While reading The Sculptor, I couldn’t help but think about its creator Scott McCloud and the things he - like David Smith - might be trying to prove. If he’s able to do what he thinks he was meant to do in its purest form - through a newly-granted power that lets him mould anything into whatever shapes he can think of - the 26-year-old says he’ll gladly shuffle off this mortal coil. Next comes the deal with Death itself, manifested in the form of his kindly-but-salty Uncle Harry. But a falling-out with a benefactor left him drunk and poor. Adulation, recognition and money followed. He hit the heights of the art world when he was younger. See, Sculptor protagonist David Smith tasted the good stuff before. It should, by all rights, be a pretentious slog but it’s irresistibly heartfelt and earnest and alive. It’s about what people leave behind when they die, how their survivors move on, the divide between high art and street art, the myth of Purity of Purpose and the real-world things that chip away at our daily resolve. The Sculptor is about many things, almost all of them big, heady existential considerations.
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