Welcome to Sculpture Vulture. I’m Lucy Branch, a sculptural conservator and author who is endlessly fascinated by public sculpture. This podcast brings you a series of interviews with sculptors and other fascinating people involved in the field that inspires me—and I hope will inspire you too. You can find photographs accompanying each episode and the show notes at sculpturevulture.co.uk.

Hello, Sculpture Vultures! Thank you for joining me today. Has it been cold enough for you lately? Let me tell you—everyone who tells me during the summer months that I have the best job in the world should come and work with us on days like we’ve had this week. My goodness, our team is super hardy.

We invest in good clothing that can handle tough weather, but believe me, even those of you working in drafty foundries or unheated studios don’t know how lucky you are. You’ve got a roof, you’ve got walls—those are luxuries we conservators working in situ can only dream of!

Anyway, we’ve had a pretty good couple of weeks, catching up on all the items we put on hold while focusing on our Remembrance Day works. It’s a nice time of year because by December, you feel like you’ve caught up and can focus on the projects that need completing before the Christmas and New Year break.

We always take a lovely break between Christmas and New Year because, essentially, the industry shuts down during that time. It’s so much better than the summer holidays when you return to a mountain of work and emails because nobody else has been off. At Christmas, everyone takes a break at the same time, so when you come back, you don’t feel buried under an avalanche of to-dos.

In sculpture news, I came across an article about Andy Scott, the UK’s very own creator of the much-loved Kelpies. He’s just completed a new work for Minnesota, inspired by the loon bird, their national bird. It’s constructed in a similar style to the Kelpies using his distinctive shipbuilding technique.

This sculpture is another colossus, though not quite as large as our Kelpies. It stands at an impressive 11 metres high and 30 metres long—or, in old money, 36 feet high and 100 feet wide. Definitely substantial, though not as towering as the Kelpies.

The reason I mention it isn’t to debate its artistic merits—I think we might have the edge with the Kelpies! It’s a wonderful piece, but I wanted to talk about some of the old criticisms of public sculpture that have surfaced again. These criticisms tend to rear their ugly heads from time to time, and since they’re so close to my heart, I thought it was worth discussing them.

For context, the sculpture is situated in Midway, an area that has faced many challenges in recent years. It’s a community with significant social problems, and it’s most infamously known as the location of George Floyd’s tragic death during his arrest. The sculpture has been installed outside the new Minnesota United Football Stadium, but it has drawn criticism for not addressing the social issues of the area.

Andy Scott responded to the criticism well, in my opinion. He said the city needs help in many ways, but this sculpture is about enhancing the environment—a catalyst for further improvement. Social issues, he pointed out, aren’t really the remit of the artist.

It’s important to note that this sculpture wasn’t funded by the public purse—it was a private commission by the football stadium. No public money was used for its creation. Yet, it has still faced backlash for not addressing the area’s social issues.

I find it fascinating—and frustrating—that something beautiful and culturally significant can strike a sour note simply because it’s placed in a troubled area. The prevailing attitude seems to be that art and beauty don’t belong in such spaces, and any available funds, no matter their source, should instead be spent on solving social problems in a purely practical way.

It’s a funny thing, because I kind of understand the sentiment, but the logic just doesn’t hold up for me. Public sculpture does solve some social problems, but it does so in its own way—it can’t address issues in the same way that, say, providing job training can. However, anywhere that draws a crowd, anywhere that gathers people, tends to attract business. And with that comes employment, which benefits the neighbourhood. It’s not going to solve all the problems, but it’s definitely a piece of the puzzle.

I also think that art in public spaces is held to a much higher standard than it would be in a gallery. It’s strange, isn’t it? We don’t walk around the Tate demanding that the sculptures there solve housing inequality or provide safer neighbourhoods. Yet, the moment a sculpture is placed in a public space, it seems like there’s this expectation that it must justify its existence by being “worthy.” It’s as if public art has to prove itself as a good investment by tackling social issues, and there’s something about that mindset that really doesn’t sit well with me.

It feels like a kind of porridge-over-jam mentality—puritanical and old-fashioned. And what’s striking is that these sentiments aren’t just coming from an older generation; they’re voiced by people of all ages. This attitude seems especially prevalent in areas like Midway, where public sculpture is placed in communities with significant challenges. I can say that with confidence because I’ve worked in many similar areas.

I find it so strange that in our modern world, where moral rigidity has largely faded from most aspects of life, art still seems to be held to this lofty, almost moralistic standard. Somehow, art has to answer to something “higher.”

