by Frank Frazetta (2010)
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You turn the page, and there he is: the Death Dealer, astride his snarling black steed, mace raised against a storm-lashed sky, his one good eye glaring like a demon unchained. Lightning cracks across the canvas, illuminating every bulge of muscle, every scar on that armored behemoth, and suddenly your pulse hammers as if you’re charging into the fray yourself. That’s Icon: A Retrospective by the Grand Master of Fantastic Art by Frank Frazetta slamming into you—no gentle introduction, just pure, visceral power that yanks you from your chair and hurls you into a world of barbaric thunder.
Flip through, and it’s a gallery of conquests. Early sketches explode into icons like Conan the Slayer, where the Cimmerian hews through frost giants, blood spraying across snow, his blue eyes feral under that raven mane. Or Against the Gods, with naked warriors tumbling from a cliff into abyss, bodies twisted in desperate fury, wind whipping their hair like Medusa’s snakes. Frazetta’s women hit harder—The Barbarian lounging triumphant, her curves oiled and defiant, or the sorceress in Fire Demon, flames licking her thighs as she summons hell itself. Each image throbs with motion; you feel the sweat, hear the clash of steel, taste the metallic tang of battle. It’s dread-soaked wonder, the rush of primal urges unbound, where beauty and brutality fuck in the shadows.
What sets Icon apart? Frazetta didn’t illustrate stories—he birthed them. Other fantasy artists prettify elves and dragons; he unleashes raw savagery that makes Howard’s Conan leap off the page, muscles straining like coiled pythons, landscapes alive with threat. This retrospective traces his evolution from pulp covers—Tarzan swinging through jungles, John Carter battling green Martians—to masterpieces like Brain and Dark Kingdom, where shadows swallow heroes whole. It’s not static art; it’s a fever dream you sweat through, every brushstroke pulsing with the erotic violence that shaped heavy metal posters and games like God of War. Sure, it echoes in Vallejo’s heirs, but Frazetta was the thunder they chase.
If you hoarded those yellowed Ace Conan paperbacks, mesmerized by covers that promised apocalypse, or if Boris Vallejo’s gleam makes your heart race but leaves you hungry for more grit, this is your fix—Icon feeds the beast inside.
Grab Icon tonight; one glance at the Death Dealer, and you’ll never see fantasy the same way again.
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