In 1972, I stumbled upon the art of Frank Frazetta—a world of raw energy and eerie beauty that felt both ancient and otherworldly. One piece in particular cast a spell over me, with its haunting apocalyptic aura and mystic energy that seemed to pull me into another dimension. It became a favorite, an iconic piece. I’d use the image as a tent sign beside my “Devils on Horseback” hors d’oeuvres I’d learned to make from Martha Stewart—a playful pairing with a touch of dark humor.
Seeing it again recently reignited that spark, and I began to envision it as a sculpture, a living embodiment with a touch of my own style. I made a sketch, feeling a quiet thrill at the possibilities.
A small, humble Co2 cartridge caught my eye, and I envisioned it as the perfect helmet. The old cartridge met my saw and several files, and after hours of chipping and shaping, a rough but promising form emerged.
Then I languished. The helmet would sit on my workbench, almost whispering to me as I passed by, “Remember me? I’m waiting.” Finally, I gathered the courage to take the next step, drilling tiny holes, I felt the energy of the project return. Ideas unfurled in my mind—the body of the horse, the rider, the powerful limbs, the hidden light within, a fierce weapon in hand, an epic backdrop. But first, the helmet needed a spike.
I found an old brass screw, filed it down, and set it into a grommet, a makeshift crown befitting its otherworldly purpose.
When I placed the helmet over the light bulb, a sense of wonder washed over me; it was a perfect fit, a tiny stroke of magic.
I added leather, a bit of translucent vellum for the eyes, and when I saw them light up, it was as though the figure came alive, like an ancient guardian emerging from shadow.
Then came the true battle: crafting the horse, the rider, embedding the light fixture, and hiding the cords. It felt like stitching together fragments of a spell, one attempt after another—four horses, six riders—before the pieces finally revealed how they were meant to fit. Every misstep brought me closer, though at times it seemed I was chasing shadows.
I threw away an awful lot of work. that just… didn’t work.
After all the challenges, I turned to the weaponry for a reprieve. I etched the shield, echoing Frazetta’s design, and added a paper backing to hold the handle-wire. The etching process brought unexpected details, like feather textures on the bird’s breast.
I fashioned the battleaxe from manzanita wood and copper, materials that felt rich with history and spirit.
I assembled the final pieces—the backdrop, the box, the hidden path for the cord.
It all fell together as if by fate. I added a finial above, a brass plate for attribution, and there it stood: my homage, my own work of art, a creation spun from admiration, imagination, and pure persistence.
In the end, my lifelong reverence for another artist’s vision took on a life of its own, casting its own shadow, woven with a touch of magic.
