When I was a child, my father was 15 feet tall. And he had a beard. And an agenda. Often accompanied by a list of jobs for us, every one of which my sister believed violated all past, present, and future child labor laws. Dad was very good at that cool foreshortened pointing thing with his hand, as that was usually the easiest way to get the grumbling children back in line and focused on doing the dishes instead of reading.
Admittedly, he did not wear a robe and sandals. Still, when I passed this fountain in Rome last summer, my first thought was, "Dad?!"