Hello, sculpture vultures, and thank you for joining me today. I haven’t got much to report on a personal note this week because I’ve been skiving off and took a week’s holiday in Scotland. True to form, it rained absolutely cats and dogs the entire week. It seems to always happen the week before the kids go back to school. It’s like an annual thing now—you know, when the kids are returning, maybe that’s what forces everyone back into the shops to buy things like pencils. Maybe nobody would ever buy pencils if we didn’t have horrible weather that last week!

The only thing I’d say is that everyone in the south seemed to be bathing in sunshine, but unfortunately, we were continuously under a rain cloud. Still, we had quite a lot of fun, even in the rain. We pulled out our wet-weather gear—we’re quite hardy, you know—and made the best of it. We even went to the beach. There wasn’t a soul on the beach because it was like a monsoon, but you know what? It was bags of fun!

Before we get settled into today’s interview, which I’ve been looking forward to sharing with you for ages (we actually recorded it a few months ago), I just wanted to mention a public sculpture you might see if you’re in London, near Liverpool Street Station. The sculpture is by Yayoi Kusama, a Japanese artist—and I’m probably going to say her name completely incorrectly, so please forgive me! She produced her very first large-scale public monument, and it really is quite vast—about 300 feet tall. It’s called Infinite Accumulation, and it’s been commissioned as part of the Crossrail Art Project. I think it’s actually the last piece of work to come out of that project.

It’s like a huge web of floating stainless steel balls—quite bizarre, but also really lovely to look at. The interesting thing about it, and why I had to tell you, is that this is Kusama’s first monumental sculpture, and she’s 95 years old. Really, 95! I mean, for all of us who fear we’ve left things too long, or think it’s just too late for us, this has got to give us a kick up the backside, hasn’t it? That’s something to aim for!

She’s been sculpting and painting for many, many years. I think she’s always been an artist, but part of her story, which is really interesting, is that her recognition came incredibly late. She exhibited in many galleries during her lifetime, but her work wasn’t selling. She says it was liked by a niche audience, but it definitely wasn’t hitting the mainstream. And now, since 2012, she holds the amazing accolade of being the highest-earning female sculptor ever, and she’s recognised as the most important living artist to come out of Japan.

She has a really interesting life history. She’s struggled with mental illness for a very long time and has been living in an institution since the 1970s because she was suicidal. She has remained living there but goes to her studio every day to work, finding that it gives her balance—it’s the best of both worlds for her. In 2023, she outsold David Hockney at auction—one of her pieces sold for $80.9 million. Can you believe it? Yet, until around 2014, she wasn’t commanding serious prices. I think it was around 2014 when she was in her 80s. That’s the incredible thing!

In 2004, statistics showed her work was selling at auction for relatively little—just pennies compared to what it commanded a decade later. Even in the 2000s, she was in her 70s, which is when many people think about retiring, and then suddenly, in her 80s, the recognition she deserved finally arrived. In 2014, one of her pieces sold for $7.1 million, and she was over 80—probably about 85 by then!

I don’t mean to be ageist, but it changes my perspective on creativity. If you’re lucky enough to remain in good health for that long, it extends the timeframe for creativity. It makes you think that there’s no reason for creatives to ever retire. In fact, the longer we stay in the game, the more chance we have of people discovering us and getting what we’ve been trying to say. Sometimes it feels like you’re saying it to no one, but then suddenly, something shifts in the zeitgeist, and people start hearing you. I just think that’s such a wonderful story, and I had to share it with you today.

© Romany Mark Bruce – “Tay” Brighton & Hove AIDS Memorial

Lucy: Today, I’m speaking with artist and sculptor Romany Mark Bruce, who lives in Brighton and is probably most well-known for his public monument, the Brighton and Hove AIDS Memorial. I began our conversation today by asking him when he first knew he was a sculptor.

Romany: I believe I knew when I first started sculpting at an evening class. I felt more comfortable with it than anything else.

Lucy: So, you decided to take classes—were you feeling like something was missing in your life?

