Kiss of the Art Gods

Dan Corbin

Description

Contemporary figurative sculptors rarely support themselves, but in steps Dan Corbin, breaking all the rules on his way to becoming a successful studio artist. Corbin takes two decades to realize his art dream. He makes the usual sacrifices, travels the world, seeks out art education, finds and loses love. So why is the outcome of his narrative so different? Corbin's enigmas are revealed in this humor-leveled portrait of a man full of energy, propelled by a distressed childhood, seeking a higher calling, and intent on full redemption. Raised in California, Corbin reinvents himself in a life filled with risk and adventure. An army stint in Germany began his thirst for travel, living in Spain, Santa Barbara, Hawaii, and Berkeley. This enables Corbin to learn more about himself and others, as he cobbles together an eclectic belief system based on mysticism, faith and science, and then attempts to develop an art style capable of expressing his new sense of self. Corbin's long journey is sometimes hilarious and grueling. He searches inside and out and in every direction for the lost answers but ultimately finds the resolution in plain sight.

Informations

• Publié par: Dan Corbin
• Date de parution: 02 mai 2017
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781619846708
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

Kiss of the Art Gods
A twenty-year struggle to find my way as a contemporary figurative sculptor
Dan Corbin

Published by Gatekeeper Press
3971 Hoover Rd. Suite 77
Columbus, OH 43123-2839
www.GatekeeperPress.com
Copyright © 2017 by Dan Corbin
Cover Design: Gary Edward Blum
All rights reserved. Neither this book, nor any parts within it may be sold or reproduced in any form without permission.
ISBN: 9781619846593
eISBN: 9781619846708
Printed in the United States of America

Contents
California, the Mythical Paradise
The Circle of Fire
Chasing Grasshoppers
Curious Fruit
Flower Gardens of Bozrah
Drawers Full of Silt
The Comical Smile of the Whiskey Man
The Backbeat of Freedom
Lingering Drone of the Cold War Siren
A Pair of Aces in Reno
U.S. Army
Theatre of the Kaiserstrasse
Restless Ambitions
Burning the Bank of America
A Measured Diploma
The Lightest Light and the Darkest Dark
The Lost Coast of Kona
The Making of a Commitment
Footsteps on the Roof
Disorientated in the Fog
Gypsy Art Crusader
Under the Canopy of Lies Grows Rage
Fallen Dreams Drop Through Without a Sound
Puppet Masters of Coincidence
Can I Get It Right?

