h beagle's bombs

H. Beagle and H. Beagle's biographer present some of their inquiries into the world of Twisted Art.
October 22
consensus is a war. but was jesus a pervert? assume your perversity.

consensus is a war.

but was jesus a pervert?

assume your perversity.

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Dear Alice, I remember you once told me to slow down. Usually when I do, it is by coincidence though. Yesterday it wasn’t so much slowing down as getting knocked the fuck out. As the café was closing on a cold autumn night, a group of teens began hurling bricks at the neighbors. Not many bricks, just enough to raise the dust from the agonized cobblestones and encourage the bartender to try and lock the joint up quickly. We watched like fish and learned that there are palm trees in Ireland and a less than temperate violence in Brussels that simply appears to have found its way home. What went around has returned as senseless as a red rubber ball. I moved to close the front door and a brick caught me in the belly stealing my wind. I gasped and on cue, another clocked me just above the eye and my body crumbled into a waiting chair. A crack to the head is not unlike falling in love so much as it only takes a minute for everything to change. She knelt beside me, held my hand and smiled as if she wasn’t worried about a thing. That this communication comes so easily, almost effortlessly, is for once important. Effortless is important. Have you ever seen a two-headed dragon? Do you believe in things that fly? I am a man born of two legs, take my hand and watch me try. I’ve got no blues to pin on you girl. There’s aspirin under the pillow. See you soon. Keep some bourbon in the closet for me. H. Beagle

Dear Alice,

I remember you once told me to slow down. Usually when I do, it is by coincidence though. Yesterday it wasn’t so much slowing down as getting knocked the fuck out.

As the café was closing on a cold autumn night, a group of teens began hurling bricks at the neighbors. Not many bricks, just enough to raise the dust from the agonized cobblestones and encourage the bartender to try and lock the joint up quickly. We watched like fish and learned that there are palm trees in Ireland and a less than temperate violence in Brussels that simply appears to have found its way home. What went around has returned as senseless as a red rubber ball.

I moved to close the front door and a brick caught me in the belly stealing my wind. I gasped and on cue, another clocked me just above the eye and my body crumbled into a waiting chair. A crack to the head is not unlike falling in love so much as it only takes a minute for everything to change. She knelt beside me, held my hand and smiled as if she wasn’t worried about a thing. That this communication comes so easily, almost effortlessly, is for once important. Effortless is important.

Have you ever seen a two-headed dragon? Do you believe in things that fly? I am a man born of two legs, take my hand and watch me try.

I’ve got no blues to pin on you girl. There’s aspirin under the pillow.

See you soon. Keep some bourbon in the closet for me.

H. Beagle

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Dear ..  is a series of letters that aren’t intended for delivery, and left to strangers as they make their ways around this city. ——— Dear Billy, A couple of days feel like months. Time remains a concept I struggle to get my head around. In love, we paddle towards a moment and leap up without second thought. There is no beginning and no end. There is no board. There is only the wave and the horizon. In love, we want to ride it through the night and the decades. Falling is inevitable. So is bruising. Like that wave, love opens up and becomes what it is. You cannot force it. The becoming is the ride. The sky is bleeding again baby and we’re all busy getting dry around here. With love, H. Beagle

Dear ..  is a series of letters that aren’t intended for delivery, and left to strangers as they make their ways around this city.

———

Dear Billy,

A couple of days feel like months. Time remains a concept I struggle to get my head around.

In love, we paddle towards a moment and leap up without second thought. There is no beginning and no end. There is no board. There is only the wave and the horizon. In love, we want to ride it through the night and the decades. Falling is inevitable. So is bruising. Like that wave, love opens up and becomes what it is. You cannot force it. The becoming is the ride.

The sky is bleeding again baby and we’re all busy getting dry around here.