Romany: I was working very hard as a lawyer in London in the 1980s, and evening classes were something that everyone did. They were very accessible and inexpensive. I was obsessed with photography—I thought that was my passion. So, I went to sign up for photography classes, but they were full. I joined a sculpture class instead, thinking I could switch to photography later when people inevitably dropped out. But when I joined the sculpting class, I was overwhelmed. I thought, I have to do this. I only managed two terms because I was too busy with work. Later, when I moved to Brighton, the first thing I did was research sculpting evening classes because I knew that’s what I had to do.

Lucy: It was instant love, then?

Romany: Yes, absolutely instant. It wasn’t something that grew over time—it was very immediate. I quickly realised that although I was good at composition in photography, I wasn’t really interested in the darkroom, or in black-and-white photography. But nothing about sculpture frightened me. I felt very comfortable with it.

Lucy: Was there something familiar about it? Had you done any making before? It seems unusual to jump straight into sculpture.

Romany: I was always making things with my hands, but because I wasn’t good at drawing—or at least, I thought I wasn’t good at drawing—I believed many creative avenues were closed to me. After working with master sculptors, I realised I had a sense of volume, but I didn’t understand that at the time. I didn’t know what it was, but I could create a likeness in clay that I couldn’t achieve on paper.

Lucy: Yes, I think there are probably many creative people out there who’ve been put off because a teacher told them they were bad at drawing. They think that’s the be-all and end-all, but it’s not.

Romany: Exactly! I was shut down at school. I did art at O-level in my spare time and wanted to take it as an extra A-level. But the headmaster called me into his study and told me they had humoured me enough. He said art was for people who weren’t very bright, and that was the end of it. I was completely shut down. I think it’s quite common, but it makes you want to go back and say, Look what I almost didn’t do. Look what you made me miss. Actually, I’ll probably be seeing that headmaster at a school reunion garden party in September. He’s very old now, but I might remind him—though maybe that’s unkind!

Lucy: Yes, but sometimes things need to be pointed out. I got suspended from school for being seen with a boy while I was in uniform—he later became my husband! So, I feel like going back and saying, You stood in the way of true love! So when did you leave the law behind? When did you move towards becoming a professional? 

Romany: Well, I was working full-time in Brighton. I had been working full-time for a firm as a partner for 10 years when I was made redundant. I was 39, and on the Wednesday, the love of my life had left me and was moving out. Two days later, I was made redundant. For the next three weeks, we worked out the legalities because, let’s just say, it was a tricky redundancy. By the third week, I was devastated to lose my job. I love the law, and I still do, but I stood on the beach, and it was a sunny day in September. I was there with my dog, and I was listening to Beverley Knight’s Greatest Day of My Life. I thought, This is the greatest day of my life. I knew I could make changes, and my change was that I wanted more time to sculpt. I had been working such long hours in the studio after doing a full day’s work in the office. From that moment, I decided I would not work full-time again. When I say I wouldn’t work full-time, I mean I wouldn’t work full-time in the office anymore. I’d still work hard, but not like I had been. I gradually whittled down my hours. It wasn’t as though I was in a highly paid area of the law—it was clinical negligence and acquired brain injury, mostly legal aid—so it was a difficult decision to make. But I’ve never had any regrets—it was a brave decision to make.

Lucy: Because, actually, you know, common knowledge is that artists starve, or live in a garret, usually. But to go from a solid job to something quite precarious…

Romany: I was leaving behind security. My mother certainly wasn’t pleased! I was going from the security of a full-time job to being a consultant and a locum, flitting from job to job and not having any real security. I did eventually join a firm that allowed me to work as a consultant, and they were very accommodating. Without them, it would have been difficult to tread that path because they gave me a sense of security. We had a very frank discussion about what I wanted from life, and the senior partner said, “I understand that you don’t want to give your all to this firm, make lots of money, and attract clients. So how about you come in when you want, and when you don’t, you can sculpt?” It was very unusual, but yes, I have a lot of respect for him. Without Martin Diplock’s support, I think it would have been a much more difficult journey.

© Romany Mark Bruce – Sunbound

Photograph: Liz Good

Lucy: Yeah, that’s very much like the ideal patron, really. I mean, if you go back hundreds of years, that would have been a sort of patron relationship.

Romany: Yes, it was a very accommodating and powerful decision on his part because it’s not a decision most solicitors’ firms would make.

Lucy: Yeah, but I bet he got the best out of you because, actually, when you were there, you wanted to be there. He wasn’t chaining you to your desk.

