The bees are winning. They?ve fattened their queens with expensive sandwiches and hurried their drones with caffeinated milkshakes. Thick black swarms are hanging on the blossom-buds of spring like chocolate nectar, and the incessant harmonic buzzing is enough to drive any self-respecting mammal to a coniption fit.
But it?s important to remember one thing: a person can be an artist at many things, including pyrotechnics, rollerskating, phantomime, and food preparation. Beekiller?s art is the killing of bees, and she?s about to paint another solid mid-career piece.
In our very special spring edition of the Beekiller digest, we tackle some important issues with customary tact and zeal, from the fascist affectations of global capitalism reflected in a downtown art opening, to local cannibalism, cock rock, long-distance serial killers, bands in swimming pools, well-hung art, and the ease of leaving when you?ve got somewhere to go.
In our poetry section, we excitedly reveal the long-awaited BK debut of the inscrutable Elizabeth Reddin, whose stroboscopic narrative depicts the infantile side of warfare, and the martial violence of childhood, within a psychosexual murder mystery, a memoir, and a hallucinatory, incestuous love story.
Patrick May?s paintings deconstruct beloved portable consumer electronics and vessels of public transportation by honing in on their essential details, and displacing them into bright, cheerfully colored contexts. His focus grants these objects a mythic familiarity. It also divorces them from their customary use, which makes battery compartments of cd players seem strange and silly.
In our Music section, Elizabeth Harper kindly presents us with two freshly recorded, sparkling songs that purr for our affection like adopted kittens. These soft and cuddly creatures are hungry and miss their mother, but they also have sharp little teeth, and they get antsy at bedtime without their sleeping pills.
In Matt Corey?s new, untitled poem, a soon-to-be ex-lover walks the gauzy line between pessimistic longing and tightly controlled anger with affectless precision. Wryly homicidal, he dissects his surroundings with a razor-bladed need to get under the dumb surface of things, then bemusedly steps back when the red begins to show.
The Mountain Men are rugged explorers, sentimental crooners, close-combat brawlers, and playful innocents. This music video features them inhabiting an abandoned outdoor pool upon which nature is making its demands of reclamation. Risking injury and disorientation in this post-industrial environment, they display their physical splendor to a voyeuristic and beautiful female trespasser. Editing and misdirection by S. Ischer and R. Szczesny.
ALD Donovan?s Haiku Art Reviews make going to galleries a superfluous trifle. Counting the number of syllables in a word like ?collaborations? fills the soul with a tremulous sense of aesthetic appreciation that few works in the history of art would dare to rival.
Paintings from Jenny Walty?s new series dangle precariously from interconnected, unbalanced constellations. Incorporating found objects and appropriated images, the constructions sway wistfully between the associative pull of childhood memories and the menacing subconscious illogic of political propaganda.
The Kilowatthours have endowed us with a shimmeringly distorted, emotional guitar song that sounds vaguely like high school, in a driving-around-at-night and thinking-about-girls way.
Brad Lauretti examines Radek Szczesny?s recent solo show at Slingshot Project in New York from a brazenly global and historical perspective. In probing Radek?s methods and meanings, Brad questions the artist?s debt to the process and logic of technological innovation, finding in his illusions of serenity ?all the elements of hope and disaster our culture has repressed and exposed.?
Charades is a musical entity steeped in the conventions of the American songwriter tradition that subtly escapes from them. Heartrending boy-girl harmonies and lovelorn sincerity channel the ghostly authenticity of the Time Before Our Time, but the songs refuse the cliches of the confessional by extending them into abstraction: ?Love is real, and love I should, and love is hard and made of wood, and love is just a color in your eye.?
Castle completes our upload by rocking intensely in a mid-seventies-California kind of way. The word ?boogie? comes to mind, as does the word ?on?.
Listening to this band offers us a glimpse of what it?s like to be that fat, bearded guy with his shirt off, high on Budweiser and PCP, and with a really cute girlfriend on the back of his chopper.
With that in mind, we bid you farewell. Cruise gently into that mellow sunset, your soul at peace, the frantic bee-buzz stilled, at least for now.