Volume 5, Issue 4 April 2014 1
The Bitchin’ Kitsch is a zine for artists, poets, prose writers, or anyone else who has something to say. It exists for the purpose of open creativity. All submissions are due on the 26th for the following month’s issue. Please review the submission guidelines on our Submissions page (www.talbot-heindl.com/bitchin_kitsch/submissions) before submitting your work.
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table of contents.
5 - Copycat (Or Why I Wonâ€™t Paint That For You, Amanda Brown 6-8 - Change You Can Believe In, Caroline Taylor 9 - Sun Madness, Sy Roth 10-11 - Chupacabra, Chris TalbotHeindl
13 - A Hummingbird Poem About Other Than Hummingbirds, John Grey 14 - POND + PARK, Charles Richard 15 - Time, Jan Haskell 16 - The Bumble Bee, The Bird and The Money Tree, Louis Marvin 17 - Cats, Leslie Philibert 17 - Another Hell, Mandal Bijoy Beg
David Scott - pg. 4
On the Cover
PRISMA SUBMISSION Charles Richard, 2014 Graphic Design
On the Back Cover Ruby Zoezite Wrap David Scott Ruby Zoezite and copper
In This Issue 4 - Black Kyonite Wrap, David Scott
Dana Talbot-Heindl - pg. 12
12 - Chupacabra, Dana TalbotHeindl 13 - Missing the Devil (Love needs hate), Roo Bardookie
Charles Richard - pg. 14
Black Kyanite Wrap David Scott Black Kyanite, Coin, Copper
amanda brown. Copycat (Or Why I Won’t Paint That For You) By: Amanda Brown, Brown Bear Studio http://www.brownbearstudio.com
I’m sure you’ve all heard the Picasso quote, “Good artists copy, great artists steal.” Well, I’m no Picasso but I’m going to disagree with him on that, at least in certain situations. A couple of months ago, an e-mail reached my inbox requesting a custom original painting. I did the happy dance that I do whenever I get a commission or sell an original and continued reading. It seemed like a massive project, rich watercolor several feet wide on heavy paper with a raw edge. It would be a huge undertaking and I was up for the challenge. Then I saw the picture they attached and all that excitement came to a screeching halt. ‘I’m looking for something just like this…’ Attached was the work of an artist I recognized. There aren’t too many abstract watercolorists in world so I’m familiar with just about all of them. This artist is more established than I am and her work goes for A LOT more money than mine does. It immediately became apparent why I was being contacted; I was a photocopier but one that still allowed them to say the work was “original” without the price-tag. Willing to give them the benefit of the doubt, I asked if there was any elements of my work that they would like to see incorporated; maybe there was another reason they came to me. I informed them that I didn’t feel comfortable doing a recreation of another artist work but I would gladly create a piece inspired by their creations. I’ve found out that this pickle is something that fledgling artists have to get used to. We are moved by the artwork of others and elements of them can be found in our work but we are different. Our direction is different. Our goals are different. Our process is different. So though they may look similar, they aren’t. In this case, it came down to valuing myself and what I’m trying to do with my work. I’m certainly not in a financial position to turn down commissions, but I just can’t in good conscience be a copycat. Some day, I believe, I will get an even bigger gig and they will be excited to work with me because of the art I create. And it will be my original work that graces the walls and I will be proud because I stuck to my guns and didn’t compromise my moral compass. Until then, I have an unanswered e-mail in my sent mail folder and a reminder that there will always be people who try to take advantage of young artists, trying to get us to work for cheap (or free), but we have the right to say “No, I won’t paint that for you” and sometimes we should do just that.
Change You Can Believe In By: Caroline Taylor
Sam was a loyal employee. But he was not a happy one. No one respected the work he did. He was invisible to everyone but the woman who had hired him forty years ago. “Good morning, Sam,” she’d say as she breezed through the door on her way to the elevators. “Good morning, Miz Carson,” he’d always reply. Two seconds of recognition in the morning; two seconds at night. That’s all he ever got. She—always the last to leave—would cross the lobby’s marble floor, pausing at the door to the street. “You have a nice evening, Sam.” The floor polisher would hesitate briefly in mid-sweep. “Yes, ma’am.” But she actually looked at him. Whatever some of the other employees said to him didn’t really count ’cause, when they said it, they were either reading the Wall Street Journal or texting on their SmartPhones or peeking at their overpriced watches. Didn’t count.
