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@digitalarabel2: ¿Te gustan sus obras? #fyp #arte #artista #calamardo #creatividad

DigitalArabel
DigitalArabel
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Region: MX
Thursday 25 September 2025 18:21:08 GMT
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Comments

crwsdz
crws :
calamardo era tan buen artista que cumplía el cliché de trabajar en un restaurante de comida rápida
2025-09-25 22:11:05
7699
kingyoboy_
Kingyo :
Calamardo era un genio incomprendido 🥀
2025-09-25 18:58:17
2946
sevillant1.1
Sevillan't :
El problema es que luego se pasaba de pretencioso
2025-09-25 23:00:16
1113
josko_el_gato_con_suerte
JOSKO 🐱 El Gato con suerte :
calmardo sería de esos artistas que se vuelven famosos cuando se ☠
2025-09-25 23:10:11
1035
hwczm
Hache :
Calamardo es un gran artista pero perdió el disfrutar de hacer su arte a cambio del reconocimiento y seguir las normas. Por eso odiaba a Bob porque él solo hacía todo por diversión y no se tomaba todo tan en serio (me proyecté)
2025-09-25 20:06:50
286
gabrielleiva872
Gabo Lesán :
Discrepo: Todo lo que mencionas son actividades y formas de expresión que lo hacían ser alguien con una vida vinculada al arte, pero eso no lo hace buen artista. Decirle buen artista es justamente la razón por la cual ahora hay muchos famosos que lo son porque "supuestamente" se debe resaltar su trayectoria y motivación, aunque sus obras sean muy malas.
2025-09-25 20:25:21
110
gabrimor122
Gabriel Monreal Uria :
calamardo era como frida kahlo del fondo de bikini
2025-09-26 02:32:20
103
keepitcuteeeeeee
Bri :
Calamardo artista multifacético y multidisciplinario 🚬
2025-09-25 19:24:38
100
wintersoldier997
🦅 Captain america 🇺🇸 :
el mejor es este
2026-01-13 20:09:50
11
danoninosolis
Danielin 🤠 :
Yo la tengo en mi cuarto
2025-10-06 07:23:40
113
pacosg48
Gabriel04 :
en un capítulo donde Plankton viaja al futuro se sabe que Calamardo después de su muerte se volvió en un artista muy reconocido xd
2025-09-27 18:53:08
15
virtolomeo24
Gera Virto :
perdón, solo puede ponerle atención a este
2025-09-25 22:50:06
15
yayofok
Yayo Fok 👁 :
Calamardo era el personaje más inteligente, el más talentoso y el que tenía más 🥚🥚 era el único que peleaba por sus derechos laborales
2025-09-26 03:12:19
31
panoptico.art
Les Rod :
crecer es identificarse con Calamardo
2025-09-25 22:43:00
43
winy_fox
Laila♡ :
Calamardo era la Frida Kahlo de fondo de bikini
2025-09-25 21:45:07
11
pececito_369
Pez :
Nunca te odie Calamardo 😭🫂💖
2025-09-25 22:40:38
9
ikkarri1
☆✮ ᎥᏦᏗᏒᎥ ✧⭒˚｡⋆✨️ :
Era mejor artista que frida khalo
2025-09-27 05:24:16
23
soriandust
Soriandust :
calamardo era bueno en la pintura y escultura pero en la música no tanto
2025-09-25 21:34:19
24
moonchild0666
lau :3 :
Muy Frida khalo haciendo autorretratos al por mayor ✨
2025-09-27 19:31:03
7
yitzhak_velarde
Yitzhak Velarde :
Creo que calamardo era mucho mejor escultor y pintor que músico. Probablemente si no hubiera estado terco en ser músico para superar a calamarino probablemente hubiera destacado más y siendo más feliz
2025-09-27 00:54:15
7
crimsonlemonart
CrimsonLemon :
Nos reíamos de Calamardo y ahora todos los artist fellas somos él
2025-10-20 17:30:13
5
otakus.vs.focas
Otakus vs Focas :
la razón por la que lo consideran mal artista es porque todo su arte gira solo alrededor de el
2025-09-27 13:51:42
12
elichihui
Eli Chihui :
era frida khalo
2025-09-26 23:30:19
9
lordhermit6f
LordHermit6F :
Lo malo de el es que era elitista, y no solo quería ser único, quería ser reconocido por eso, quería ser mejor que los demás
2025-09-28 00:20:59
5
erickparker182
erickparker182 :
El calamardismo nació entre finales de los 90's principios de los 2000
2025-09-26 06:53:12
5
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In April 2023, I reached a breaking point. Life in Kingston had become a suffocating struggle, and as a single mother, I had to make a choice. My sister, the person I called for everything, convinced me that moving back home to Manchester was the answer. Our father was partially blind and needed help; she painted it as the perfect solution. I couldn’t bring my daughters into the
In April 2023, I reached a breaking point. Life in Kingston had become a suffocating struggle, and as a single mother, I had to make a choice. My sister, the person I called for everything, convinced me that moving back home to Manchester was the answer. Our father was partially blind and needed help; she painted it as the perfect solution. I couldn’t bring my daughters into the "inner city" I was a country girl at heart, and wasn't used to that life. ​The cost of that move was more than just emotional. I was behind on rent, and in a final act of desperation, I traded my beloved Frigidaire fridge to my landlord. In exchange, she paid for the truck that would carry us away from our old life. ​On April 8th, we packed everything we owned and headed for the hills of Manchester. I had called that place home for eighteen years, and I thought returning would be easy. I was wrong. The friendly community I remembered had vanished, replaced by a coldness I didn't recognize. ​We pulled up on a Saturday afternoon, around 3:30. My father was in his usual spot on the veranda, sitting in the shadows because of his failing sight. As the clouds broke and the rain began to pour, he handed me the keys. We scrambled to offload the truck and move our lives inside before dark. ​I thought I had found sanctuary. But then the phone rang. ​It was my sister. The "uproar" started before I could even unpack. She claimed I hadn't told her the exact day I was moving, and in that moment, the atmosphere shifted. I realized I hadn't come home to a support system; I had walked into a trap of surveillance. ​There we were: no money, no food, and no support—relying only on God’s promise to provide. A lady from the community, Shirley, was already cooking for my father, and she began sharing a bit with us. I took up the mantle of a daughter’s duty immediately. I made his tea, cooked his breakfast, and cleaned his room and bathroom, ensuring he was cared for in ways he couldn't see for himself. ​Yet, the phone never stopped ringing. Every day, my sister called our father to track our every move. If I stepped away to Mandeville to find a way forward, the accusations would fly: “Why did you leave the blind man hungry?” I was doing the work, but I was being written as the villain in the house. The Silent War ​While I labored to keep the house clean and my father cared for, my sister’s distrust became a physical barrier. When sending anything to my father she ensure not a cent passed through me. ​We were left to scramble. Every day was a calculation of survival. I found myself forced into a humbling cycle, frequently borrowing small amounts from "Skip"—my father—just to get by. It wasn't the life I had imagined when I left Kingston, but in the middle of the hardship, there was a light I didn’t expect: Skip himself. ​My father may have lost his sight, but he hadn't lost his mind or his sharp tongue. He knew his house like the back of his hand; he could navigate the rooms by memory, telling me exactly where every item was hidden. He was the same man I remembered from childhood—strict and firm, yet unexpectedly jovial and sarcastic. ​Despite the pressure from my sister and the weight of our poverty, my father was delighted to have us there. The house, once quiet and dark, was now filled with his gossip and endless jokes. He was never short on a story or a punchline. His humor became the medicine that made the struggle bearable.

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