THE IRON MAN
Before the reconstruction of Ironman as My Girl Friday, and even before the Iron Giant, which had that signature Pixar sticky sickeningly sweet pepto bismol pink colored crap holding it together, I made, in a suspicious of me art school, a instillation called The Iron man.
Above is the cover of a comics variation of that eight page 22 by 36 paneled instillation, which cemented my reputations in art school of being a man- boy who would do anything except draw the marvel way. In the giant pages, in a kind of roman e clef, a boy man named Googy -as in Tony plus Goon , plus the architecture of a missing America I loved, became the wearer of a suit of iron armor. The suit is made by a wizard who plays in dirt all day called Profondo, and pretty brunette shows up, later.
This was like the fable of the roman suit, Bradamente, used by Calvino, but with a few more killing sprees in it. One two page spread was a massacre, in which the awful art of Jackson Pollock was taken by me, copied and brought to kinko's, were every spatter and tear was remade as red as blood. To me at least this time, Pollock's shit looked actually better, but then, that is just blood adoring roman me. This was seen as apostasy by the middle brows, but Ciotti thought it was gallant, heroic art, as he called it. Perhaps , like girl editors who bitch on blogs, he had seen one too many real comic Iron men, or merry marvel Ironmen, so mine was delightfully, if a bit bloodied, new. And like Bradamente, I think recalling Italian Folktales, eventually a girl , an ice queen--no mean joke, the story even in the Pete Townsend brilliant adaptations held an ice queen--ironically sets the hidden iron heart of Googy selflessly aflame , ect ect...
I thought of it again, and went and found it, as emblazoned upon the steel of the supposedly bleeding Iron- marionette, was the Horacio exclamation Carpe Diem, or seize or pulck or grab hold of, or take the day, meaning life. I thought of it as some white trash broad in a important magazine --too important for an essay about Captain Marvel or any other "Comics strip"--was trashing that and other opus Horatia lines of verve, most nobly and too disquieting for this lefty bitch, that its is sweet to die for ones country. Oh, you white trash scum have become pacifists I see, since the destruction of civilization and of Rome, how nice...
Well, hell, doll, I have been rejected more than not, and don't much care about it, as if I did, care what the marvellettes thought of my work, I would have broken down and blandly used a ruler years ago. The fact that Captain Marvel isn't serious enough for you, and your magazine of sudden disquiet about the god head nigger queen, Dido Obama--how have I missed THAT ANALOGY all this time? ,... is about par for this exclusive, self adoring, satire eschewing golf course called America. And, though you have been retaught well by Lucas to disparage and destroy all things "Empire", a favorite word of this middle brow cunt, -like say Al Quida...? --The breadth of your stupidity or your meanness is staggering.
I had Coldplay thrown in my face as some kind of American thinking. Shit, hun, I am too hep for cold play even at forty , hun, they are the winger of our sadly hilarious time, and as for your ideal against Horace, the line is, doll, It is sweet to die for ones country, BUT IT IS ALL THE SWEETER TO LIVE FOR IT, AND SWEETEST OF ALL IS TO DRINK, SO LETS HAVE A TOAST. Or, I recall words taught to me by suspicious of white trash America Priests telling me, to that effect, stolen by Shakespeare for the Kiss me Kate scene in The Shrew. The point of the line is live and enjoy while we are alive, and before empire crushes us, lets drink to life, and it is a Italian esprit which can be seen in everything from Virgil to Tony Bennett to Here's to Life by the great blues singer Joe Williams. I didn't care that this white trash bitch didn't like my work, but, suddenly I felt myself again, like the captain marvel of the piece, remade as a rosy cheeked defender of the dying republic, even empire, now maybe, just a defender against the mandrakes of barbarism. Her purposeful misstating and self righteously quoting part of Horace showed me who they were and what I was.
And, I was again as I always irrevocably was, what I was called even dismissively in art school by the Clevengers and the green haired creeps who saw art as a means to being published in an even then dead heavy metal, I find that I keep saying, incessantly, that, I AM THE IRONMAN.