With love,

H. Beagle

March 28
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March 19
the last evasion before entering your own dream(s) … this dog digs Dadara

the last evasion before entering your own dream(s) …

this dog digs Dadara

March 18
H. Beagle woke up drenched in stink of yesterday’s joy and was having a bath when he made the grave error of answering to his telephone. Laying in the bubbles he tried to understand the position of the art buyer letting the bubbles tickle his throat as he signs the cheque, the concept of value increasing by being ignored. This works with art, but not with vegetables and again the dog knew that technology says more about humanity than biology and stretched his legs with a relaxed sigh. He was satisfied, nothing was going smooth and everything was going smoothly. Somehow all his initial pessimism was on point, and yet in the confines of this pretentious shopping mall good things were happening amongst the hordes of visitors. His crew was having a lot of fun. People were buying art because it engaged them emotionally, viewing the object of action and not investing in the speculated stock of star building galleries. H. Beagle thought that the fair principle of making all prices visible was excellent. You never call to inquire about a flat, a car or even a girl if the price isn’t clear from the start and this answers to the common gallerist ideology, which follows the lines of: if you have to ask the price, you probably can’t afford it. Beagle’s ideology was that if they don’t show you the price, either they don’t care if you buy it or you can only get ripped off. So much of art is smoke and mirrors, the industry around the poem. He thought of the fair and recognized that he was beginning to feel at home there. The bubbles, the bath water, a surprising return to the litter, he was feeling so positive that when the phone vibrated he pushed the green button. “There’s been an incident, I cannot discuss it by phone and need to see you immediately.”  

H. Beagle woke up drenched in stink of yesterday’s joy and was having a bath when he made the grave error of answering to his telephone. Laying in the bubbles he tried to understand the position of the art buyer letting the bubbles tickle his throat as he signs the cheque, the concept of value increasing by being ignored. This works with art, but not with vegetables and again the dog knew that technology says more about humanity than biology and stretched his legs with a relaxed sigh.

He was satisfied, nothing was going smooth and everything was going smoothly. Somehow all his initial pessimism was on point, and yet in the confines of this pretentious shopping mall good things were happening amongst the hordes of visitors. His crew was having a lot of fun.

People were buying art because it engaged them emotionally, viewing the object of action and not investing in the speculated stock of star building galleries.

H. Beagle thought that the fair principle of making all prices visible was excellent. You never call to inquire about a flat, a car or even a girl if the price isn’t clear from the start and this answers to the common gallerist ideology, which follows the lines of: if you have to ask the price, you probably can’t afford it. Beagle’s ideology was that if they don’t show you the price, either they don’t care if you buy it or you can only get ripped off. So much of art is smoke and mirrors, the industry around the poem. He thought of the fair and recognized that he was beginning to feel at home there. The bubbles, the bath water, a surprising return to the litter, he was feeling so positive that when the phone vibrated he pushed the green button.

“There’s been an incident, I cannot discuss it by phone and need to see you immediately.”

 

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Opening night and the place was swamped. As usual everything had come together. The show was open and the audience was arriving. There was indeed a good vibe and a strong buzz despite the kilo’s of Burberry being worn inside. Beagle was plain old happy to be there right until the fair director approached him, walky talky in one hand, glass of champagne in the other and asked with a smile if he could stop the people from entering the ‘Don’t Love Me Too Much’ installation for awhile. Apparently some of the galleries complained that the sound of the glass shattering against metal was scaring away prospective buyers. H. Beagle liked to hear things breaking and found it more plausible that they had been frightened by the dead images on the walls.  The complaint was perhaps fair and Beagle triumphed in it; one of the great art debates was revealed in a simple sound; are we talking about the experience of art or the possession of it? When people are paying good money to rent space, value goes towards the price tag and client is king. Is there a tyranny in art? H. Beagle became suspicious, he felt alone in placing value on process and experience, like an alien in a speed race style pushing of products. Beagle didn’t mind pissing people off, but he wanted to be a good neighbor and tried to hold back the crowds. A line formed and blew up into a tangled circle, love was remembered, bottles broke and people started smoking in at art fair in the year 2009. It got to the point that it was more about the booze than the broken hearts, the right party had emerged from the riot. The right party, in the wrong place, and the tension was thicker than the smoke (only a couple people were smoking anyway). H. Beagle continued to try and keep the peace, but the third time he spotted the fair director headed his way he decided to be a clever dog and let it all play out alone as he wagged off to explore other scents.

