Baiba Ritere Textile Art
3.5
全屏
区域
直接联络
3.5
3 条点评
极佳
2
非常好
0
一般
0
较差
0
很糟糕
1
Venture16602311363
2 条分享
2024年4月 • 夫妻情侣
Ah, yes, *the gallery*. You knows, the one with the cat. What they calls it? I dunno. But oh, I remembrs, a place so fancy, so fine, so... *bad*.
I walks in, right, all proud-like, thinkin’ I’m gonna see, what they says, “a masterpiece” of arts. But no. First thing? A smell. Not a good smell neither. Not that fresh paint, or them oils or the dust of old statues. Nuh-uh. It’s... fur. Fur everywhere. And cat fur, not even nice silk or velvet like the art folks should have.
So there it is. A cat. In the middle, sprawled on the floor like it owns the place, lookin’ at me like I offended it. But guess what, kitty? I offended too! Cos this ain’t no art! This is fur-niture at best, trash at worst. And you sits on it, and I pays to see you sittin’?
The walls—oh!—the walls. Imagine this, friend. You walk in, hopin’ to see them grand paintings. Gold frames, big colors, landscapes, people’s faces all serious-like. But no! It’s just... weird stuff. Weird stuff all over. One corner's a blue square. Yes. Just blue. One square. That’s it. Oh, you likes blue squares, do ya? No? Me neither. So why they puttin’ it on the wall like it’s special?
And then—oh lord—the sculpture. You seen sculptures, yes? Big things, usually statues. Strong! Powerful! Not here. Here, they had a *pile of sticks*. Little sticks, like someone was tryin’ to start a campfire but gave up halfway through. And then—this the worst part—they call it “Untitled.” Untitled?! Friend, if you can’t even name your art, why you makin’ it in the first place? I can name it for you: “Garbage.”
The gallery owner, now, he’s a fancy fella. Walks up in his suit all shiny, shoes clackin’. He say somethin’ like, “Ah, this piece represents the existential angst of postmodern humanity.” What?? You say “post-whatever,” I say, “Looks like you didn’t finish it, pal.” He nods, like I’m dumb, like I don’t *get it*. Well, guess what? I do get it! You sellin’ sticks, and I’m supposed to clap? No, sir!
But back to the cat. Oh, don’t think I forget about you, kitty. You sittin’ there like a king, twitchin’ your tail at me. You know what’s real funny? The cat gets more attention than the art! People comin’ in, bendin’ down, “Ohh, look at the kitty, so cute!” Well guess what, people, the kitty don’t care about your compliments. The kitty wants naps, not applause. And I’m here tryin’ to look at some kinda art, but no, everyone gathered ‘round the fur ball like it’s the main exhibit.
And it sheds. You ever seen a cat shed so much? Like, I swear, every time it moves, a cloud of fur just floats away. You breathe in, you choke. You try to see the art, but no, all you see is fur on your shirt, fur on your nose, fur in the air. Is this part of the experience? Is the cat the artist? Should I give the cat a round of applause for creatin’ the masterpiece of makin’ my allergies act up?
Now, let me tells you about the lights. Lights in a gallery supposed to be, I dunno, subtle? Make the art glow, show it off. But here? It’s like someone went to a garage sale and bought the cheapest lamps they could find. Flickerin’, too bright, too dim, pointin’ in all the wrong places. The blue square? Lit up like the sun. But the one painting that’s actually good, hidden in a dark corner like they’re ashamed of it. “Oh no, don’t look at that one, that one’s too real, too much art for ya.”
And the people! I can’t forget the people. They waltz in, nose up in the air, talkin’ all fancy, like they understand somethin’ I don’t. “Oh, this piece speaks to me,” one says. Speaks? To you? It’s a green blob! What’s it sayin’, ‘Hey, I’m a blob, look at me?’ These folks actin’ like they deep, but I seen deeper puddles after a rainstorm. I ask one guy, real serious, “What you think the cat adds to this exhibit?” He just looks at me like I insulted his mother. Like askin’ ‘bout the cat is some big secret. But guess what? That cat’s the only thing here makin’ sense! It sits there, doin’ nothin’, just like this gallery.