It also feels so odd to me to criticise someone who has simply done their job. Take me out of the equation for a moment, as I work with public sculpture. Imagine someone going to their job, putting their heart and soul into it, and doing their absolute best. At the end of the day, nobody would turn around and say, “You did a great job, but you didn’t solve any social problems today.” Unless you’re in a role like social work, teaching, or policing, most jobs aren’t about directly addressing societal issues—but that doesn’t invalidate the work.

I think it’s such a peculiar way of thinking, and yet it’s how public sculpture is so often viewed.

Someone who hasn’t had to deal with these kinds of moral debates is my guest today, Raoul Pratley. (A nice segue there, don’t you think?) He’s a British figurative sculptor with a contemporary style inspired by the classical. Most of his work so far has been privately commissioned, but recently, he took on a very public commission that put all eyes on his capabilities.

The subject? None other than Queen Elizabeth II. The sculpture is situated in Rutland, in the East Midlands. It was a bold move for Raoul, but I believe he pulled it off beautifully. The piece has been well received and, in my opinion, is a real triumph.

I began our conversation today by asking him if there was ever a possibility that he wouldn’t become a sculptor.

© Hywel Pratley – Torso, 2010

Hywel: Oh, I was a teacher. I was a secondary school English teacher before I really started focusing on sculpture. I didn’t ever really know what I wanted to do or be. When I left school, the only thing I did know was that I wanted to travel. After doing an English degree, the quickest way to combine the two—travel and a career—was to teach English abroad.

The first job I applied for was teaching English in China. I went there for about a year and a half, then spent the rest of those two years travelling around Southeast Asia and India. It was about a desire to get lost—lost in language and culture. I wanted to go somewhere where I wouldn’t understand the language or even recognise the alphabet. It had to be somewhere like Greece or East Asia, where the script wasn’t Roman. So, I ended up in China.

When I came home, I drifted a bit and found an office job. It was fun in some ways—it gave me a salary and enabled me to live in London—but it didn’t ignite any passion. So, I started taking an evening class in sculpture in my twenties. That class was so inspiring—it helped me realise that I wanted to be a sculptor, or at least work more closely with sculpture.

But I couldn’t just quit my job and sit in a room with a bag of clay. I decided to do a PGCE and qualify as a secondary school teacher. That way, I’d have a stable career to fall back on while I pursued sculpture. It felt like a smart move because teaching is always in demand. It gave me a sense of freedom to explore sculpture without the pressure of financial insecurity.

There was always a sense of security knowing that a couple of years down the line, I could step away and try sculpting full-time. It all started with an evening class, and then, when I was about 30, I went to Florence to study sculpture full-time. But I think there’s still a teacher in me. To answer your question about purpose, I think it’s to sculpt and to teach—not necessarily to teach sculpture, but there’s definitely a teacher’s instinct in me. I am half Welsh, after all!

Lucy: I had this feeling when I was looking at your work that there’s a sort of duality to it. Your enthusiasm for teaching seems significant, like you really get something out of it.

Hywel: In a way, yes. I’m not teaching at the moment, and any students who are cross with me for that might think I shouldn’t say this, but teaching has been the only time in my life where I’ve truly felt like I was doing something worthwhile.

That said, with recent work, I’ve been finding balance. I’m finally feeling that it is worthwhile to be making sculpture. In the early years of being a sculptor, it was very fulfilling to create, but it felt like a personal pleasure. Now, having public sculptures—pieces that are permanently outside for people to see—gives me a sense of purpose I hadn’t felt before.

It’s wonderful, satisfying, and flattering when someone buys a piece of your sculpture and loves it enough to want to see it every day. But to be commissioned for something public—it’s another level. When your work is completely out of your hands and open to public judgment, it feels more grown-up, more significant.

Education, though—that’s something truly special. When you share knowledge with someone and empower them in that way, it’s one of the only things in life that can’t be taken from them. You can take away material possessions, but you can’t take away someone’s understanding or learning. That’s just a beautiful thing.

I’ve had teachers in my family, and I’ve always had deep respect for that role. A good teacher in your life—particularly during childhood—is something that stays with you forever. Education is such a wonderful, important thing.

Lucy: Was public sculpture on your mind at the start of your career, or were you more focused on making things and selling them?

Hywel: It was always a tiny, far-off, shining hope—a dream or ambition. I didn’t dare think it could actually happen, but I thought, How wonderful it would be if it did.

Lucy: It’s really hard to allow yourself to dream big like that, isn’t it? It can almost feel arrogant to dream too big. But if you don’t have those little dreams tucked away, there’s no way they’ll ever come out.

