Road Work: Among Tyrants, Heroes, Rogues, and Beasts

by Mark Bowden

  Gorman cares. A lot. This thickset man of thirty-three with carefully styled brown hair and heavy hands wears his Kensington heritage like a uniform, a man as up-from-the-streets as they come, a man uncommonly proud of being common. He plucks a Marlboro from his pack, lights it, and tucks it deep between the first and second fingers of his right hand, which is closed to a half fist. The Rocky movies were important to Art. Hey, Rocky speaks his language, you know? Everything about the films, which he has on videodiscs at home, vindicates who Art Gorman is and where he is. They depict his world: hard-core Philadelphia. His man Sly got it just right. And the statue? Why, Art turns positively artistic when he talks about the statue.

  “Heeey, that’s a great statue. You seen it? You can look at it and know at a glance what it is. But mostly it’s good for the inspirational value. I like what it exposes to the younger set—you know, about the hungriness you need to survive, about how determination is the only ingredient that measures up to winningness. I admire Stallone for providing us with a character like Rocky, but the character is the guy I think of most. Still, if you’ve met Sly, I mean, the guy is Rocky, if you know what I mean. There’s no way he can say he isn’t. He’s pretty good with his dukes—in real life, he ain’t bad. You gotta like the guy. I mean, there’s a whole lot of Sylvester Stallone in Rocky Balboa. Rocky is Sly. Most people don’t know that. He is.”

  Public art is often controversial. That can be good, because if you go to the trouble of erecting a large statue in a busy place, you want people to notice. If no one does, you have failed. But just because a work of art is controversial, that doesn’t mean it is good.

  People notice the Rocky statue, partly because of the controversy, but also because there’s something appealing about a piece of movie fantasy slipping through a peculiar warp into reality. It’s as if Dorothy woke up back at the farm in Kansas to discover she still had the ruby slippers from Oz. Only trouble was, the peculiar warp this particular nine-foot 1,500-pound statue had to slip through was the Philadelphia Art Commission.

  After all, Philadelphia doesn’t put just anything on public display. This is a city that has a world-famous, fifty-foot-tall clothespin standing on a pedestal in its Centre Square. Things like that don’t happen accidentally. Like any civilized community, Philadelphia has arbiters of good taste.

  When Stallone decided to donate the statue of, well, let’s face it, himself, to the front steps of the world-famous Philadelphia Museum of Art, he did not approach the city’s art commission. Instead, he went to people who better appreciate public relations. He instructed his retainers to contact Philadelphia’s Commerce Department, the men and women who had been helping his movie crews use the city as a backdrop for the Rocky films for half a decade. When the commerce people heard the star’s idea, they rejoiced, for they, too, saw that it was good.

  “United Artists today phoned to advise that they have granted a commission for a sculpture of Sylvester Stallone as Rocky as a gift to the City of Philadelphia!” That’s what commerce worker Betty Croll wrote in a memo to her boss, Dick Doran. She told the movie people that the official acceptance “should best be done by the mayor…. Obviously it is an outdoor piece planned for the museum…”

  Doran liked the idea. He penned on the memo: “Good. The mayor should definitely do this.”

  Then Doran decided to write a letter to a wealthy and powerful man named F. Eugene Dixon Jr., the president of the Philadelphia Art Commission, which has the final word on placement of art on public property. Doran wrote about plans for Rocky III and concluded with this: “A part of the planning includes a statue of himself as ‘Rocky’ by a recognized sculptor to be placed in the courtyard of the Philadelphia Museum of Art. I hope we can count on the approval and support of the Art Commission for this proposed venture.” Then he signed the letter, “Cordially, Dick.”

  It took several days for the missive to reach F. Eugene Dixon Jr., what with the inconvenience of routing his mail from the art commission headquarters in Center City to the esteemed president’s farm in Montgomery County. “Fitz,” as he is known to those who love him, began his letter to Dick by apologizing for the delay. As for the rich and famous Hollywood star’s planning to make a third in his series of very similar, but very successful, films, Fitz was delighted. But on the matter of the statue, er, well, “…if the planning for this film includes a statue of Sylvester Stallone to be erected somewhere in the courtyard of the Philadelphia Museum of Art on a temporary basis, that is one thing. If, however, this statue is to be placed somewhere in the courtyard on a permanent basis—I hope you are jesting!”