Romany: That’s a very good point. And I loved the law. I loved every minute of my work. The part I was able to avoid was the partners’ meetings, admin, and reading memos. I always used to say, nothing to do with me—I don’t work here. And that worked for 17 years! I got away with it, and that made all the difference. I could do what I loved, and I didn’t have to deal with all the rubbish that usually causes people stress.

Lucy: Yes, and often that’s what drains the love out of creating something. If that creation has to pay all your bills, it’s a massive strain. Quite often, it’s the art that suffers because of that.

Romany: Absolutely. For instance, when I was working on Tay, the public AIDS Memorial in Brighton, I was, in effect, given two years to come and go as I pleased, doing very little legal work, and I wasn’t being paid during that time. Without that support, it would have been impossible to create the memorial in the way that I did.

Lucy: Tell the audience a little bit about that fantastic memorial in Brighton. It was significant for you in many ways, wasn’t it?

Romany: In every way—hugely significant. It changed the course of my artistic career, without a doubt. I was stopped in the street by a gentleman, James Ledward, who ran a gay magazine in Brighton. He was also the kingpin of the LGBT community. He pointed a finger at me and said, “I know who you are. I want a word with you.” I had no idea who this very large man was, but later he told me about a competition for an AIDS memorial to commemorate those who had died and those whose lives had been affected by HIV and AIDS. The competition had been going on for about eight months, maybe longer—perhaps a year, I can’t remember. I had just ten days to come up with a proposal, which I cobbled together very quickly. I happened to be in Pietra Santa at the time, which is the centre of the stone carving industry in northern Tuscany, Italy. I came up with something, won the public vote, and then spent the next two years designing it, creating it, dealing with planning applications—wearing my lawyer’s hat—and committees. It changed the course of my life, not immediately, but slowly.

Lucy: Do you think fate had a hand in that? Or do you not believe in fate?

Romany: No, I think things happen for a reason. Maybe it was fate. I believe my very good friend and soulmate, Paul Tay, who died of AIDS in 1992, has had a huge impact on everything I’ve done. For instance, I’ve already mentioned that when I was 39, I decided time is short, and I wanted to be a sculptor. I think Paul’s death had a big influence on that decision, and he was in his early 30s when it happened. So yes, maybe fate did have something to do with it.

Lucy: I was thinking about the inspirations you’ve used in your sculptures—both this one and your other works. Are there particular artists you draw upon for inspiration, or do you take inspiration from somewhere other than the arts?

Romany: Oh, I think it comes from all sorts of places. When I started sculpting, Rodin became an obsession. I’d say Bacon is a huge influence in painting, but I think a lot of it ties back to the law and my discipline within the law. Even when I was in school, I knew I wanted to do clinical negligence. Most of my legal career was based on anatomy—it was more medicine than law. My work involved creativity—playing with words and drafting documents—and it’s not as lacking in creativity as many people think. But most of my legal work dealt with the body and the brain. I think that’s fed into my sculptures because, even though they may be abstracted, they’re generally based on the human form. So, it’s not just artists who influence my work—it’s broader than that.

Lucy: Do you take time to pursue it? Do you spend time looking at sculpture?

Romany: Yes, definitely. I spend my time going to galleries, and I have a huge library of art books that I invest in. I don’t think you ever stop looking for inspiration. I don’t always understand where it comes from, but sometimes I’ll see a shape, or I’ll look at someone on the tube and think, Wow. You have to be careful, though—you can’t stare at people on the tube! Inspiration comes from everywhere. I have a noticeboard here, littered with scraps of paper and what looks like debris, and there’s an image I’ve had up there for years. Maybe it’ll translate into something one day, or maybe it already has. I don’t really know.

Lucy: I’ve read that you don’t approach your projects with a set plan.

Romany: I’m not a planner. I’m not a builder. In sculpting, that can cause problems with armatures. I’m very impatient—I want to start working quickly, and that can be an issue, especially when you’re working with clay. Throughout my career, I’ve had problems with armatures. I change direction, and it all falls apart, so I have to rebuild the armature—not necessarily from scratch, but I have to rework it from the bottom. That even happened with a public sculpture I worked on for three months—the armature collapsed around me, and half a ton of clay came crashing down because the armature wasn’t strong enough. That was down to inexperience more than anything else. But generally, the clay or the stone speaks to me. I’m not going to sit and plan everything out on paper or build an intricate maquette—that just doesn’t work for me.