Hywel: That’s true. Depending on your personality, dreaming big can feel like it’s for someone else—like those heights, those goals, belong to other people. You think, Somebody else will take care of that. Somebody else has the character to do it. But then, why can’t I have a go at it? Why can’t I try?

Lucy: Even admitting it to yourself can be hard, let alone stating it out loud.

Hywel: Absolutely. I used to believe—and I still sort of do—that if you really want something, you shouldn’t talk about it. I said that to someone once, and they told me, With all due respect, that’s absolute rubbish. They said, How are you supposed to manifest something if you don’t talk about it? And that made me think, Maybe I’m wrong about that. Maybe I should start externalising these desires, talking about them in conversations.

It’s like creating your own luck. When you put something out there, when you start talking about it, you give it shape and form. Suddenly, opportunities start to emerge.

It’s about figuring out, How can I put this puzzle together? I used to think, perhaps out of misguided modesty, that you could achieve more by keeping your ambitions to yourself. But now I realise that’s not practical. You have to keep aiming for your goals. And yes, it sounds a bit “woo-woo” to talk about manifesting things, but we all know that luck tends to come to those who work the hardest.

Lucy: I agree, but I think there’s something inherently “woo-woo” about creating anything. If you try to break it down into logical steps, the process of creation is still a bit strange. There’s this energy and excitement that comes with bringing something into the world, and it’s hard to put into words. People often don’t understand what you mean when you talk about it.

Hywel: Absolutely. Sometimes I think about the statue of Queen Elizabeth that I finished this year and the process that happened in my studio. I look at the tiny space—a metre and a half square—where I built her, and I can’t believe it all happened there. It’s astonishing. But when you break it down, it’s just step by step: you do one thing, then the next, then the next. You ask for help when you need it, take the piece to the foundry, and so on. It’s magical, really.

Moulding Queen Elizabeth II. Photo credit: instagram.com/hywelpratleysculpture

Lucy: Tell us how that commission came about.

Hywel: I was incredibly lucky. I work with a foundry in Leicestershire, the Le Blanc Foundry in Melton Mowbray. Very soon after Queen Elizabeth passed away, the Lord Lieutenant of Rutland visited the foundry. He asked if they could recommend someone to sculpt a statue of the Queen.

Since the foundry is the closest to Rutland’s county town and I’m one of the few portrait sculptors they work with, they approached me. They asked if I might be interested, and I just bit their hand off—I didn’t hesitate for a second.

I think they were a bit surprised by my enthusiasm. They asked, Are you sure? It’s quite a daunting project. But I was adamant. I told them, Absolutely—I’m sure. Give it to me! Even when I spoke to friends and they questioned if I was ready, I thought, What’s the worst that can happen? Yes, there are scary answers to that question, but I couldn’t ignore such an incredible opportunity.

We agreed to get started, and by October 2022, I was working on maquettes. Within five or six weeks, the maquettes were ready, and fundraising for the project began in January 2023. About 14 months later, on what would have been Queen Elizabeth’s birthday in April 2024, the statue was unveiled in Oakham.

The process was very methodical. Once the maquette was approved, I used it as my guide to scale up. I built a steel and aluminium armature in my studio, but I made the mistake of constructing it on a piece of 18mm plywood with four wheels from Screwfix.

After about six or seven weeks, with 600 kilos of clay on it, the whole thing refused to move. The plywood was bowing badly, and I realised I couldn’t finish the sculpture unless I could turn it. I could see the front and back well enough, but I couldn’t access the sides.

Luckily, my friend Patrick, a welder who works in the arches near my studio in West London, came to the rescue. He designed a turntable using a single Audi wheel bearing, which could withstand tons of weight.

Once it was ready, we jacked the statue up bit by bit, placing wooden blocks underneath until we could slide the metal turntable in. I recorded the whole thing on a time-lapse. The moment we removed the blocks and gave the statue a gentle push, she spun around effortlessly—like a dancer. It was one of the most elegant, delightful moments of my life.

After finishing the clay, Naomi Edwards came to help me make the moulds, which took about 15 to 20 days. Then, the foundry began the three-month bronze casting process.

Lucy: I mean, it really is a triumph.

Hywel: The statue?

Lucy: Yes, the statue. Looking at sculpture all day, which is what I do, sometimes you see pieces where all the intention is there—it’s good, it’s positive, there are talented people involved—but something just doesn’t work. And the public spots it immediately.

That’s why having public opinion involved can sometimes be helpful. It can act as a kind of course correction if something isn’t quite right. The people creating it are often so deeply involved that they can’t always see it clearly.

Hywel: Yeah, absolutely.

Lucy: But this? It’s so well done. I love the little extras, like the corgis. There’s something wonderful about how it all combines.