  Fitz was the sort of gentleman who used the word “jesting.” He signed the letter, “With best regards, as always,” then “Sincerely yours, Fitz.”

  Oh sad, oh unhappy day!

  The bare boughs of Fairmount Park stirred stiffly in a cold, cold wind. It was December 10, 1980. One by one, the Guardians of Good Taste gathered in the columned chamber of Memorial Hall to pass judgment on the Hollywood star’s generous gift of himself—or himself as the lovable palooka he had cast, then recast, and now threatened to cast again, both on-screen and in bronze. Who were the lofty eminences in plenum there? There were the knighted fourteen of the Fairmount Park Commission; the excellently tasteful art museum president, Robert Montgomery Scott, and his exquisitely discerning director, Jean S. Boggs; the exalted mayor’s trusted aide in all matters related to commerce, Dick Doran, and his retinue of paper carriers and assistants; and, enthroned above all others, the nine esteemed countenances of the Guardians of Good Taste, the Philadelphia Art Commission, F. Eugene Dixon Jr., in from the farm, presiding.

  Far too modest to attend on his own behalf, the rich and famous movie star sent a telegram of apology and a delegation. Attending were two of his movie company assistants, men of shrewd mind and pleasant manner, one of whom wore a hot pink shirt. And, to present, nay, unveil a scale model of the gift itself, the star sent the very artist he himself had commissioned to execute the genuine Work of Art, sculptor A. Thomas Schomberg, who was accompanied by his wife.

  Schomberg is a tall, bearded man who primarily sculpts figures of athletes in action. His personal philosophy was conveniently spelled out, sans capitalizations, in a handsome brochure accompanying the model of his statue:

  “i believe that time, heredity, and environment combine to produce that individual human behavior which is inherent in us all. through my personal development i have tried to thoroughly understand the techniques utilized in the past (in particular hellenistic greek and 19th century french sculpture) and apply those techniques to a 20th century theme. i feel we have created the greatest athletes in the history of man and this social development, only one of an infinite number, happens to be the subject i most relate to. had i traveled west in the 19th century, i might have developed as a remington or a russel, but, living in 1980, one has to be influenced by the competitive athlete.”

  Or at least, one supposes, by a rich and famous Hollywood star portraying a famous athlete.

  Stallone had long admired this modern-day Frederic Remington’s work. The actor had purchased two of his boxing sculptures from a gallery in the MGM Grand Hotel in Los Angeles. So when the wonderful and supremely generous idea occurred, the star called Schomberg and offered him a $53,000 commission. Stallone himself put in about a week’s worth of time posing for the sculptor, and permitted his idolized, wilting, chiseled, pouting features to be caked in plaster for the formation of a mask. Working from that and more than eight hundred photographs, Schomberg fashioned the twenty-eight-inch sculpture that stood that sad day on a polished conference table in Memorial Hall.

  The sculptor humbly explained that this miniature muscular man with outstretched arms was not just a statue of Sylvester Stallone, but was, rather, a fighter striking a pose that makes a “classical statement of perfection” that harks back to such Greek works as Apollo of Belvedere and that the victory it represents—Rocky’s technical KO of fictional champ Ap
ollo Creed (just a coincidence there with the name)—recalls the attitude of ancient Greeks during the Peloponnesian War.

  Schomberg further explained that he had planned the work to stand atop the front steps, but that he would not protest if the assembled commissions, in all their wisdom, opted to display it immediately inside the front doors of the museum. He concluded, tastefully, with a tribute to art commissioner Joe Brown, an aging sculptor and former boxer, whom Schomberg confessed he had admired since “I was this high,” indicating with one hand the height of a child. He implored Commissioner Brown to help him with this ambitious project. And with that, he sat down.

  Silence fell over the chamber. Commissioner Brown pondered his response. He knew of Schomberg, too.

  (“The man has been writing me letters for years telling me how great he is. You know, I think he’s the only young person to write me who I have failed to answer. I didn’t know who the hell he was, and I didn’t want to know. Back in my studio I have what I call my ‘nut’ file. He’s in it.”)