Lucy: So, you trust in the process, in things emerging?

Romany: Yes, and that means there are lots of mistakes, but I’m fine with that. If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work—it’s failed for a reason. I just start again. One cut with the palette knife can change everything, and when that happens, I feel a kind of soaring sensation. It sounds ridiculous, but something sort of takes over, and I can’t anticipate when or if that will happen. But when it does, I just have to go with it. It’s like a big wave sweeping me along, and I don’t have a choice but to follow where it takes me.

© Romany Mark Bruce – Troubled

Photograph: Liz Good

Lucy: But you don’t cling to those mistakes—you don’t say, Oh no, I’ve ruined it. You just keep moving forward.

Romany: Exactly. There isn’t really such a thing as a mistake. It happens for a reason. I destroy a lot of my work, but it’s not because I’ve made a mistake—it’s just part of the process of getting there. I’d rather work on three pieces at once than battle with one. One of them will work because I flit from one to the other. I work in a very chaotic, manic fashion, but it works for me.

Lucy: Absolutely, I can understand that mindset. Unfortunately, I’m quite linear—doing things in sequence doesn’t exist in my world. So, is your art a place where you can release your shadow side? Do you let your dark horse run wild?

Romany: That’s an interesting question. Yes and no. My darkest moments come when I’m creating. For me, sculpting and painting are peaks and troughs. The peaks in sculpting are higher, and the troughs are lower, than in painting because I believe I’m a sculptor, not a painter. Sculpting is who I am, and painting is where I am at that particular time. The troughs are very significant. I don’t think I’ve ever felt as low as I have when I’m sculpting, but the peaks make up for it. The soaring sensation is indescribable, and sometimes it’s frightening. I feel a reluctance to go there because it’s a difficult place to be. I’m generally a happy, positive, and optimistic person, but when I’m in those sculpting troughs, I feel desperate and useless.

Lucy: I wonder if you can’t reach those highs without experiencing the lows. It might be some kind of rebalancing in the universe—like the gods won’t let you get too high.

Romany: I completely agree. I couldn’t have the highs without the lows, so the lows are worth it. But when I’m in the trough, it’s dark and desperate. I know I’ll always come out of it, so it’s fine. But those troughs aren’t as deep in painting as they are in sculpting, which is why I feel I’m a sculptor, not a painter. The lows can be scary, but I know they’re transient—they’ll pass.

Lucy: It’s hard to remember that when you’re in a low moment—to remember that the sun might come out again.

Romany: There was one time when I locked myself away for about three days, feeling desperate. Then, I just started laughing because I thought, What a Nelly! You’ve really got to get over yourself. This is just silly—you’re being an idiot. And I ended up laughing, and there was a slight mania to it.

Lucy: You gave yourself a good talking-to and got on with it.

Romany: Yes, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s not a complaint—I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I am really interested in this division between sculpture and painting that you’ve mentioned because you seem to say, When I’m not sculpting, I’ll paint, and you get on with it. It’s not a struggle for you, thinking, I should be sculpting because I’m really a sculptor.

It is a problem. About five years ago, my mother passed away, and I had to make some changes in my life. I wanted to return to sculpting. So, I decided to go and live in Pietra Santa—the place I mentioned earlier, in northern Tuscany. It sounds dramatic, but I’d been looking for a sculpting studio where painting and sculpture could be kept separate. Sculpting is a different space for me. So, in a rather dramatic move, I left the country and painting behind—which was my livelihood at the time—and went to live in northern Tuscany. I don’t think I’ve ever been as content as I was sculpting on the side of a drizzly mountain with hand tools. But then the pandemic hit, and I had to drive 1,000 miles home with my dog because it all kicked off in northern Tuscany. But I can’t do both painting and sculpting—there isn’t enough room in my head. I have to choose one or the other. I had a friend who approached me when I was sculpting, and he hadn’t known me as anything other than a painter. He stood in front of me, but I couldn’t acknowledge him—it was as if I wouldn’t or couldn’t connect with him. He pointed out how different I am when I’m sculpting. So, I can’t do both because I’m very obsessive. When I’m painting, I’m painting all the time. When I’m sculpting, I’m sculpting all the time. So yes, I can’t do both. I wish I could. I wish life was easier.