caroline taylor (con’t). None of them, including Ms. Carson, realized he had a college degree every bit as respectable as theirs. Never got much of a chance to put it to use, though, considering how many of the people doing the hiring back then believed that educated + black = oxymoron. But being invisible did have its upside. People forgot that Sam could see and hear just as good as anybody. Take Sandra Vogelsgang in Accounting. Didn’t take too many smarts to notice that she was getting that ol’ afternoon delight every Wednesday at the Hotel No-Tell down the block where Gerald Snedecker, the veep for sales and a married man, would meet her after declaring to the empty lobby (empty of all but Sam, that is), “Got a meeting across town. Back in an hour.” As if Sam needed to know—or even cared. Hell, he’d had his share of flings with the gals back in the day. He knew the delicious thrill of being on the low-down with your wife not knowing diddly about it. (Or so you’d imagined up till the day she threw the skillet at your head and kicked your ass out the house.) Close one, that was. Nearly got himself dead before he was ready. Now, he was more than ready—except the Good Lord didn’t seem to agree. So he’d spend his remaining years keeping that marble floor as shiny as glass and the brass door handles burnished like gold and the glass polished till it near disappeared. And maybe one day he and the Lord would work things out on when he’d be taking that last trip. Sam had no intention of retiring. What would he do all day? Lucky for him, Ms. Carson didn’t seem to want him to leave just yet. A lot of the others did, though. He’d hear them lower their voices, muttering: “that old man, he’s probably deaf by now,” and telling each other, “old geezer must be ninety. We should have somebody with more muscle.” Other versions included “more style,” or “more energy,” and Sam’s all-time favorite,
“more representative,” as if that didn’t carry with it a whole lot of racist, age-ist innuendo he wasn’t supposed to understand. Of course, they thought he was deaf. And blind. Why, one night late, after Miz Carson had left, Judy Peche, the cute blond secretary (nowadays they called themselves program assistants) to that creep Snedecker, snuck in the door, dashed up the stairs to Sandra Vogelsgang’s office on the fourth floor, and trashed it so bad she’d a put to shame many a homie in the ’hood. How did Sam know this? He’d followed Judy. Thought she might be up to some sabotage or theft. And, being a loyal employee, he knew his duty. Afterwards, though, he didn’t feel the need to do much about it. Didn’t tell a soul, in fact. None of their business, most of them. And Ms. Carson . . . Well, what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt, now, would it? Anyway, why get that cute little Judy Peche in trouble? Of course, she, too, never paid a lick of attention to Sam. But, then, gals Judy’s age? They had a lot going on in their heads, mostly having to do with guys. And Sam figured she might have had a crush on her boss Gerald and wasn’t at all happy to discover that he was foolin’ around with Sandra Vogelsgang. What Judy thought of the guy already bein’ married, Sam had no clue. But these youngun’s nowadays. They seemed to think marriage was as old-fashioned as manual typewriters. Little did they know, all young people—even probably way back at the beginning of time—always consider marriage old-fashioned. They want to have fun. Sow the wild oats. Test the waters. Whatever metaphor works.
continues g 7
caroline taylor (con’t). Anyway, turned out everybody thought some vandals had “breached security,” as they put it, and Sam was called up to talk to Ms. Carson. The police were there and asked him what, if anything, he had seen. Not a pleasant experience. He knew not to tell the police a dad-blamed thing. He could do the “I just be a old dumb black fella” shuffle as good as the next guy, and the whole incident blew over pretty quick—especially because nothing had been stolen. Wrecked? You bet. But the computer, the calculator, Sandra’s papers and books—everything was still there, including Sandra’s makeup (Estee Lauder) and lipstick (Revlon Riotous Red), which had been used to decorate the eggshell walls with words like “WHORE” and “SLUT” and, Sam’s favorite, “BIMBO BITCH.” Took a lot of elbow grease to get that stuff off. Shortly afterwards, Gerald Snedecker got transferred to Chicago—a promotion—and Sandra Vogelsgang became chief financial officer. Go figure. Judy Peche left, too. She got herself a job in one of those high-end graphic design shops where everybody wears T-shirts and skinny jeans, mostly in black and gray, and their hair’s all spiky and they say things like “dude” and “sweet” all the time. How’d Sam find this out, seeing as how he spent most of his time in the lobby of Ms. Carson’s office building? He was a loyal employee, but sometimes a man’s gotta do what’s right for him. Shortly after Judy had found her new job, she walked through the lobby door and straight up to Sam and his floor sweeper. Nearly fell over, he was so startled. “We need somebody to keep track of all the packages we send out by courier and all of those that are delivered to us. It pays much better than what you’re getting here. And you don’t have to stand up all day.” Sam’s feet were already screaming “Do it! Do It!” But he opted for polite caution. “Why are you asking me?” Judy let her gaze roam around the gleaming lobby. “I guess I just thought, after a while, everybody gets bored doing the same thing. I’m glad I moved on. I thought you might be, too.” She turned back to Sam. “Anyway, I figure I owe you one.”
sy roth. Sun Madness By: Sy Roth
Another daft one hits the streets, Woodstock target for his chicanery. Happy walker jauntily singing to Jimmy Soul’s Never Make a Pretty Woman Your Wife until the veins in his neck bulge like bridge cables, snap with a deep twang when he gets to the word “wife” lips curl grotesquely into cylinders punctuated with explosive fricatives. Sixties-revival, high-noon cowboy, his vest a Joseph’s Technicolor-coat dream, fringes jerking like crazed marionettes in time with his swinging arms. Jimmy Hendrix’s motley cap rests jauntily on his head, brim obscuring his face. Greasy yellow bangs peek out laughing gold tongues slapping his twitching eyelids. Bell bottoms flap in the sticky Main Street breeze accompanying his wobbly gait syncopated to if you’re going to be happy. Time grinds exceedingly slowly as his double-times dance Corrupts their space their Stares, radar fixed while ice cream cones melt under a torpid sky until for the rest of your life becomes only a voiced dot, a remembrance on the horizon where the sun infected him.
