Werewolves and Nazis



Werewolf Mask
Nathan G Yrizarry + George N Yrizarry
2013
#2 plastic juice bottle, twine, wood glue



 

 

So, now we are exploring the blur of monsters and heros, heroines and villains.  The dead and the undead.  The in-betweens, the overlaps, transformations, reversals, and redemptions, falls from grace and contrition.

Is Batman mean?  Batman is complex.  Tell me again what happened to his parents.  They were shot by a robber with a metal gun.  And they died?  They died.  Then what did Batman do?  First, he cried.  Then he re-made himself as the Dark Knight.

Vampires?  Complex.  Many of them dress well.  They are all different, just like people.  They are undead.  The Hulk?  Usually just Dr. Bruce Banner, until he gets angry.  Then he is mean to mean people.  We act out this transformation by hiding one or the other under a blanket, never the two out at the same time.  There is always some meanness going down.  Sometimes robbers hurt or kill and go to a jail while the rest of the world goes on.  Some are contrite and are released.  Others never see the light of day again.  Zombies are always bad.  They can be killed on the spot.  Superman?  Always nice.  He's squeaky clean, just like his alter-ego.  Werewolves, normal people most of the time.  Some lock themselves away when the moon grows full.  To become a werewolf, you have to be bitten by one, but not killed.

I'm bad.  A recent refrain when someone is hurt in the tussle, his little sister, tiger cubs in combat.  I'm bad.  I'm a bad brother.  You're not bad.  But that was too much.  You need to help her up, give her a hug.  A nameless stranger boy crying to his father, holding his nose.  George ordered to walk to and check whether he is all right.  I'm bad.  No apologies.  You're not bad; you're good.  You need to walk over there and check on him.  Fix the problem and it will be over.  No, Papa, I'm afraid, you go.  By the time we get there, the boy is laughing again.

Remember when you found that little sand in your drawer?  And the men with metal guns that shoot metal and they all died?  No idea.  In that glass.  On the beach.  The sand from Normandy, in the vial.

Can we do that?  We recreate the Invasion of Normandy, sitting together on our bed.  Reduce it to Mean Guys and Nice People, close enough, and terms he's already adopted.  Seemingly no concept yet of nation, ethnicity, race.  The war-dead, though, he knows about the war-dead.  The occupiers played by the Robbers, two hand-length-height monochrome beige plastic cowboys, their hands molded forever to their ever-firing pistol and rifle.  The invaders played by a motley random crew of six or so, a faerie, Spiderman, a delivery driver, a funky ninja, the leotard woman, The Hulk.  Everybody dies.  Then what happens?  Their mother cries.  She is played by a ballerina, by my hand.  She lies face down and sobs and sobs plangent wails.  When she stops, he wants her to keep crying.  She cries for a long time, after each invasion and slaughter.