Lucy: No, life’s never easy. Does painting pay the bills more easily than sculpture?

Romany: Yes, without a doubt. Paintings are easier to transport, easier to understand. Many people are intimidated by sculpture. I’m sure you’ll recognise that people often look at a sculpture and ask, Where would we put it? Volume is harder to accommodate than something flat on a wall. But with a painting, they don’t discuss which wall they’ll put it on—if they like it, they’ll buy it. For many reasons—transport, insurance, galleries—accommodating paintings is much easier. It’s less problematic to sell paintings.

Lucy: That must be annoying.

Romany: It is, but I love both disciplines so much that I can’t complain about painting. I adore painting, and I’ve never painted to please anyone but myself. I don’t paint what sells because I believe that can destroy you. When I’m painting, I love it so much that I can’t think of doing anything else. So, I’m happy with whatever I’m doing. I’m very lucky.

Lucy: You’re not the kind of sculptor who only works in bronze—you’ve used lots of different materials, some quite unusual. Do you want to tell us a little about that?

Romany: Well, I don’t do my own bronze casting, but I’ve done lots of casting in acrylic resin, bronze resin, and even in old-school cement fondue when I started. In those casts, I’ve used different materials in the negative spaces. I remember one day driving home from my evening class when I noticed lots of broken glass on the road while someone was being put into an ambulance. So, I parked up and waited until the ambulance had gone. Then, I swept up all the broken glass and started using it in my sculptures. It was probably a bit inappropriate for a personal injury lawyer to be seen watching an ambulance, but then I used to get autoglassz companies to save me their broken windscreens from accidents. I used that for years, but it was a lot of work. I had to pick out all the bits of fluff and detritus by putting the glass in a big bucket and letting everything float to the top. I also used chopped copper, inspired by an Andy Warhol exhibition where he used copper. He called it Copper and Piss because he’d urinated on the copper to oxidise it. My mother, being a very strict Presbyterian, was not pleased. I wanted her to come to an exhibition where the materials would be bronze resin, copper, and piss—but I can tell you, it didn’t work! I had to use acid instead.

© Romany Mark Bruce – Untitled

Photograph: Liz Good

Lucy: I was going to say, you probably had to use sulphate or something!

Romany: Yes, that’s exactly what I had to use. But it was fun.

Lucy: That’s an aspect of creativity, isn’t it? Looking at materials differently—not just seeing a shattered windscreen, but asking what else it could be. Reusing materials isn’t always easy, especially for conservators down the line, because materials with multiple lives tend to degrade in complex ways. So you’re not thinking about future conservators, but in terms of the artwork itself, it’s magnificent.

Romany: I’ve cast some pieces solely in resin mixed with broken glass. I have to confess that one of the sculptures—someone had it as a torso in hot sunlight—completely disintegrated the other year. I don’t think I can do anything about it, but they were fine with it—they’d enjoyed it for many years.

Lucy: People often think sculptures are so robust, but they wouldn’t dream of treating a painting the way they treat a sculpture because it seems so solid. But actually, it’s often an illusion.

Lucy: Have you thought about creating other public monuments? Is that an area you’d like to pursue further?

Romany: I’ve been approached a few times. There was one project that might not come off, because these things are always very challenging. I was asked to sculpt another AIDS memorial, but that was problematic because I’ve already delivered my message, and I wasn’t prepared to deliver a different one. That would have been disingenuous. If the right project came along, I’d be open to it, but I wouldn’t enter every competition that comes my way. Tay was such a labour of love, and it was so closely connected to my friend Paul Tay, who passed away, that I think I would struggle to feel as motivated about another memorial. But if something comes along that sparks my interest, I’d consider it. I just need to feel fired up about it.

Lucy: I wondered whether maybe a monument for Northern Ireland would interest you? Given your background, might that be something of interest?