Chupacabra Chris Talbot-Heindl Mini-zine
chris talbot-heindl (conâ€™t).
Chupacabra Dana Talbot-Heindl 3-D Render
roo bardookie, john grey. Missing the Devil (Love needs hate)
By: Roo Bardookie
There was a constant wanderlust, a want of something wicked, a want of something bad. It was an aching deep in their minds and bones. God knew it would come, God knew it would build to a point that could not be satiated with angel songs and loving words and caresses. It began to dawn on them, they craved the snake. All these years Eve was thought of as the bringer of evil to the garden, but, she was the bringer of reality. There is pain in childbirth, then there is a love like no other. God banished them, and acted angry. It was a ruse. The yin-yang of the world needed Satan. God knew it, Satan knew it and Love knew it. Evil began to creep in and Satan said, “I didn’t do a God damned thing”. And he was telling the truth. Good needed evil, so it gave birth to it. The 100 year treaty was coming to an end, naturally. Satan felt good about being needed.
A Hummingbird Poem About Other Than Hummingbirds By: John Grey
I leave out sugared water and the hummingbirds come. I email you but no reply. I send out some poems to a publisher. Response times has long exceeded the holding of my breath. Scratch ticket - no winner. Miriam in hospital – life or death – she died. I burn the lasagna. I’m can’t get into the book I’m reading. I leave out sugared water and I get nothing but hummingbirds.
POND + PARK Charles Richard, 2013 Photograph, 8 x 10 inches
jan haskell. Time
By: Jan Haskell February has finally ended, and for the shortest month, it seemed to last forever. Maybe more so, it was winter holding its grip tight on us. In normal times, winter starts its reprieve ‘round mid-February: temps balancing out to 20°F, dropping down to 0° only at night. There, then, is hope that spring and its fluorescent greens will make their way through the blanket of white. By the end of the month, we have had a few days where it is above freezing; fooling weather, a trick to play on the young, and those eager for spring. Yet, there are the classic signs we see: familiar shapes start to form through the snow, bushes, boards used to outline gardens, the ring of a fire pit... It is like the earth is now pushing them up through like spring buds craving the sun. This February, was nothing like what we have experienced in a lifetime. Temps seldom reach much above 0°F, and the wind from the North brought wind chill factors of negative temps of 10-30 degrees below the set temps. When the air is this cold, it becomes more dense, and all the dirt in the air just hangs suspended. As I walked across the open fields of pavement, it was as if walking through an ice cube. The cold penetrated. You just have to keep moving. A small woman, bundled in coat, scarfs and hat, moving quickly with short steps brought thoughts of Piglet trying to keep up with Pooh. We wait for spring; for the familiar signs. But now, even in the waning days of March, we move with wanting eyes searching, hoping. “Soon,” we say, “spring will make its way.”
The Bumble Bee, The Bird and The Money Tree By: Louis Marvin
The leaders of bees, birds and other hard workers, who invest their time in building nest eggs, while others perpetuated beautiful flowering species by having (pollon) cling to their hairy worker trousers wanted more, more, more and more — They want the birds and bees, and other beautiful species walled up inside their castle walls, behind moats, beneath their suns and their fresh air and their clear, clean water They want them to work out there, but, to return home to their walled in worlds, like homing pigeons who have delivered their messages, who come home to “I’ll love you with food and a warm home...” You make money and flowers and honey, plus nest eggs and bird song and sex—you birds and bees—under “their” dirty air and dirty sun The leaders sip sangria, dining on pupus and tapas, while you sing for them and buzz for them They eat the food of kings, then die, having sired the next generation of slaves soon flying from clean to dirty suns
Second Space Send proposals to Steph Jones at firstname.lastname@example.org.
leslie philibert, mandal bijoy beg.
By: Leslie Philibert It is night but there are lights to show that veins are open. Houses are trapped in amber, and the darkness is full of cats, that are nothing apart from eyes beside laurel hot breath on my neck. You stop before you enter and look from side to side. You risk leaving the rained street.
ww w . ta lb o t - h eindl.com
By: Mandal Bijoy Beg This house is another hell. Here the mosquitoes Are so ravenous! Oh, what a punishment! It is more fatal Than being fastened In hell to a fiery wheel Perpetually turning round!
donors, index. artists Bardookie, Roo
Beg, Mandal Bijoy
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Ruby Zoezite Wrap David Scott Ruby Zoezite and copper
The Bitchin' Kitsch is a zine for artists, poets, prose writers, or anyone else who has something to say. It exists for the purpose of open...
Published on Mar 29, 2014
The Bitchin' Kitsch is a zine for artists, poets, prose writers, or anyone else who has something to say. It exists for the purpose of open...