens on the elevator eye me with contempt. I delivers to the
secretary. She doesn’t want to notice my presence, so i toss her the
envelope. I pretend that we are doing a secret fbi transaction. But
really it is paper clips from the office supply place. Don’t think i
don’t check.

The city slowly fades to blackness, the streets empty as I makes my
way home through the industrial concrete sun. But the moments i have
captured, the words and the letters remain. The city speak’s.
As the music builds awakens me senses to the sweet simplicities of
life: moss covered cobblestone, 13 piles of garbage in a two mile
abandoned stretch of sidewalk (could this be bad luck?), a condom
submerged in an oil slicked puddle, an ARRET sign transformed with red
spray paint to read A R T, at a downtown intersection the stillness
echoes in the void. I pull out my camera to capture all of these
things. Montreal.

The boundaries blur between city, music and self. The street signs
begin to speak. The city starts to kick its vernacular in time to the
music, through any words in the visual landscape — discarded bingo
cards, graffiti, neon signs, tattoos, vanity license plates. They
start assembling sentences, a message.

The streets begin to animate with the bustle of people. I weave nimbly
between sidewalk and street, narrowly missing the parades of suits and
cabs.

These words can be seen as the poetry magnets and this web site a
fridge. So it is my day of deliveries is interspersed with clicks. And
so it goes, that i keep shooting till the end is upon me. I am bloody
drenched.

My final delivery is to a high rise. The towering tombstone punches a
hole in the sky.
I do a trick to get off my bike, locking it up lickity split. The
mavens on the elevator eye me with contempt. I delivers to the
secretary. She doesn’t want to notice my presence, so i toss her the
envelope. I pretend that we are doing a secret fbi transaction. But
really it is paper clips from the office supply place. Don’t think i
don’t check.

The city slowly fades to blackness, the streets empty as I makes my
way home through the industrial concrete sun. But the moments i have
captured, the words and the letters remain. The city speak’s.