  But the commissioner couldn’t exactly speak his mind after hearing Schomberg’s sincere words of praise. So even before Brown spoke, he decided not to comment on the worth of the statue that stood on the table before him (“I thought it was a bad statue”) and instead spoke about the Hollywood star’s generous idea.

  “It’s in bad taste,” this Guardian of Good Taste said.

  Didn’t Schomberg realize that what he and the others were proposing was an imposition on the art museum and the city of Philadelphia?

  “You’re trying to promote a movie—no, not even a movie, but a sequel to a sequel of a movie! And to do it you want to exploit a fine art museum. It’s in bad taste.”

  Stung, the sculptor rose to speak. He had not meant to impose. Why, his work was designed to “enhance the architectural environment” of the famous museum’s courtyard. Schomberg was hurt and disappointed. (“It was as if he had criticized one of my children.”)

  Then rose art commissioner Meyer (Pat) Potamkin, mortgage broker and tireless regulator of Philadelphia’s public aesthetics. Why, this, he said, this work conceived and executed as a genuine Work of Art, was mere illustration!

  Sensing Emotion in the great hall and, close behind, its constant companion Confusion, the sage art commission president F. Eugene Dixon Jr. quickly requested a recess. Gathering about them their satin cloaks of true expertise, their gilded gowns of high motive, and delicate trains of political connection, the Guardians of Good Taste repaired to an antechamber with commerce director Doran to talk turkey.

  Speaking on behalf of the city’s commercial interests, Doran made a final plea. Hey, guys, this thing may be a promo, but it’s a great promo. This would be good for the city. Good for the art museum. He cleverly recalled that attendance at the hallowed art museum had doubled after the first Rocky movie. Commissioner Brown allowed as how, if the city put go-go dancers on the front steps, they might be able to do better than that.

  Because truly great men rarely argue long in a time of decision, even in matters of profound importance, a compromise was soon reached. The Good Taste Guardians would allow the statue of the Hollywood star to stand on top of the museum steps for only as long as it took him to film the sequel to the sequel of his very successful film, thank you just the same. Afterward, the Guardians would decide whether the statue would be placed anywhere on permanent display. Commissioners Brown and Potamkin objected, but were overruled. They preferred to reject the statue outright.

  Art Gorman heard on the evening news that night that his city had rejected the Rocky statue. The precise politics didn’t matter much to him.

  “We both sat down, me and my girl, and we were astonished, you know? They flashed a picture of the statue on the TV screen, and I said, ‘Hey, not bad!’ I was angry and very disappointed. You figure, there’s so many things that art commission has on display around here that the common people can’t even understand. So who are they to take this picky-pick attitude toward the statue and its quality and all that? You know, ‘Art is in the eyes of the beholder’! At least when you look at the Rocky statue, you know what you’re beholding! And to think that Mr. Stallone had prepared this statue—which has a lot of inspirational value all by itself—and this city was honored enough to be chosen to house it…and our own art commission wouldn’t accept it!”

  Gorman was up most of the night. This really bugged him. He was then a truck driver for The Philadelphia Journal, so he knew how to muster publicity. And determination? He had gotten a heavy dose from Rocky himself. If the Philadelphia Art Commission wouldn’t accept the statue, then Art Gorman was going to get the people of Philadelphia to accept it.

  And, lo! A petition drive was born.

  The next morning, he lobbied his friends on the Journal staff for coverage, and he got it. He had petitions and leaflets printed. A handout read:

  ROCKY STATUE SHOULD BE BACK IN PHILLY. REMEMBER ROCKY I. WHEN YOU AND THE KIDS WENT TO THE MOVIE, WHAT DID THEY AND YOURSELF FEEL SEEING PHILLY ON THE SCREEN INSTEAD OF NEW YORK OR SAN FRANCISCO? “PRETTY GOOD HA!” WE EVEN HAD A ROCKY II DIDN’T WE? NOW WE ARE PROMISED A ROCKY III BUT WE ALSO HAD A STATUE OF ROCKY. BUT THAT’S NOT TRUE ANYMORE. THE REASONS HAVE ALREADY BEEN HEARD. WHY WE DON’T KNOW. WHY DON’T YOU VOICE YOUR OPINION IF YOU FEEL THAT THE STATUE SHOULD BE BACK IN PHILLY AS DID “SLY.” DROP ME A LINE AND I WILL SEE THAT YOUR LETTER REACHES MR. SLY “ROCKY” STALLONE.

