They say you can measure a sculpture's status by figuring out who vandalizes it. And when it comes to public art at University Park, not all prominent monuments are created equal.

There's a reason the Lion Ambassadors guard the Nittany Lion Shrine on Homecoming weekend, while no such supervision is afforded a certain long-suffering red statue at the foot of HUB lawn.

Most newcomers to campus this fall can easily recognize the university's limestone mascot when they see it but even veteran students are perplexed by the giant steel artwork overlooking East College Avenue.

"The Fighting Red Onion Head, or F.R.O.H., has never been fully appreciated by the residents of Atherton Hall or anyone on this campus," said Adam Kapp (junior-psychology), whose dorm is only steps away from the embattled sculpture.

Last spring, Kapp directed a popular student-written comedy based on lighter moments in the history of Atherton.

During the play, the narrator recounts a top ten list — composed by former students -- of alternate uses for their oversized inanimate neighbor with the irreverent nickname. Kapp remarks that it wasn't long after the artwork was installed that it became a popular target by local pranksters.

And at least one recent opinion column has appeared, proposing a creative demolition of the "eyesore."

After 12 years on campus, the "Fighting Red Onion Head" is still a bit of a mystery.

On March 31, 1988, workers from the Office of Physical Plant erected the red and yellow structure at its current site. The new art baffled, disgusted and amused the first passers-by to notice the new arrival.

Two weeks later, the dedication ceremony at the Palmer Museum of Art cleared up some of the confusion. On hand were art philanthropists Philip and Muriel Berman, of Hess's Department Store fame, who donated the piece to the university. It turned out to be the work of the prolific Israeli artist Igael Tumarkin, born in 1933 in Germany.

By the time the dedication took place it was already clear the sculpture was causing a stir, but the speakers seemed hopeful, affirming its overall benefit to Penn State.

"The sculpture is far less conservative than we generally are. It's bringing us into the '80s," Penn State Trustee Mimi Coppersmith (now Fredman) was reported to have said, much to the delight of the audience.

It seems the Bermans and Tumarkin weren't unaccustomed to dealing with outcries over their collaborations. Less than two years earlier, in the patrons' home town of Allentown, some residents chafed at the appearance of striking new public art donated by the couple — works which some found not so aesthetically pleasing or appropriately placed.

At Penn State, student representatives from the Undergraduate Student Government went so far as to pass a resolution asking the university to relocate the new Tumarkin sculpture.

Mr. Berman defended the piece and its permanent home.

"Any institution that has space needs sculpture," he told The Penn Stater in 1989. "It raises the understanding level of the students. They will face public sculpture in their lives. They don't have to like it, but they need to learn to understand it."

Nothing was ever done to enact USG's proposal, and relocation requests over the years haven't been taken as seriously. But Berman's call to arms still poses a challenge.

To begin with, what is the piece actually called?

Any written identification of the art is absent from the site. Beverly Balger, registrar of exhibitions for the museum, said that this seeming omission is rarely questioned.

After reviewing past press releases, she referenced a decision by Sanford Shaman, then director of the museum, to leave the location empty of any one analysis for the piece so as to allow for a diversity of interpretations.

Tumarkin originally identified the sculpture as "Homage to Capa," Balger said.

Nowhere on the Penn State or museum Web sites does this title appear, but the "Fighting Red Onion Head" moniker does pop up a few times among the online pages of the Penn State Monty Python Society.

Even without getting the name correct, many residents and visitors to campus have made the connection between the huge red silhouette and "Falling Soldier," a famous photograph taken by Robert Capa in September 1936 during the Spanish Civil War.

Traveling close to the front, Capa captured the harrowing image of a 24-year-old Spanish mill worker a moment after the militiaman was fatally shot. Only frames earlier, the photographer had been snapping pictures of him crouched and aiming his rifle beside fellow Republican troops.

The image is iconic in its raw depiction of war. But how should viewers respond when that image becomes literally embedded in a place where most people would rather toss a Frisbee or play with their dogs than ponder such weighty matters?

For those who don't ignore the sculpture, there has been the option of messing with it. Students walking to class along the nearby path each morning will sometimes notice new touches of spray paint, assorted stickers affixed to the head, or even — as was the case last October — see that someone had tried to disarm the sculpture by stealing the rifle.

In a college town where street signs are a valued decorating motif and certain forms of vandalism are considered creative expression, none of this is new.

Thanks, no doubt, to OPP's maintenance efforts, the artwork always manages to emerge unscathed.

There are still no plans to add a plaque to inform casual observers of the name and artist. And, according to Kapp, it doesn't look like the sculpture's more popular nickname will fade from the oral tradition any time soon.