When I hear “suicide,” I think “how?”. Before the heartbreak, the condolences—my brain goes centuries deep into the most depraved death acts known to humanity. I’m immediately airborne over some Alpine expanse, the Airbus emergency door falling alongside me. I’m chain smoking in a fireworks factory. I’m kicking a lion in the face.
Not so with magazines. Editor-In-Chief Idil Tabanca proposed to collect the BULLETT print anthology inside a baby coffin and bury it in her Williamsburg backyard. I envisioned a sort of time capsule: A drive, an iPad, a pillow cover covered in tits. This felt fitting—thrilling even— but they don’t sell baby coffins on Amazon.
“Death By Suicide” is a good article title but the subsequent slug will always be referential. Some other death. Someone else’s loss. No publisher lives to tell the tale of its own demise.
Behold: a magazine falling. Will anyone hear? Ours was a generation.
-Jack Becht, Creative Director at Condé Nast
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