  Gorman took to the streets and back alleys. He withdrew $5,000 from his own bank account to finance the project. “You didn’t see it? We had this forty-foot Rocky banner. Beee-yoo-ti-ful! What we was doing is something that is never going to happen in a thousand years again. I did it because I had my heart in it.” He took to South Philly and Rox-borough and Kensington, where the real people live. And, lastly, he took to City Hall.

  His campaign stretched through winter to spring, when on-location shooting began for the third very similar, but very successful, film about the lovable palooka from South Philly. The statue was erected, right on top of the art museum steps. It was exciting. Gorman actually met his hero on location for one of the scenes.

  “I told him that I just wanted him to know that not everybody in Philadelphia feels the same way as the art commission.” Gorman’s wide face lights up with the memory. “Stallone reacted. He said he couldn’t make heads nor tails as to why they were so taken off, so not willing to accept it. I think he respects the character enough to want to see the character rest where he most relates, and the best place for that statue—I don’t care what anyone else says—is still the art museum steps.”

  Seeing the uplifted arms of that bronzed champion really fired Gorman up, but the feeling was short-lived. The art commission was willing to keep the statue—or store it or who knows what—after the filming was over, but Stallone’s movie crew quietly disassembled the statue at 5 a.m. one day and took it home. It had been standing only three days.

  By the summer of 1981, the campaign was dragging. No one seemed to know the exact whereabouts of the genuine Work of Art. Gorman had signatures, signatures, signatures. They were easy enough to get. But progress—well, progress was harder to come by.

  He took to haunting the offices of the art commission. Maybe a common man could talk some sense into these people.

  “He nearly drove me crazy in here,” recalls Kathleen H. McKenna, art commission director. “I kinda like the guy. He’s a colorful character, an interesting individual. He had a point well taken. He would say,” and McKenna attempts an impersonation of Gorman’s gruffer voice, “‘Look, lady, let me put it to you this way. What we’ve got here is a statue that the public can relate to.’ That’s basically what he had to say.”

  But McKenna was hardly in a position to influence the Guardians of Good Taste. She listened sympathetically to Gorman and tried to tell him gently that what he hoped to accomplish was just plain impossible.

  Indeed, things were looking bad. It was like the scene from Rocky, the original
Rocky, the big fight scene, where the hero has been knocked down. His eyes are swollen almost shut and bleeding. His head reels. He reaches desperately for the ropes. Gorman’s forty viewings of the film had prepared him well for McKenna’s disparaging words.

  “When she told me the statue would never stand on top of the steps, that did it. That took any doubt away. I wasn’t going to be beat so easily. I figured, This is it. Now I go for broke. I took a job, and I was going to finish it. I was in the arena, right? I was the one who was going to do this thing, right? People were counting on me. I had all those signatures. Kids would stop me on the street.”

  First District city councilman Jimmy Tayoun is known in the dark, wide corridors of City Hall as a man who knows how to get things done. “Yeah, well, I saw the kid walking around like a nut handing out his leaflets and asking for signatures, and, like everybody else, I didn’t pay any attention to him at first,” recalls Tayoun. “But I looked at the leaflets, and I noticed that the kid was living in my district. So, I said, ‘Yo, kid. Com’ere. Talk to me. What’s your problem?’ Like that.”

  Tayoun can smell a populist issue a mile off. A man of the people. He’ll put his arm around perfect strangers, standing about a foot closer than most folks, establishing instant intimacy. It didn’t take 2,000 signatures to tell Jimmy Tayoun that this was your basic common-folks-versus-cultural-elitists fight. Or which side he was on.

  “So I told the kid there was tremendous merit to what he was doing.” The more Tayoun thought about it, the more he liked it. “Yeah, I figure, you put the statue up on top of the steps and who knows how many people are going to come and see it? It’d be a real attraction. So maybe some people would go on then and step inside the art museum and see the [Alexander Calder] mobiles and other stuff in there, you know? Kids, too. I figure, maybe some kids’ll get titillated, I mean, titillated, by real art. You never know. It might be the best thing they ever did over there.”