Abstract Thirtythree
Oil and Acrylic on Canvas 14x14
Abstract Thirtysix
Acrylic on Canvas 24x36
Masks
Acrylic on Canvas 36x48
All Works Copyright 2012 David Corbet
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Sunday, March 4, 2012
That is Art
There is art and then there is art, and standing between
them is art.
By this I mean there is art that is created by the artist
and there is art that is perceived by the audience. And between those two, the
created and the perceived, is the piece of artwork. It can stand alone but
always takes on meaning through creation and perception. And the meaning may
not be the same for the artist and the audience. The work itself may or may not
have an inherent meaning. You would have to ask the piece what it meant, and
until a piece of art becomes sentient that question will remain a mystery.
Certainly an artist may create with an intention and that intention may come
across to the audience, they may “get it.” Artist’s aides such at titles,
descriptions, biographies and philosophical methodological ponderings can all
help the audience to “get it.” But certainly the audience also has the option
to ignore all that and find their own meaning in the piece that has nothing to
do with the intention of the artist. The meaning is then derived from their own
experiences and psychological profile. But if the piece was wrapped up, stored
away for a hundred years, all the descriptors lost from memory and then the
piece was rediscovered it would still have meaning for those that found it.
That is art.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
And Later
The quiet of the morning washed over the scene. A light blue
sky above, a deep blue lake below and there stood a man on the lake shore.
He gathered a net into his strong arms and walked into the
cool water. This was his favorite time of the day. Far out on the lake a few
fishing boats dotted the surface. Like a whisper he could hear snippets of
conversation. He could imagine the idle chatter or the rough commands drifting
from boat to boat as they searched out the best spots.
He smiled inwardly,
thinking of a different boat, a different day completely unlike this one. That
stormy day he walked on water, however brief it was. His smile turned down as a
tear slid slowly from his eye. Fear sank him that day.
With a practiced motion he flung the net into the shallow
water. He enjoyed the pull on his back and shoulders. The net settled and
slowly he gathered it in. The tension in his arms and chest made him feel
alive. Another thought flooded his mind. Once again it was about Him. He
shrugged it off, shaking his head to clear it of unwanted thoughts. He gathered
the net for another throw.
Throw after throw, it soothed his mind and worked his body.
But it did little for his troubled soul. He was anguished, perplexed, confused
but most of all he was ashamed. The repetitive motion gave his body work and
his mind space to think.
The sun was beginning to warm his back and hunger gnawed his
stomach but he was not yet ready to turn and face the world. This place, this
peace, the comfort of the net and cool of the water was what he needed most. It
had been too long since life was simple and he knew deep down inside that those
days were gone. They fled away when he first relinquished his net to follow
Him.
I will make you fishers of men.
The methodical movement of tossing and drawing back was
meditative. He had no intention of catching fish. He just needed to clear his
mind. His thoughts wandered over the drama, the power, the humor of the last so
many months. Had it been that long, it seemed so much longer.
A shadow of a man, and the quiet splashing of someone
walking in the shallows behind him brought him back to reality. It could only
be one person. He sighed and straightened his back pushing his shoulders back
and allowing the net to droop in the water. He was not yet ready to face
reality so he did not turn.
“Hey” He said.
“Hey” the man responded. His voice confirmed his identity.
His brother.
They stood in silence watching the boats move about looking
for their morning catch. Sunlight glistened on the water. It would be a hot one
again.
“You’ve seen too much to turn away now.” The brother stated
simply. “We all have.”
“I betrayed him.” He responded.
“We all did.” The brother answered sympathetically. It was
not the right thing to say even if it was true. “He forgave you.”
Feed My sheep
The voice still echoed in his head as he cast the net again.
He remembered the last time he had cast a net. The catch was more than he could
haul in alone. “Do you remember the first day?”
“Of course I do.” The brother answered and stepped forward
to help gather the net in. They cast it together in practiced rhythm. They had
worked their whole lives together side by side. And they followed Him side by
side, from the first day to the last.
