Islandia, tierra de hombres

El equipo olímpico islandés de handball masculino.

Inmortalizado por una artista en el Museo Falológico Islandés :

Ojo, es un tributo, no son réplicas de los miembros (ahem) del team.

[...] The sculpture —which would have been gold if the Icelandic team had won the title in Beijing— is more flight of fancy than reality-based artwork. It is displayed right under a large photograph of the virile 2008 handball team but, somewhat confusingly, does not depict its actual members. “No,” declared the goalkeeper Hreidar Levy Gudmundsson, one of the players from the 2008 squad who remain on the team, when asked after the Argentina match whether he had anything to do with the sculpture. He became a little flustered. “We didn’t make it. We didn’t have a session after the game, if that’s what you mean. I think it’s a little bit weird, to be honest.”

Key quote de la "artista" :

So, whose phalluses are they?
“I didn’t have any models,” she said. “I just made them from experience.”

Me hizo acordar a las "Plaster Casters of Chicago", dos chicas que en los 60's se dedicaban a inmortalizar estrellas de rock de idéntica manera, y que fueron magistralmente retratadas por Frank Zappa en su autobiografía :

I met Cynthia Plaster-Caster when the Mothers were working as the opening act for Cream at the International Amphitheatre in Chicago in 1968. This was toward the end of Cream's existence, when all the guys in the band hated each other. Each guy had his own road manager, his own limousine, his own etc., etc., etc. 

During a conversation backstage, Eric Clapton asked if I had ever heard of the Plaster-Casters. I said I hadn't. He said "Well, afier the show, come with me. You won't believe this." So, we went to his hotel.

Upon arrival we found, sitting in the lobby, two girls. One of them had a small suitcase with an oval cardboard emblem glued to the side that said "THE PLASTER-CASTERS OF CHICAGO." The other one had a brown paper bag.

They didn't say a word -- just stood up and followed us into the elevator, and into the room. The suitcase girl opened the suitcase. The other one opened the bag. They took out some 'statuettes': "Here's Jimi Hendrix, and here's Noel Redding, and here's the roadie from. . ."

They put them on the coffee table and took out the rest of their gear -- everything a person might need to make a plaster replica of the human weenus. We spent two or three hours talking with them. Neither of us volunteered to be 'immortalized.'

The Plaster-Casters were written up in various publications at that time. Probably as a result of this, our office received a portfolio from a guy who claimed to be doing something similar with female organs, casting them in silver. Very nice.

The material used for the molds in each case was the same stuff the dentist puts in your mouth for taking impressions of your teeth. It's a powder called alginate, which, when mixed with water, gets rubbery, and eventually hardens so that plaster can be poured into it.

The way the Plaster-Casters worked was, one of them would mix the goo while the other one gave the guy a blow job. As you can imagine, this sort of thing requires a scientific sense of timing. The blow-job girl had to take her mouth off the guy's dick at the precise moment the other one slammed the container full of glop onto the end of it, holding it there until it hardened enough to make a good mold. Cynthia wouldn't blow the guys; that was the other girl's assignment. Cynthia mixed the goo.

Meanwhile, the 'subject' had to concentrate on maintaining an erection, otherwise he wouldn't make a good impression.

When Hendrix was cast, Cynthia told me, he liked the glop so well, he fucked the mold.