Iggy, Iggy, Iggy.
How can you take your eyes off Iggy?
He not only creates art, he is art.
His canvas is his face; his whole body;
His sparkling costumes, his platform shoes, the feathers he glues on his head.
Iggy is: a strange orchid always in full bloom,
Iggy is: a long-legged water bird in glorious plumage.
Iggy is: a Fellini movie
Iggy is: a strange and startling treasure floating through the New York nights.
Wherever he goes the room brightens. People stare. Some of them speak.
Some turn their heads as if they have seen a spirit.
They have.
Iggy is art in motion.
Not since Rollerina
Not since Moon Dog
Not since Edward Gorey
Not since Philippe Petit walked his tightrope between the twin towers
Have we had a New Yorker who has so deliberately captured our imagination.
And he wasn't even born here.
Rumor has it that Iggy was born on a shooting star.
Rumor has it that Iggy was born on a clouded archery range.
Rumor has it that Iggy was born on the line that divides the dark and light side of the moon.
Rumor has it that Iggy was born on the Isle of Moly.
Rumor has it that Iggy was never born at all. He just appeared one day.
Like an apparition gliding through our midnight streets, our watering holes and haunts,
Iggy is a dream that we have longed to dream and could not dream because we needed him to dream it for.
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