Opening night and the place was swamped. As usual everything had come together. The show was open and the audience was arriving. There was indeed a good vibe and a strong buzz despite the kilo’s of Burberry being worn inside. Beagle was plain old happy to be there right until the fair director approached him, walky talky in one hand, glass of champagne in the other and asked with a smile if he could stop the people from entering the ‘Don’t Love Me Too Much’ installation for awhile. Apparently some of the galleries complained that the sound of the glass shattering against metal was scaring away prospective buyers. H. Beagle liked to hear things breaking and found it more plausible that they had been frightened by the dead images on the walls. 

The complaint was perhaps fair and Beagle triumphed in it; one of the great art debates was revealed in a simple sound; are we talking about the experience of art or the possession of it? When people are paying good money to rent space, value goes towards the price tag and client is king. Is there a tyranny in art? H. Beagle became suspicious, he felt alone in placing value on process and experience, like an alien in a speed race style pushing of products. Beagle didn’t mind pissing people off, but he wanted to be a good neighbor and tried to hold back the crowds.

A line formed and blew up into a tangled circle, love was remembered, bottles broke and people started smoking in at art fair in the year 2009. It got to the point that it was more about the booze than the broken hearts, the right party had emerged from the riot. The right party, in the wrong place, and the tension was thicker than the smoke (only a couple people were smoking anyway). H. Beagle continued to try and keep the peace, but the third time he spotted the fair director headed his way he decided to be a clever dog and let it all play out alone as he wagged off to explore other scents.

March 15
2 of H Beagle’s pals wagging their tales on an otherwise grey day.

2 of H Beagle’s pals wagging their tales on an otherwise grey day.

March 6
two massive geezers and one truly awful awful awful face painting holy mullet batman, but just wait … by accident it must get worse.

two massive geezers and one truly awful awful awful face painting

holy mullet batman, but just wait … by accident it must get worse.

February 27
tonight H Beagle received an email to collaborate on a project about his own perversions. “we have to do/print the mag, and if i want to dosomething to illustrate your text it would be better beginning april. you can use an anonymous name if it is to sick for you :) i imaging how it is with 8 guys. i was once 1 of many guys in your town.group of guys entering the sleeping area, drunk, in the middle of the night. start to cook, hasch, eat, talk, more drunk. waking up at the beginning of the morning between tv with kids-channel and a crunchy-flakes monster!!” and this photo was attached.

tonight H Beagle received an email to collaborate on a project about his own perversions.

“we have to do/print the mag, and if i want to dosomething to illustrate your text it would be better beginning april. you can use an anonymous name if it is to sick for you :)

i imaging how it is with 8 guys. i was once 1 of many guys in your town.
group of guys entering the sleeping area, drunk, in the middle of the night. start to cook, hasch, eat, talk, more drunk. waking up at the beginning of the morning between tv with kids-channel and a crunchy-flakes monster!!”

and this photo was attached.

February 21
H Beagle on Roa Outdoors, organic and in love with the process and pure pleasure of painting, Roa is an artist who tends not to hold on too tightly. His lines are clear, but between them we can read ambiguity; the common denominator being a fascination for the texture of trashed facades and neglected spaces. Invading the abandoned, he brings animals to life only to leave them dead on the wall for your consideration. While there is generally a relationship between dead organisms and dead space, it isn’t always clear what he wishes to reveal in the rot. That things are rotting however, cannot be avoided. These animals appear to represent their own fate and speak of a contemporary situation where nature is no longer natural and many of us cannot help but be estranged from our origins. While he started with pre-historic monsters and the fragility of evolution (even for the giants), this body has evolved into a more timeless inquiry as living creatures like birds and pigs begun to appear repeatedly in his work. That these works are often black and white is not a question of mere facility, but a choice, which allows him to spray in a fashion that is faithful to how he sketches. From this viewer’s eyes, the shadows, etchings and hatched lines sometimes seem more like charcoal than spray paint. Both technically and poetically, his pieces are striking, thoughtful and faster than the tale they tell.