Eventually they stopped, the moment gone. “I don’t know why.
That will be what they all ask. Why?”
“Brother, thinking has never been your strong point. You are
a man of action. You always have been. What did he say to you? ‘Feed my sheep?’
I think that is more than enough. He knows you. And more than that you have an
intuition, a spirit of knowing. You were the first to see Him for who He truly
is. Those two things are more than enough.” They sat in silence watching the
boats and the sun playing on the water. “I will follow you. But we have seen
too much to turn away.”
He fingered the net, thinking. Why. It was a question with no
answer. Each one has to find their own answers to that question. But feed His
sheep, that was something that could be done. And he knew it would be up to him
to do it. He would not, could not betray him again. He would accomplish at
least that much. Tell the story of His life and care for all those that he
could.
“Catchers of men.” He whispered.
“What?” the brother asked.
“Remember. Catchers
of Men." He picked up the net and turned back towards the shore. The world was
waiting. It was not going away no matter how many times he cast his net. “Come
brother we have work to do. The net we cast is for Him and we catch the hearts
and souls of men.”
They walked out of the water, uncertain in mind but firm in
faith. Fear would not sink him this time. When they ask why, the best answer he could give would be “because” and
tell the story of His life and death.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Moving space and time without leaving the couch
They knew that time travel was possible. The theory was
sound, the equations balanced and the apparatus calibrated. But the first dozen
unfortunate souls that tried it just simply disappeared. They knew not where.
Until a sixteen year old son of one of the primary researchers made an off
comment while lounging in a recliner in the corner of the office.
“I wish I could go back a day. Yesterday I was a thousand
miles away on the beach enjoying life, this place sucks. It is so boring.”
Immediately it clicked in the minds of the all the
researches sitting in the room. Of course you can travel in time, but not in
space. There is nothing rooting you to this particular place in space. It is like hitting the pause button on your existence, but the rest of
time AND space moves on. The world is not only spinning around and around, but
it is also moving around the sun. And the sun and it’s satellites are speeding
through space.
With a few speedy calculations they were able to find eight
of the ten lost souls. The last two were to far out in deep space to be
recovered.
The next day they started working on time vectoring. They
realized they would never be able to achieve time travel and remain on the
planet. But they could, with enough number crunching, travel vast distances in
space by standing still in time. There is only one thing that is faster than
light, and that it is time. They had inadvertently invented the first FTL
capable device.
Copyright
David Corbet 2012
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Seven Truths of Being
1. If you are not growing, you are dieing.
2. Growth means change.
3. Change requires input.
4. Input means consumption.
5. There is an upper and lower limits to healthy/productive consumption.
6. Waste is anything outside of the range of healthy/productive consumption.
7. Eventually the ability to process new input ends and therefore stops growing and dies.
I will just toss this out there for now and let them diffuse into cyberspace. They really don't mean much, nor do they contain a moral imperative. They just are what they are and can be applied to just about everything that is.
2. Growth means change.
3. Change requires input.
4. Input means consumption.
5. There is an upper and lower limits to healthy/productive consumption.
6. Waste is anything outside of the range of healthy/productive consumption.
7. Eventually the ability to process new input ends and therefore stops growing and dies.
I will just toss this out there for now and let them diffuse into cyberspace. They really don't mean much, nor do they contain a moral imperative. They just are what they are and can be applied to just about everything that is.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
KDP Select and Me
When Amazon rolled out it's KDP Select program I was skeptical. I was not sure if dedicating a book just to Amazon was going to reach the audience and generate the same revenue as having it available at multiple places. I thought about it for a while and decided to run a test case. I had published a fantasy novella and was selling it for 99 cents. I thought it would be a good candidate, something that people may borrow from the lending library as an Amazon Prime Member.
Before entering the novella into KDP Select, I had sold three copies. I had no new sells over the first month in the program even though I continued to promote it at the same level as before. And no borrows from the library. I then ran with the promotional to give it away free to generate more interest. I gave away 96 copies in the U.S. and 17 in England. (I guess I am now known internationally!). That give-away was in early January. I have still not had any borrows from the library. Nor have I had any additional sells of the novella.
