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CORN |
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By Gregory Thorp |
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Artist's Statement: I photograph trains, boats, and airplanes and when there are no assignments, I stalk the corn. It used to be summers, only summers, when I photographed this green growing giant. For pure color, standing at eye level, it can’t be beat. As an agriculture to celebrate, it’s even delicious. You meet a lot of interesting people who talk about corn, and you can still avoid a lot of seriousness when you hide in the corn. But come the convulsions of harvest, the field returns to open space. The earth is covered with disordered, de-rowed, broken stalks cobs and leaves of every color shade and twist, all trampled by drizzles crows and snows. It is an open season: everything I know about botany is meaningless. I am a visitor to a November field like a crow, part of the dayshift. We follow the night work of the raccoon. We stop. We stare. I go on. A wild turkey at the other end minds his own business. The corn leaves are earthen, frosted, caked with manure. If we think too much it’s better to keep moving, with eyes roving ahead of thought, becoming free, free to discover and not “name” what I see. The hawk circling overhead intends to select. I wave to a passing school bus, then change direction for what? For a sensation Somewhere, Do her hoof prints wreck it? Or improve it? |
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Previous exhibitions at The Half King For further information on these exhibits, please go here.
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