H Beagle on Roa

Outdoors, organic and in love with the process and pure pleasure of painting, Roa is an artist who tends not to hold on too tightly. His lines are clear, but between them we can read ambiguity; the common denominator being a fascination for the texture of trashed facades and neglected spaces. Invading the abandoned, he brings animals to life only to leave them dead on the wall for your consideration. While there is generally a relationship between dead organisms and dead space, it isn’t always clear what he wishes to reveal in the rot. That things are rotting however, cannot be avoided.

These animals appear to represent their own fate and speak of a contemporary situation where nature is no longer natural and many of us cannot help but be estranged from our origins. While he started with pre-historic monsters and the fragility of evolution (even for the giants), this body has evolved into a more timeless inquiry as living creatures like birds and pigs begun to appear repeatedly in his work.

That these works are often black and white is not a question of mere facility, but a choice, which allows him to spray in a fashion that is faithful to how he sketches. From this viewer’s eyes, the shadows, etchings and hatched lines sometimes seem more like charcoal than spray paint. Both technically and poetically, his pieces are striking, thoughtful and faster than the tale they tell.

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At the beginning of the fair H Beagle was sickened by abstract expressionism, mimicry and a tribute to paintings from the Caribbean. The lack of artists among the galleries made him think Roald Dahl was probably right and they were there with their backs nailed to the wall. He imagined he was trapped in an Ikea art catalogue aimed at aristocrats, as paintings were sold by slick suited wolves with straight backs and appalling haircuts. The type of bad taste one can only get away with through genius. This was not a crystal bohemia. This was a shopping mall and in the orgy of individual commerce, everything goes.

At the beginning of the fair H Beagle was sickened by abstract expressionism, mimicry and a tribute to paintings from the Caribbean. The lack of artists among the galleries made him think Roald Dahl was probably right and they were there with their backs nailed to the wall. He imagined he was trapped in an Ikea art catalogue aimed at aristocrats, as paintings were sold by slick suited wolves with straight backs and appalling haircuts. The type of bad taste one can only get away with through genius. This was not a crystal bohemia. This was a shopping mall and in the orgy of individual commerce, everything goes.

January 30
Brown contains all the primary colors and in the sheeeeIT we find new forms.  I used to think that people were like dogs. If they smelled fear they got nervous and barked or growled. Now I know people are much crueler than dogs. It is not the check that is in the mail.  Keep your nostrils open. -H Beagle

Brown contains all the primary colors and in the sheeeeIT we find new forms. 

I used to think that people were like dogs. If they smelled fear they got nervous and barked or growled. Now I know people are much crueler than dogs.

It is not the check that is in the mail.  Keep your nostrils open.

-H Beagle

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I was in Brussels on a wild bum sniffing spree when i stumbled into the botanical gardens and encountered a magical creature who called herself Microbo. The painting is hers. She was accompanied by a big dog. the kind who could rip your head off, but smiled like that was the last thing in the world he wanted to do. Good to have woofers like him around when ghosts know more about the present than politicians. So many years, so little progress: “Owners of capital will stimulate the working class to buy more and more of expensive goods, houses and technology, pushing them to take more and  more expensive credits, until their debt becomes unbearable. The unpaid debt will lead to bankruptcy of banks, which will have to be nationalised, and the State will have to take the road which will eventually lead to communism” Karl Marx, Das Kapital, 1867

I was in Brussels on a wild bum sniffing spree when i stumbled into the botanical gardens and encountered a magical creature who called herself Microbo. The painting is hers. She was accompanied by a big dog. the kind who could rip your head off, but smiled like that was the last thing in the world he wanted to do. Good to have woofers like him around when ghosts know more about the present than politicians.

So many years, so little progress:

“Owners of capital will stimulate the working class to buy more and more of expensive goods, houses and technology, pushing them to take more and  more expensive credits, until their debt becomes unbearable. The unpaid debt will lead to bankruptcy of banks, which will have to be nationalised, and the State will have to take the road which will eventually lead to communism”

Karl Marx, Das Kapital, 1867