Romany: Very much so, yes. When I was thinking about the memorial I would create, I certainly looked at one of the sculptures in Belfast. There’s one there of a woman being blown off her feet, which is very distressing. In contrast, I also thought about the JFK Memorial outside the courthouse in Dallas, where I lived and worked for a year. One is incredibly calm and serene, while the other is very challenging. That’s how I approached my design—thinking of other public sculptures, particularly the one in Belfast. I didn’t want mine to be distressing; I wanted it to be positive and uplifting, which is why I came to the design I did.

Lucy: It seems like people really resonate with it, doesn’t it? It seems to bring people together. Whatever magic you put into that, it really works. I can understand why another project might be difficult—it’s a lot to live up to.

Romany: Yes, it was very emotional for so many reasons. It had always been my ambition to create and work on a public sculpture, but it wasn’t something I ever shared with anyone. I don’t like sharing my ambitions because I think people might feel you’re overstretching or overreaching yourself.

Lucy: There’s a book on the horizon—Sculpting in Colour. Can you tell us a little bit about that?

Romany: Yes, I was approached by publishers last year. It started off as a monograph, but it has turned into a short biography written by a very respected author, Alex Leith. It’s essentially a story of my life—well, my artistic journey. My artistic career has been influenced by things that have happened in my life—perhaps things that weren’t always good, like my friend Paul’s death—but I’ve managed to turn those experiences into something positive. The book is a collection of my work over the last 30 years, both sculptures and paintings. The reason for the title Sculpting in Colour is that, although I paint, I consider myself primarily a sculptor. I just happen to paint, but at heart, I’m a sculptor. That’s the narrative of the book.

I also have a two-week exhibition in Hoxton, London, along with the launch of the book at the end of September. It’s a collection I started 18 months ago, and I’m continuing with that painting. After that, I think it will be time to set painting aside and go back to sculpting—at least, that’s my projection.

Lucy: Can you tell people where they might be able to find out more about you?

Romany: My website is romanymarkbruce.com, and my Instagram is artist.romanymarkbruce. I’m quite active on Instagram these days, and I update it several times a week, so people can see a lot of my work there.

Lucy: Well, thank you so much for joining me today. I really appreciate it.

Romany: Thank you. I’ve enjoyed it.

Lucy: I knew the AIDS Memorial in Brighton long before I knew Romany Mark Bruce’s story or about his other work, his paintings. I think that memorial really stays with people and means an awful lot to them. I can see why he’s been approached to do another, but also why he hasn’t rushed into doing another monument like it—it would be a hard act to follow. I love his anecdote about how that commission found him. It feels like the right person was found for that job, and how things just fell into place for him. I’m sure if he had slaved over it for three years, he wouldn’t have come up with a better monument than the one he completed in such a short window of time.

I also appreciate how honest he was about his character. I love how he said, Life binned him. I’m sure many of us know how that feels. First, a terrible breakup, and two days later, being made redundant—it’s like a message from the universe to stop everything and reflect. And he did just that. He stood still, literally on a beach, and decided to let go of his secure law job. He did continue in law for sure, and I imagine he’s downplaying it when he says he returned to freelance work—I bet he was exceptional at it. But I think the fact that he, in that moment, freed himself from law and committed to sculpture in a way he couldn’t have done otherwise is what’s key here.

I also admire how he’s accepted the chaotic way he works. He’s accepted that he’s someone who makes tons of mistakes with his sculpture, but he keeps moving forward. He doesn’t look back at the time he spent on all the mistakes or on the pieces that didn’t make it into the final work. He just says, That’s part of the process. It’s like shedding, and he trusts that he’ll find that perfect cut, and he knows when he’s got it.

Painting pays him better than sculpture, but it’s clear that his identity is much closer to that of a sculptor. And yet, if you look at his Instagram page, his paintings are really beautiful. You can see why he has such a following of people who love his paintings.

What I found interesting is that he said he doesn’t paint what sells—he takes the harder road, but that road seems to suit him perfectly and continues to inspire him. So, you can pre-order his book on Amazon, as I have. I’m sure it will be available from many other outlets too. I’ve seen some fantastic shots of the book—the printing looks really beautiful. It’s called Sculpting in Colour by Romany Mark Bruce, along with Alex Leith, and it’s published by Unicorn.

His exhibition is from Friday, 20th September onwards, and the Sculpting in Colour book launch is on 19th September at the Batsford Gallery on Hackney Road, Hoxton.

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