The Art Gods started playing with my mind when I was ten. I received their cryptic call to the arts while I sat on the living room floor of my parents’ rebuilt ranch house. As I sat in that pleasant, refurbished room, it was hard to believe the space had been the epicenter of a catastrophic flood only nine months earlier. The flood was of the once-in-a-hundred-years variety, so powerful that the raging brown waters not only destroyed all things material but also shattered the well-being of the people who suffered its fury . That was the beginning of my troubled alliance with the Art Gods. It’s ironic that the creative and destructive forces that came to pass in that room would ultimately join within me and propel me, sustain me, and eventually hold me back on my three-decade-long struggle to find my way as a figurative sculptor.
It was a warm rural Northern California September afternoon in 1956, nine months after the Christmas flood, and I was standing on the front steps of our rebuilt house dressed in blue jeans and a brown stripped T-shirt. Green eyes, dark brown hair cut short, parted on the side, and a nose covered with a mass of freckles completed my country boy appearance. I was preparing to enter the living room via the rebuilt front door—one of the last items to be renovated. A piece of plywood had been screwed to the door, protecting the remaining unbroken pane glass for the five-month phase of the house’s reconstruction. The door, now restored, showcased a new thumb-operated latch. I slowly opened the door from the outside.
My dog Sammy eagerly tried to follow me in. I was keeping him at bay with my foot while saying, “No. Stay. Stay. You can’t come in yet.” My mother was a firm taskmaster, and her edicts continually rang in my ears. “Keep the dirty dog out. We have a brand new house,” she had decreed. I negotiated my way past my dog, closed the door behind me, and flicked the thumb latch a couple extra times. I was on a mission to browse our brand new books and skirted along the replaced bank of pane windows on the north side of the living room. Defused light filtered through the new windows and made me feel special. The light created a mysterious secretive space. Mom had recently hung white lace curtains, and as my gaze discovered them my youthful imagination began to soar. I bet those are new curtains, I thought. There’s no way those could be the old ones. No one could wash all the silt out. Besides, that’s where the telephone pole smashed through the house while floating on five feet of water…through all of that glass.
At ten years old I knew our lives had entered a new unsettling era after the flood, but I still liked to entertain boyhood flights of fantasy. Imagine the story I’d have to tell if we hadn’t evacuated, but stayed put, high and dry in our barn’s upper deck. I would know just how Sammy managed to survive for two weeks in the house before he was rescued. Heck, he probably rode in on the telephone pole as it busted through all that glass. If we would have stayed, I could have ridden in with him, and Sammy and I might have been plucked off the roof of our house by helicopter just like our neighbors, I envisioned.
I skipped five paces past the propane central heater and looked at the hardwood floor, trying to figure out which warped and buckled boards had been replaced. My destination was the brand new set of Encyclopedia Britannica books. Dad replaced the old Book of Knowledge set, which had been wrecked by the floodwaters, with a replacement set. I preferred the up-to-date Encyclopedia Britannica books, since they contained higher-quality pictures in a better variety. The dark brown encyclopedias exuded that new book smell, and the covers were embroidered and trimmed with what appeared to be real gold. I was on a mission to look at every picture on every page. The last time I had browsed the encyclopedias I left the “C” book—my favorite back then—slightly out of alignment so it could be easily retrieved at a later date. I favored that book because it contained great cartoon pictures of Goofy and Mickey Mouse. I pulled out two or three volumes and continued my quest to absorb every picture in the entire set. I quickly thumbed through the pages until I found an interesting photo, immersed myself in its magnetism, and then tried to cram that image into my memory. Soon, I worked my way to the sculpture section of the encyclopedia set. My eyes fed upon the next twelve pages, which unveiled to me image by amazing image a pictorial review of world sculpture.
At that moment the Art Gods began their sublime introduction, and I was receptive. It began as a slow burn. Over the decades it reached the point of obsession, taking over and possessing my whole being. No sacrifice was too high a price to pay in the pursuit of the perfect sculpture. The sirens’ call lured this unsuspecting youth onto the rocks of unattainable gratification.
I sat on the floor turning pages, working my way through the primitive sculpture photographs and ending up at the classical sculpture pictures. Suddenly I felt chills. The sensation crawled over my legs at first and then coursed through my entire body. The hairs on my neck stiffened. I could only focus on the book. It was as though I had seen these stunning sculptures before or simply knew about them somehow, as if they were emerging from a dream. Then slam ! The sound of the back porch screen door pulled me out of my wonderstruck state.
Mom was approaching, hiking through the kitchen and into the living room. I was a secretive kid by nature, and this was a private moment. In a rush I began putting the books away. Upon entering the living room, Mom plopped down a wicker basket full of fresh clothes she had retrieved from the clothesline. To me my mother was perfect and beautiful. She had dark hair, wide shoulders, a striking smile, and tanned olive skin, which seemed to radiate due to the white summer blouse and white shorts she was wearing.
“Danny, can you get the paper? Dad’s coming home early today,” Mom said. She was trying to settle me in to a normal routine after the flood, and getting the newspaper was the right medicine. During the rehab of the house our family had been split up between relatives, and only now were we getting back to together as a family unit. Looking back now, fifty years later, I believe something mystical happened to me on that day. It is one of my unresolved life mysteries, and perhaps that’s the way it should remain. Rationally, I think I was momentarily taken from my boyhood perspective and given my first glimpse of a larger order of things.
I flew out the living room front door. Sammy was eagerly awaiting some action. He was a cross between a dachshund and a cocker spaniel and was the ideal multipurpose ranch dog. He was shaped like a hefty, low-to-the-ground beagle and possessed a unique coat of short blond hair. He retained the hunting and retrieving abilities from the spaniel line; from the dachshund side, woe to the creatures who lived underground on our land. I gave him his name and raised him from a pup. We loved all things natural. Better than any person, Sammy understood my primordial yearnings. Together, we explored the passion and wildness contained within us. In later years we shared the ultimate in companionship: the upland game hunt. In that magnificent adventure, pheasants, doves, ducks, and geese were our quarry.
I trained Sammy to get the paper because I was afraid of the dark. The high green hedge running the length of the long driveway could be especially intimidating. Who knew what kind of monsters lived in its prickly mists on a dark, foggy night? The new gray gravel crackled under our feet as we shuffled along. The long driveway intersected with Township Road, a medium-sized paved country motorway. A forty-foot-tall English walnut tree stood at the intersection, and in the higher branches a small gathering of gregarious magpies frolicked. As we neared, the ones on the lower branches joined the merry birds at the top. They acknowledged our presence with lively conversation. All of the birds were chatty. They kept asking the same question over and over: “Magg? Magg? Magg?” Upon our approach, in no special hurry, the magpies began to fly. Their greenish, iridescent black tails streamed behind them and large white patches flashed in their wings as they casually flew away.
The magpies’ behavior made the day seem ordinary. However, as we walked I couldn’t help but notice how different things were after the flood. I looked to the right, where our private fruit orchard once stood. All the trees were now gone, replaced by barren, sun-d