SEBASTIAN TA N T I B U R L Ò
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Profile. B.A (Hons) Architecture and Urban Studies, (University of Westminster, London, U.K.).
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Sebastian Tanti Burlò is an artist, illustrator and designer, currently stranded on the Island of Malta. He studied architecture at the University of Westminster. His work combines illustration, current-affairs, architecture, cartooning, poetry and photography, to create a socio-commentary of today’s times. He sees the weirdness in the commonplace, and the wonderful in the dilapidated.
Blog:
s e b t a n t i b u r l o . t u m b l r. c o m
E-mail: s t a n t i b u r l o @ g m a i l . c o m
The Architect. 2011.
Malta Taghna - 2018 2013.
Published , Liberal View Blog. (http://liberalviewmalta.wordpress.com/2013/07/14/malta-taghna-2018/) 14.07.13
Il Gatto 2013
A Generation
We are the generation of apathy. Of drug-induced sleepers, Of too many tools, Too much information, Censored/Uncensored. We are the generation that should do, but don’t. We are the generation of shamed arrogance, Tantruming dreams, and frightening reality. We are the generation who should learn, but, won’t. We are the generation who suckle from the breast of our mothers, And rest on the laurels of our fathers, Petrified of our very own shadows. We are the generation of enlightened jokers, machine warriors, and consumer smokers. We are the generation of military suits, Champagne hippies and working mutes. We are the generation of nine to fives, ten-per desk, and don’t know whys. We are a generation of sleeping giants. Wake up.
Il Kjosk. 2013.
Published , Liberal View Blog. (http://liberalviewmalta.wordpress.com/2013/07/14/festa-taghna/)
Push Back Baby. 2013
Politics, n: [ Poly “many” + ticks “blood sucking parasites”]
A Definition. 2012
Counter-Market 2012
Stuck somewhere in-between Stratford and the Westfields . A Site Analysis;
The site is divided in two. To the east you find Stratford, a run down, beat-up neighbourhood. Its main attraction the Stratford Shopping centre, a decrepit, temple of brick and mortar, adorned with a crowning car park of reinforced concrete thorns. To the west through the fumes of desperation coughed up by Stratford you catch a glimpse of the shimmering cathedral to consumerism. Just like the child catcher in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, the Westfields lures you in with promises of sweets and at the drop of a hat, has you in its net. Only a moat separates the two worlds. Patrolled incessantly by the Central and Jubilee Lines, two heinous, snake-like tube monsters. Devouring their prey, preferably of the human nature, in minuited gulps, disappearing just as they appeared back down into the innards of the city. Sucking on their victim’s soul only to regurgitate them back into society. They slither up and down waiting on the frenzy of feeding time. The only way past the moat is through the mouth of the mask and across the Town Centre Link Bridge (T.C.L.). A 130m stretch of cor-ten steel and glazing, 12m wide, designed for one purpose; the mass trafficking of sacrificial souls. Lined up, and sent to the heart of the Moloch. Inhabiting the rusty thoroughfare are the fairies of counterculture. The revellers of the lyric, singing their works of truth through art and literature. We treat the truth as if it was the common cold. At the first sign of a runny nose, we drug the fucker out - We twist and tangle our perception of reality so that we move on - blinkered reality. But truth, like a cold is a tough bastard, sometimes lingering long enough to get you. And once it does, it creeps up your spine like a Dementors kiss, shaking you from your Starbucks induced coma. This is the danger that lies between the gates of the T.C.L; twenty stalls by day manned by artists, poets, philosophers, writers, musicians, activists, journalists, pacifist, all ready to pass on their truths, beliefs, aspirations through their work (obviously at a reasonable rape-free price). At night, the stalls break apart forming intimate spaces open for all, and it is here that they will play their music, read their literature, listen to ideas. It is here that they will make their stand. The 99%ers, the beautiful losers.
Dear Dr. Politician. Dear Dr. Politician,
Dear Dr. Politician,
Where do I begin?
All of this is silly,
Go fuck yourself.
Can’t we just be friends?
Who are you kidding?
I watch porn and smoke marijuana,
You have no conscience.
Does this offend you?
Dear Dr. Politician,
Arrest me.
Why can’t Allen marry Peter?
Dear Dr. Politician,
Aren’t we all reflections of god?
The travel brochures should read;
Dear Dr. Politician,
Welcome to Sunny, Saintly Malta.
Who was that leaving your house
That’s not how I feel.
in the dead of night?
Are you on something?
Dear Dr. Politician,
Dear Dr. Politician,
You fluff the contractors for their cheap erections,
You are naked to me,
What does our home cost you?
Four hundred and fifteen thousand blind.
Dear Dr. Politician,
I see blue virgin mothers crying on Mandragg
MEPA is a polluted whore pimped by you.
wood-crumbling Balconies,
She’s vomited enough.
Confess, confess,
Dear Dr. Politician,
The saints are on leave.
You bug me; don’t talk to me any more.
Dignity and virginity are lost,
I want to have faith, but you made me cynical.
St. Anthony can’t find them for you.
Dear Dr. Politician,
Doc, its 3:00am and I’m going to sleep.
red or blue,
You keep me up.
you’re both downers.
Dear Dr. Politician,
Dear Dr. Politician,
The kids are not alright.
What time does the show begin?
Dear Dr. Politician,
Dear Dr. Politician,
I will not be your friend on Facebook,
I question the resurrection,
Seriously?
Is that a problem? I hang out with Atheist homosexuals, and
Dear. Dr. Politician,
Agnostic chicks,
You are fired,
You would only judge.
Yours truly,
My Nanna was a devout catholic,
The People.
I miss her.
Fingering Sliema 2013