So here we are, on the darkling plain of Jeffrey Kamberos’s painting The Beatnik Killers. An ominous horizon rises before us, a sliver moon hangs in a dangerous sky, and Kamberos races in our direction, a rocket-propelled, Spock-eared comic-book hero. He comes to a hovering, agitated stop directly in front of us.
Best of Chicago voting is live now. Vote for your favorites »
Off in the distance there’s a miniature Allen Ginsberg, wearing an Uncle Sam hat and carrying a mother lode of bad beatnik karma. He’s headed straight for Kamberos’s wife, Bethann. Seemingly oblivious to the danger, she looks vulnerable, stripped down to her undies. When she catches us staring, she smiles, and leans forward, as if to take us into her confidence.
“Pop Surrealism,” Kamberos shouts. “Hieronymus Bosch stuff. Gives me the creeps, but I can’t squelch it anymore. And it takes so fucking long to finish. It’s too hard. It’s driving me nuts.”
Suddenly everything around us is getting sharper and sharper–the Kool-Aid pitcher, the dragon-mouthed head, the horrible human snake–all coming into superfocus, glossy and hard-edged as a decal. With Ginsberg a single step from his goal there’s a great, resonant chord, a huge, vibrating, clanging sound. Kamberos is jolted by it. We can see it reverberate behind his eyes. His hair snaps out behind him.
Art accompanying story in printed newspaper (not available in this archive): photos/Loren Santow.
