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Storm clouds are gathering on the cover of Alëna Korolëva‘s premonitions. The beach lies empty; even the crabs and gulls have sought shelter. But this is no normal storm; the artist is having premonitions of a larger storm, an ecological-societal-spiritual disaster looming and encroaching fast. The signs are widely available: disappearing insects and birds, melting icecaps, weather gone wild. Korolëva imagines all of nature chattering, creating a clamor, audibly agitated, unsure of what to do, where to move, or whether or not any safe spaces remain. This is her “worrisome symphony.”
Mass extinction is a serious topic; one might argue that nothing is more frightening. And so, Korolëva splices humor into her chapter book collage, and Mr. Cat almost steals the show. After all, while the world is ending, fewer people are paying attention to the delicious birds and fish. But before this happens, American toads and water beetles make mating noises over a bed of thunder. The chorus grows louder; the thunderclouds draw nearer. The winds begin to howl. A gate twists on its hinges, in need of oil. The world is a rusty hinge, while nobody has a can.
Enter Mr. Cat. Mr. Cat would like some food, and lo! Food is provided. A chorus of farm animal enters the sonic frame. So many domesticated chickens! So much delicious meat! But soon Old McDonald’s Farm becomes Animal Farm. The animals are trapped, slated for slaughter. As the crickets hum; the dogs howl at the moon. A tawny owl considers its next prey. Where are the human protectors? They too are trapped; they too are burning; they are creating the flames.
The watery portion seems a respite: a break at the trough, the river, the watering hole. In this segment, trumpeter swans provoke a human response: a wild trumpet improvisation by Chayka Chekhov, akin to David Rothenberg’s Nightingales in Berlin. But when swarms of bees approach, reminiscent of plagues of locusts and “The Hellstrom Chronicle,” all trumpeting ceases. The bees then give way to a human swarm of truck horns: perhaps traffic, perhaps protest, an ineffective barrage that screams its frustration into the cosmos and hears nothing back. Scavenger birds circle and descend, cawing and fighting over humanity’s last scraps.
Does it need to end this way? A premonition is a strong feeling that something is about to happen, usually a Very Bad Something. But it is not precognition. Street prophets scrawl “The End Is Near!” on cardboard signs and urge readers to repent. Korolëva’s vision is an aural warning of what lies ahead if humanity fails to correct its current course. (Richard Allen)
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