So we’re gonna start with the obvious on this one, this thing is clearly gold. We take a standard trope of folk art: the ball in cage, and make is midwestern as fuck. I picture gramps sitting on his porch, long day at the corn factory corning corn, hands filthy with corn, wife in the kitchen fixing up some corn for dinner while cornbeard bakes in the oven. Old timer sips his corn liquor and looks over at his son, Corn, playing in the corn field. His daughter, Corn, helps the old ball and chain (or corn and chain if you see where this is all going), in the kitchen with shucking corn. I see why oysters and corn share the same verbiage, corn is truly the oyster of the plant world. When I stopped eating meat 20 years ago, corn is what got me through my late night, martini driven cravings for salty, briny, slimy oysters. Shuck it with my special corn knife and glove, load on some hot sauce and lemon and down the hatch. Truly civilized consumption right there. Anyway, gramps and his corn.
So old man Corn (as I can only assume at this point is his name) grabs his trusty whittling knife, grabs a nice hunk of bubinga or curly maple or whatever this thing is, and goes to work. A classic ball in cage he thinks, nothing passes the time like whittling. The boys down at the corn emporium always love his whimseys. How’d ya make that they always ask. With my teeth he yammers through his toothless and teethless smile. Suddenly a bolt of inspiration hits. Saraswati’s veena trills over his ears. Clio’s lyre chimes in in harmony. Frantically he frees his muse from her wooden clutches. Like Michelangelo freeing the Pieta from its marble prison, so too does Corn release corn from her wooden slammer. Every splinter is a necessary punishment for his lack of clarity. Each slice is an essentially lose in the inevitable goal of pure Art. At last he wipes down his masterpiece. Sharp edges are sanded, a subtle but effective top coat is applied. Corn gathers Corn, Corn, and Corn around their feast of corn. Behold. Corn in a cage.
3”x3”x14”
So we’re gonna start with the obvious on this one, this thing is clearly gold. We take a standard trope of folk art: the ball in cage, and make is midwestern as fuck. I picture gramps sitting on his porch, long day at the corn factory corning corn, hands filthy with corn, wife in the kitchen fixing up some corn for dinner while cornbeard bakes in the oven. Old timer sips his corn liquor and looks over at his son, Corn, playing in the corn field. His daughter, Corn, helps the old ball and chain (or corn and chain if you see where this is all going), in the kitchen with shucking corn. I see why oysters and corn share the same verbiage, corn is truly the oyster of the plant world. When I stopped eating meat 20 years ago, corn is what got me through my late night, martini driven cravings for salty, briny, slimy oysters. Shuck it with my special corn knife and glove, load on some hot sauce and lemon and down the hatch. Truly civilized consumption right there. Anyway, gramps and his corn.
So old man Corn (as I can only assume at this point is his name) grabs his trusty whittling knife, grabs a nice hunk of bubinga or curly maple or whatever this thing is, and goes to work. A classic ball in cage he thinks, nothing passes the time like whittling. The boys down at the corn emporium always love his whimseys. How’d ya make that they always ask. With my teeth he yammers through his toothless and teethless smile. Suddenly a bolt of inspiration hits. Saraswati’s veena trills over his ears. Clio’s lyre chimes in in harmony. Frantically he frees his muse from her wooden clutches. Like Michelangelo freeing the Pieta from its marble prison, so too does Corn release corn from her wooden slammer. Every splinter is a necessary punishment for his lack of clarity. Each slice is an essentially lose in the inevitable goal of pure Art. At last he wipes down his masterpiece. Sharp edges are sanded, a subtle but effective top coat is applied. Corn gathers Corn, Corn, and Corn around their feast of corn. Behold. Corn in a cage.
3”x3”x14”