Hywel: Thank you. I really think that any success the corgis bring to the piece is down to the wonderful stonemasonry. The stone base and its design were crucial to bringing my vision for the bronze to life. The masons at Palmers of Oakham, working with a team of architects, created an elegant, simple base that includes the bench.

The corgis could have been placed on the ground, and I think that would have worked. But having the second and third corgis on the bench invites interaction with the public. It’s a balance—you don’t want to force interaction, but this setup feels natural. The queen herself is elevated to convey majesty and regality, but the corgis bring an approachable element.

I could have had corgis at three levels, but I went for two. I’m very grateful to the team in Oakham who helped shape that vision. The setting, in the green and welcoming library gardens, really embraces the statue beautifully.

Interestingly, the corgis weren’t part of the original brief. I was simply asked to sculpt a statue of the Queen. But immediately, I thought, She’s got to have a corgi by her side.

As I began visualising the statue in the park, the idea grew—I thought, How fun would it be to have corgis scattered about? I would’ve loved to include about twenty of them! But I suggested a second corgi, and they agreed. Then I floated the idea of a third corgi, and again they said yes.

Everyone I consulted after that said, Two corgis isn’t enough—you need three. So, I just kept adding them. I didn’t even adjust my fee, which might explain why they were so happy with my suggestions! In the end, I think the corgis are a really important part of the statue’s success.

Lucy: Oh, absolutely—they work so well. Do you think this commission has made a difference to your career? Are you busier now because of it, or has everything stayed the same?

Hywel: No, it’s definitely opened up new opportunities. But with large commissions like statues, you have to think in terms of years ahead. It’s a long game.

That can be stressful in its own way. You find yourself wondering, Did I do anything meaningful today? I love deadlines, you see. I’m sure almost everyone you’ve spoken to, Lucy, has told you the same thing. We all thrive on deadlines.

When something is scheduled for two years—or even a year and a half—down the line, it’s hard to gauge whether you’re being effective in the moment. You feel productive when the deadline is looming, but when it’s far away, you sometimes wonder if you’re doing enough.

There’s groundwork that needs doing in the maquette stage. A maquette is small and, in a way, non-threatening to the client—both financially and conceptually. But it still takes a lot of time to create. I’m trying to figure out the business side of that: how to make it practical and fair for both me and the client.

Over the span of two years, you can’t charge a full salary for a sculpture, so you have to think about what’s realistic and how to organise your calendar effectively.

Queen Elizabeth II, Oakham Library Gardens, Rutland. Photo credit: instagram.com/hywelpratleysculpture

Lucy: Is that why you’ve stepped back from teaching? Or was that always going to happen?

Hywel: No, I stopped teaching because I knew the Queen statue was going to take up so much of my time. And since then, other work has presented itself—very soon after the unveiling of the Queen statue, actually.

I thought, I need to give this a proper go, so I decided not to return to teaching. Also, I found a fantastic replacement for myself at the lovely local community centre in West London. They’re a brilliant sculptor and are doing a great job, so I don’t feel too much pressure to go back to teaching right now.

Never say never, though. I’m sure teaching will happen again at some point, but for now, I need to focus on these new opportunities and give them the attention they deserve.

Lucy: When you’re not actively working on a final piece, like for your next project, are you searching for inspiration? Or is it something you’re constantly drawing on? Do you look at other sculptors’ work, read, or do something else?

Hywel: Inspiration is unpredictable—you never know when it’s going to strike. I find exhibitions incredibly inspiring, and they don’t necessarily have to be sculpture exhibitions. Any artist with an interesting vision can spark something.

Instagram can also be a great source of inspiration. But I’ll admit, sometimes it’s overwhelming. It’s like an all-you-can-eat buffet that becomes too much—it can literally give me a headache. When that happens, I know it’s time to step away, and once I do, the headache subsides.

Social media, particularly Instagram, has been an incredible tool. It’s levelled the playing field and brought so many amazing works into view. But sometimes, you just need to put the screen down, stare at a blank wall, or go to a real-world exhibition.

Lucy: I know what you mean. It’s so easy to entertain yourself constantly—not just with social media, but with books, films, or whatever it might be. You think, Oh, this is good—all these inputs might feed into something creative later. But then, there’s the other side: your mind can become so full of external influences that there’s no space left for your own thoughts or original ideas.

I find that I have to deliberately wean myself off and make myself slightly bored. Only then can I bring something out from within myself—it just doesn’t happen otherwise.

Hywel: I completely agree. Inspiration can come simply from touching the clay, playing with wax, or experimenting with other materials in the studio. Sometimes, just being in the studio is enough to get things moving.