You ever heard quiet so loud it makes your ears ring? That’s this place. All this empty space, nothin’ goin’ on. The art’s sittin’ there, like it don’t wanna be seen, the cat’s loungin’, actin’ like it’s better than me, and the walls are whisperin’, “You wasted your time.”
You knows what the real joke is? They want me to *pay* for this. Pay good money! For what? To watch a cat sleep? To stand under bad lights and pretend I’m understandin’ a stick pile? You gotta be kiddin’.
And they got the nerve to sell stuff, too. Little trinkets by the door. Postcards with the blue square, postcards with the sticks. Who’s buyin’ these? And why? You wanna hang a blue square on your fridge? You wanna remember this day forever? I don’t. I wanna forget it as soon as possible, go home, wash off the cat fur, and pretend it never happened.
So there you have it. The cat, the fur, the sticks, the blobs, the bad lights, the fancy folks, the postcards nobody needs. It’s all a mess, wrapped up in a place they call “art,” but it ain’t art. It’s nonsense. Fancy nonsense, maybe, but nonsense all the same. And the worst part? I’ll probably dream about that cat, sittin’ there, starin’ at me like I’m the fool. But no, kitty, the fool’s not me. It’s you. And them. And this whole place.
Next time? I’m goin’ to the zoo. At least when the animals stare at me there, it makes sense.
I walks in, right, all proud-like, thinkin’ I’m gonna see, what they says, “a masterpiece” of arts. But no. First thing? A smell. Not a good smell neither. Not that fresh paint, or them oils or the dust of old statues. Nuh-uh. It’s... fur. Fur everywhere. And cat fur, not even nice silk or velvet like the art folks should have.
So there it is. A cat. In the middle, sprawled on the floor like it owns the place, lookin’ at me like I offended it. But guess what, kitty? I offended too! Cos this ain’t no art! This is fur-niture at best, trash at worst. And you sits on it, and I pays to see you sittin’?
The walls—oh!—the walls. Imagine this, friend. You walk in, hopin’ to see them grand paintings. Gold frames, big colors, landscapes, people’s faces all serious-like. But no! It’s just... weird stuff. Weird stuff all over. One corner's a blue square. Yes. Just blue. One square. That’s it. Oh, you likes blue squares, do ya? No? Me neither. So why they puttin’ it on the wall like it’s special?
And then—oh lord—the sculpture. You seen sculptures, yes? Big things, usually statues. Strong! Powerful! Not here. Here, they had a *pile of sticks*. Little sticks, like someone was tryin’ to start a campfire but gave up halfway through. And then—this the worst part—they call it “Untitled.” Untitled?! Friend, if you can’t even name your art, why you makin’ it in the first place? I can name it for you: “Garbage.”
The gallery owner, now, he’s a fancy fella. Walks up in his suit all shiny, shoes clackin’. He say somethin’ like, “Ah, this piece represents the existential angst of postmodern humanity.” What?? You say “post-whatever,” I say, “Looks like you didn’t finish it, pal.” He nods, like I’m dumb, like I don’t *get it*. Well, guess what? I do get it! You sellin’ sticks, and I’m supposed to clap? No, sir!
But back to the cat. Oh, don’t think I forget about you, kitty. You sittin’ there like a king, twitchin’ your tail at me. You know what’s real funny? The cat gets more attention than the art! People comin’ in, bendin’ down, “Ohh, look at the kitty, so cute!” Well guess what, people, the kitty don’t care about your compliments. The kitty wants naps, not applause. And I’m here tryin’ to look at some kinda art, but no, everyone gathered ‘round the fur ball like it’s the main exhibit.
And it sheds. You ever seen a cat shed so much? Like, I swear, every time it moves, a cloud of fur just floats away. You breathe in, you choke. You try to see the art, but no, all you see is fur on your shirt, fur on your nose, fur in the air. Is this part of the experience? Is the cat the artist? Should I give the cat a round of applause for creatin’ the masterpiece of makin’ my allergies act up?