My conclusions:
1. KDP Select does not generate additional revenue.
2. People are not willing to buy a novella for 99 cents.
3. Limiting the availability of a book may not serve the author's best interest although it does serve the bookstore's.
4. Amazon does not provide relevant data for the KDP select program to make a fair assessment. It is a try-it-and-see kind of thing. It would be nice to know things like total number of books borrowed, most popular genres, etc.
Now these conclusions are tentative at best. Because I have not offered my novella through other online stores I do not have sells data to compare. Possibly I would not have any better luck with the Nook or Smashwords. So the next step is to pull it off KDP Select when I can and run it for a while through other outlets to see if it generates more revenue.
So in a few months I will update this post with information about additional sells. And possible revise my conclusions. I know other people have had great success with KDP Select but it just may not work for all genres or authors.
Before entering the novella into KDP Select, I had sold three copies. I had no new sells over the first month in the program even though I continued to promote it at the same level as before. And no borrows from the library. I then ran with the promotional to give it away free to generate more interest. I gave away 96 copies in the U.S. and 17 in England. (I guess I am now known internationally!). That give-away was in early January. I have still not had any borrows from the library. Nor have I had any additional sells of the novella.
My conclusions:
1. KDP Select does not generate additional revenue.
2. People are not willing to buy a novella for 99 cents.
3. Limiting the availability of a book may not serve the author's best interest although it does serve the bookstore's.
4. Amazon does not provide relevant data for the KDP select program to make a fair assessment. It is a try-it-and-see kind of thing. It would be nice to know things like total number of books borrowed, most popular genres, etc.
Now these conclusions are tentative at best. Because I have not offered my novella through other online stores I do not have sells data to compare. Possibly I would not have any better luck with the Nook or Smashwords. So the next step is to pull it off KDP Select when I can and run it for a while through other outlets to see if it generates more revenue.
So in a few months I will update this post with information about additional sells. And possible revise my conclusions. I know other people have had great success with KDP Select but it just may not work for all genres or authors.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
The Sword
Sword
The sword hacked at the shield.
The broadsword hacked at the
bronze shield.
The iron broadsword with a leather
handle hacked at the bronze shield incrusted with diamonds.
The iron broadsword with a leather
handle which was wielded by a north’s man hacked at the bronze shield incrusted
with diamonds held a loft by the priest’s assistant.
The iron broadsword with a leather
handle which was wielded by a north’s man hacked at the bronze ceremonial
shield incrusted with diamonds held a loft by the priest’s assistant attempting
to save the life of the head priest.
The iron broadsword with a leather
and turquoise handle, which was wielded by a north’s man hacked at the bronze
ceremonial shield incrusted with diamonds held a loft by the high priest’s assistant
who was attempting to save the life of his master who wore the blood red robes
of the high priest.
The iron broadsword with a leather
and turquoise handle, which was wielded by the north’s man hacked at the bronze
ceremonial shield incrusted with diamonds held a loft by the frightened
priest’s assistant who was attempting to save the life of his master who wore
the blood red robes of the high priest and carried the sacred golden scepter.
The iron broadsword with a leather
and turquoise handle, which was wielded by the north’s man, hacked at the
bronze ceremonial shield incrusted with diamonds held a loft by a frightened
boy-servant who was attempting to save the life of his master who wore the
blood-red robes of the high priest and carried the sacred golden scepter which
was the ultimate desire that drove the barbarian onwards with ever increasing
blows.
Why this scepter? For the gold alone? Does it have special
powers? Is it sacred also to the north’s man? How many others has he killed in
this pursuit? Will he be happy with just the scepter or will he want the golden
lamp stands and the silver chalice? Ultimately does it matter? Where is your
soul
Copyright Reserved
David Corbet
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Work In Progress (WIP) paintings.
Untitled WIP |
Explosion |
Explosion (2nd image) |
This picture is for my living room, matching color scheme. |
The first one, I think is done but have not fully committed to signing my name on it yet. It may be lacking something so I sit and ponder it when I can.
The second one (Explosion, 2 images) I feel is done and yet it also sits unsigned waiting for that final moment when I am satisfied that it is truly done.
The third set of images is a painting I did for my own home. It is large 4 feet by 3 feet. We recently redecorated our living room and had an open space above the piano. I incorporated colors and themes from the window treatments, accent wall and other features of the room. I like this one. It is my newest piece. But it is also unsigned for the moment. I just hung it and am waiting for it to settle into the room to see if it needs anything more. This is the first piece I have done with a particular location in mind, not my usual way of working.
(Sorry for the poor images, it is hard to take good pictures, after dark, with the camera that I have. And no I did not use a flash.)
These images are Copyright protected. David Corbet 2012.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Erkulys & Uryon in the Warlord of Ashkelon, sample
Here is a sample for my next fantasy novella: Erkulys & Uryon in the Warlord of Ashkelon
The next morning Titos and
Ernsto met Erk at the smashed gate of the estate. The sun had not yet broken
the horizon. In the direction of the city, the cool air was pink with smoke. A
guard stood in the trees near the broken gate. He waved at them as they moved
off into the mist of the forest floor. Soon it would all burn off and the day
would be warm, and humid.
“You have decided to walk
with us in search of the Witch.” Erk observed.
“Yes. I thought if I was to
go against Wicce then I should consult with the Witch.” Titos limped along,
using a staff to support some of his weight. His wounds still lingered.
“Ey.” Erk stated knowingly.
Ernsto led the way. He
seemed to move at random, but Erk knew better. If one thing all of his travels
had taught him was that magic was as subtle as the wind. But if you knew the
signs you could see it do wonders. Ernsto followed a bird for a bit and then a
wisp of mist. He checked rocks in a bubbling brook and then followed a rabbit.
The miles melted away, but they seemed no further from the estate. It felt like
they were just walking in circles. Erk was about to make a jape about it when
Ernsto stopped and knocked on an old oak.
The oak seemed half dead.
Many branches were broken and those that lived had more knots in them then
leaves. The roots were piled high making deep creases in the ground. The
knocking brought about a squirrel that peaked down from a branch.
The squirrel scurried down
the thick trunk and across a tangle of roots. Ernsto followed. The squirrel
scampered over the ground and through the roots quickly. Erk soon lost sight of
it. But Ernsto did not. He stayed with it tracking its movements with eyes
while using hands to feel his way over the roots. Titos could not move through
the roots with any speed and Erk was forced to turn back and help him.
Erk and Titos heard a
chirping behind them. The squirrel had run full circle round the tree. Ernsto
came lumbering up panting.
“Eh, what is this?” Erk was
not amused.
The squirrel dove into a
hole between two deep roots. The three watched at a loss. What now?
A loud crack of wood on
wood brought their attention back up into the branches of the tree. An old lady
stood on a thick branch a large staff in one hand. She giggled and cackled. “Do
you like my pet? I think she likes you.” She pointed the staff at Titos.
The Crone threw a handful
of leaves at the men standing below. The dull red leaves morphed into a cloud
of smoke, dark and hideous. The smoke transformed into a flock of birds that
flew around the men’s heads. They ducked and dodged the birds. When they looked
back into the tree the old woman was gone.
A tapping brought their
attention to the side of the oak. Standing between two large roots was a
beautiful woman, naked with long brown hair streaming down around her breasts
and back. It stirred gently in the breeze revealing just enough to tantilize. She was holding the witches oak staff tapping on the roots. The
witch’s raspy voice came from her well shaped and red lips. “Do you like this
form better? It stirs you awake does it not? Beware of illusions. Especially
you Titos.”
The beautiful form flaked
away in the breeze revealing the old woman again. “Come.”
The men followed the witch
around the tree three times, on the third turn she stepped into a darkness
between two massive roots. “Come” her pale arm beckoned from the dark.