Now, let me tells you about the lights. Lights in a gallery supposed to be, I dunno, subtle? Make the art glow, show it off. But here? It’s like someone went to a garage sale and bought the cheapest lamps they could find. Flickerin’, too bright, too dim, pointin’ in all the wrong places. The blue square? Lit up like the sun. But the one painting that’s actually good, hidden in a dark corner like they’re ashamed of it. “Oh no, don’t look at that one, that one’s too real, too much art for ya.”
And the people! I can’t forget the people. They waltz in, nose up in the air, talkin’ all fancy, like they understand somethin’ I don’t. “Oh, this piece speaks to me,” one says. Speaks? To you? It’s a green blob! What’s it sayin’, ‘Hey, I’m a blob, look at me?’ These folks actin’ like they deep, but I seen deeper puddles after a rainstorm. I ask one guy, real serious, “What you think the cat adds to this exhibit?” He just looks at me like I insulted his mother. Like askin’ ‘bout the cat is some big secret. But guess what? That cat’s the only thing here makin’ sense! It sits there, doin’ nothin’, just like this gallery.
You ever heard quiet so loud it makes your ears ring? That’s this place. All this empty space, nothin’ goin’ on. The art’s sittin’ there, like it don’t wanna be seen, the cat’s loungin’, actin’ like it’s better than me, and the walls are whisperin’, “You wasted your time.”
You knows what the real joke is? They want me to *pay* for this. Pay good money! For what? To watch a cat sleep? To stand under bad lights and pretend I’m understandin’ a stick pile? You gotta be kiddin’.
And they got the nerve to sell stuff, too. Little trinkets by the door. Postcards with the blue square, postcards with the sticks. Who’s buyin’ these? And why? You wanna hang a blue square on your fridge? You wanna remember this day forever? I don’t. I wanna forget it as soon as possible, go home, wash off the cat fur, and pretend it never happened.
So there you have it. The cat, the fur, the sticks, the blobs, the bad lights, the fancy folks, the postcards nobody needs. It’s all a mess, wrapped up in a place they call “art,” but it ain’t art. It’s nonsense. Fancy nonsense, maybe, but nonsense all the same. And the worst part? I’ll probably dream about that cat, sittin’ there, starin’ at me like I’m the fool. But no, kitty, the fool’s not me. It’s you. And them. And this whole place.
Next time? I’m goin’ to the zoo. At least when the animals stare at me there, it makes sense.
撰写日期：2024年10月2日
此点评为 Tripadvisor 会员所写的主观评论，并不代表 Tripadvisor LLC 的观点。 Tripadvisor 对点评进行检查。
Martins V
拉脱维亚里加405 条分享
2015年8月 • 夫妻情侣
Baiba Ritere is one of the most advanced textile artists in Latvia and she is the best gobelin master in Latvia. Her art pieces were exhibited and won prizes in Japan, China and Russia. You can see how the masterpieces are made and even purchase bigger or smaller ones or order a special gobelin for your house or office. The house is located quite near Riga - Liepaja highway and has beautiful construction and surroundings. As extra bonus you may wish to visit workshop of her son, who is one of the best taxidermists in Latvia and see stuffed hunting trophies.
撰写日期：2015年8月11日
此点评为 Tripadvisor 会员所写的主观评论，并不代表 Tripadvisor LLC 的观点。 Tripadvisor 对点评进行检查。
Fredrik_Hae
瑞典卡尔斯塔德53 条分享
2015年3月 • 夫妻情侣
Verkligt unika textilalster i gobelängvävnad. Både till beskådande och köp. Fråga på turistbyrån för vägvisning och bokning av besök.
撰写日期：2015年3月20日
此点评为 Tripadvisor 会员所写的主观评论，并不代表 Tripadvisor LLC 的观点。 Tripadvisor 对点评进行检查。
The five Latvian-Canadian ladies for whom I am planning a trip are ALL fanatics about textile arts. Can anyone tell me exactly the location (for my GPS entry) to this studio so that we can make it a stop on our Kurzeme Loop Day Trip?
撰写日期：2018年1月12日
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