Erk led the way. He groped
in the darkness but found no tree blocking his way, only empty blackness. Titos
followed wearily. Ernsto hung back but also entered the Hermitage.
Erk stumbled down a few
steps. He felt the nearness of the tree and put out a hand to catch himself. A
smooth, well polished surface of wood met his outstretched hand. “Careful,
steps.” He said back to those behind him. With one hand on the wall to his
right, he moved forward. The wall curved right.
Erk, and soon the others,
stepped into a large chamber dimly lit by a candle on a table cluttered with
bowls and cups. It smelled like honey and decay. Erk stepped further into the
room. The walls were living wood. Some of the shelves held scrolls, books,
wooden cases. Others held assortment of body parts from all types of animals,
birds and reptiles.
The witch clapped twice. A
dozen candles blazed to life. And in the corner a fire place, cut into the
living wood which was blackened deep, glowed awake with blue and green flames.
Light flashed across the chamber.
The new light blinded the men.
Copyright 2012
David Corbet
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
The Garage Door
Twice he found the door to the garage
open. But he lived alone and could not remember going into the garage for at
least six months. Since that “day” he had refused to use the garage for any
reason. He always parked on the street and used the front door for all
occasions. He even had a few friends clear out the garage of any storage boxes
and put them in the shed in the backyard. To have the door standing wide open
was unnerving.
The first time he found it open it was
just slightly ajar, as if someone had just come in and not closed it
completely. He absentmindedly closed it and kept walking. It was not until he
was half a dozen steps away that it struck him. Why was that door open? And
then his mind raced. Perhaps it was not really open and just habit made him
push on it as if it was open. But he could remember the distinct sound of the click
when the door latch caught. No, he was certain that he had closed it. But how
did it get open?
By the end of the night he had convinced
himself that the door was never really open. That it was a trick of the mind.
The second time it happened, he heard
giggling. The door was wide open and the cool garage air was slipping slowly
into the house. The giggle was clear as day and it made the hair on his neck
stand on end. It sent chills down his spine and brought tears to his eyes. He could not even walk the two steps down the
hall from the kitchen to close the garage door. He slumped against the wall and
slowly wiped away a tear.
A thought struck him. Perhaps someone
was using the side door in the garage to gain access to the house and he had
stumbled upon them coming or going. It frightened him to think someone could be
in the house. He quickly grabbed a flashlight and a baseball bat from the coat
closet by the front door. He made a thorough search of the house. Under the
beds, in all the closets and bathrooms and even the kitchen pantry, he searched
diligently, hopefully. But he found
nothing unusual. He was left with a wide open garage door and a giggle that
brought back a flood of memories. What was he to do?
He could not face the open door and he
did not have the emotional strength to close it. He wanted to call a friend but
over the last six months he had alienated everyone and could think of not one
single person that he wanted to call. He was stuck and frightened.
He set the baseball bat and flashlight
on the kitchen counter. He cradled his head in his arms and sobbed quietly for
a few moments. He felt the cool garage air whisping around his bare feet. He
had to face his demons. He had to put it to rest. He stood determined, crossed
the kitchen and stopped at the hall. He left the bat and light behind. They would
serve him no good with whatever it was that he would find in the garage.
He took a step and paused,
listening. He took a second step and put
a hand on the door knob. He knew that if he just swung the door closed it would
not end the nightmare. He raised a hand to the light switch for the garage’s florescent
light. He felt his heart racing. His breathes came in ragged gulps. How could a
simple garage frighten someone so much? But it was not the garage that scared
him. It was just a symbol of something much deeper. A pain, a memory, a day
that would haunt him was what lay beyond that doorway.
He flicked on the light and stepped
into the garage pulling the door closed behind him.
Copyright 2011
David Corbet
All Rights Reserved
Monday, November 28, 2011
Erkulys and Uryon Fight the Monster of the Heart
The two stumbled out of town,
Erkulys still drunk from a night of feasting, ribaldry, wenching, and
wrestling. Uryon tried to shoulder some of Erkulys’ weight to help him walk
straight. The large wrestler out-weighed Uryon by a few dozen pounds, but Uryon
was taller.
Uryon wore a belt of
leather, studded with precious gems. Many of them were dragon stones he had
removed from the belly of the great beasts. On his hip, hung his twice-forged
sword. It was forged first by the Master Maker in the Deep Forge hidden in the
bowels of the earth. The second time it was shaped by the First craftsman, Tubal-cain.
while his apprentice smiths, Bezalel and Oholiab, pumped the bellows in the
sacred citadel of Hor. The sword was a perfectly crafted weapon, unbreakable,
and never lost its edge. It could cleave through any armor and slice body and
soul alike. Uryon wore it with pride and humility. It was a weapon of Champions
and he was First Champion of the Nations.
Erkulys preferred using his hands
to crush, smash and rip apart his prey. He was a master in over a dozen
fighting and wrestling arts. He was also proficient in most weapons, as a true
Hero should be. Erkulys was the foremost Hero of the day, although other
younger heroes tried to challenge him to the title. None could defeat this
brave Hero.
This was the time of Heroes and
Champions, and also of monsters and things unspeakable. These two ventured off
to encounter just such a thing.
“Erk, I think you have put on
weight since last we walked together.” Uryon grunted as he struggled to keep
Erk moving.
“Ey, I most surly did. I spent the
last year eating and wenching in the far lands, beyond the Mount,” Erk belched
and continued, “They have the best cream pies and ales one could wish for.” He
stumbled in his step and then straightened up, burping a few more times. “Ey,
ale and wine and drink from a root that would blind lesser men. And all of it
more tasty than that swill they served us last night at the inn.” He staggered
further along.
“Ha ha, that swill was enough
to do you in. I told you we had many leagues to go today, to not drink so
heavy.” Uryon chastised him.
“Just a moment.” Erk leaned over a
short stone wall that sheltered a garden from the way. He vomited a stream so
putrid it made Uryon, standing a dozen steps away, turn away in disgust. Erk
then opened his leather breeches and let out a piss that ran like a river.
“I think you just killed that poor
garden.” Uryon waved a hand in front of his nose.
“Nonsense. I only watered it and
enriched the soil with liquids from the gods.” Erk bellowed and laughed. He
tucked himself back into his breeches and staggered back to the way. “Now I can
walk, almost.”
Uryon shouldered a leather bag and
goaded Erk along. The sun was just breaking the horizon. “Let’s move slow. I
don’t want you killing any more gardens and having the townsfolk cursing our
names.”
“Seems like last night you had a
few wenches screaming your name in delight.” Erk laughed again. Mirth came easy
to this Hero.
Uryon laughed as well. “Yes they
were. But today, I fear, they will be walking funny and cursing me none the
less.”
The two laughed and stumbled toward
the rising sun.
Now Available on the Kindle: Erkulys & Uryon
Copyright David Corbet 2011
Now Available on the Kindle: Erkulys & Uryon
Copyright David Corbet 2011
Saturday, November 5, 2011
November
November
Glistening white, unique and alone.
Drifting from high above to here
below.
Settling one on another, building
up
A landscape of white.
The empty, quiet world awaits
For that soft touch of frozen
fingers,
Caressing the tree, the brush, the
soil.
White drifting, wafting, floating.
Silence blanketed in muffled chills
Alone, unique, silent, wandering.
Come hushed stillness.
By David Corbet
Monday, October 31, 2011
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Struggle
A constant struggle,
A tug, a shake, a quake.
A pull this way & then that way.
Up, down, in, out.
A constant struggle
Light & dark blending in
Strobe effects of smoky haze.
Reality is obscured &
contrasted.
A constant struggle,
Tear stained smiles & false
Bravado to make it through
The day, fearing the night.
A constant struggle,
To awake each morning
Plod on, trod on, fallen on
Some meaningless soul.
A constant struggle,
To survive the day with
Music & lines on pages as
The only solace.
David Corbet
Copyright protected
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