Lucy: Your studio looks fantastic, by the way. I encourage anyone listening to check out your Instagram—it’s great to see where you work.

Hywel: It might have looked great in earlier days! These days, it’s shocking how much of a mess I can make. Sometimes it’s bordering on dangerous, actually. I probably shouldn’t admit that, especially if my landlords are listening!

But since it’s just me in there, I can usually navigate through the chaos. That said, there are days when I walk in and think, I can’t do anything today unless I spend two hours tidying up first.

It’s a good, long space with great height. The arch—it’s an arch under the District Line in London—has plenty of room, which is one of the best things about these arches. But they’re noisy, with trains rumbling overhead every three minutes, and they’re cold and damp. That’s fine in the summer, but it’s starting to seep into the bones now. In winter, I sometimes go outside just to warm up!

Lucy: Maybe that’s the season to stay at home and dream up ideas, then save the other two or three seasons for actually working in the studio.

Hywel: The damp studio does have one upside—it’s good for the clay. I don’t have to worry so much about it drying out and cracking, which is a real blessing. But then again, I suppose I’m quite an optimist—I’ll always find the silver lining!

Lucy: It must’ve been hard not to joke around too much with the Queen Elizabeth commission. I mean, I saw that you worked on Spitting Image puppets, right? I feel like sculpture and comedy could have come together in a whole Instagram reel about that commission.

Hywel: Yes, I did a bit for Spitting Image. I wasn’t involved in the original iconic run of the show, but I joined in very recently when they had a new series commissioned for Germany. I worked on puppets like the Austrian Chancellor and the German comedians Joko and Klaas.

Getting that call from Roger Law asking me to work on those puppets—honestly, it was one of the best days of my life. Going to the Spitting Image studio, holding those latex puppets… it was a childhood dream come true. My parents were quite liberal, letting us watch the show even though it was a bit risqué, and I think it’s gotten even more risqué in recent years.

The studio was like a playground for a sculptor. They had animatronic features like Macron’s tongue, which was this lascivious, long, moving thing, and all sorts of other wild details. It was a sculptor’s dream—playing with the irreverent and the exaggerated.

Lucy: Definitely the playful, mischievous side of sculpture that most commissions probably don’t allow you to indulge in!

Hywel: Exactly, it was like exploring the “polychrome side” of sculpture. Modern bronze or fine art sculpture is often much more reserved—less colourful and animated. This was a completely different experience.

On the more irreverent side of sculpting Queen Elizabeth, the process of sculpting her portrait separate from the body meant I had to “behead” her every day to attach or detach the head from the body. There was even a handle sticking out of the top of her head to help with the process. I had to tone down any jokes about that, though!

Lucy: That’s a unique visual, to say the least.

Hywel: Yeah, it was definitely a bit surreal!

© Hywel Pratley – Mauro, 2007

Lucy: Do you have any advice for emerging sculptors? Is this a career you’d recommend, or has it been a tough journey to get to where you are?

Hywel: It’s a slow burn, and you’ve got to love it—absolutely love it. But yes, I’d recommend it wholeheartedly. Good sculptors are a force for good in the world, and good public sculpture has so much value. I’d love to see more and more high-quality public sculpture out there.

You know, it’s really important to take the public’s feelings toward sculpture into account. I can’t be the arbiter of taste—no one person can be. But if you’re studying from life, analysing the structures of the figure and portrait, and building your vocabulary in sculpture, you’re setting yourself up to create something meaningful.

Some people feel figurative statues are dull or staid, but when done well, they can be profoundly moving. They can become a powerful way to express gratitude, to honour national treasures, or to resonate deeply within a community. A good statue can become a hub, a focal point where people gather to show their love—not just for the subject, but for the emotions and values it represents.

In this day and age, when it often feels easier to focus on what we dislike, sculpture gives us an opportunity to centre on something we love. It’s such a valuable thing. Public sculpture has immense power in that way.

What was the question again? Oh, yes—encouraging people starting out. If someone enjoys working with clay or exploring materials in three dimensions, why would you discourage them? Even if it never becomes a career, or if they never fulfil a grand dream, it’s a wonderful experience to play with form and creativity.

Lucy: Can you tell everyone where they can find out more about you if they’d like to?

Hywel: Instagram’s the best place to see my work because it’s so easy to update. My handle is @HywelPratleySculpture. I’m not great at keeping my website updated, but that’s hywelpratley.com—that’s H-Y-W-E-L P-R-A-T-L-E-Y. English and Welsh, Welsh and English!

Instagram is really the best place to keep an eye on what I’m up to, if you’re interested.

Lucy: Thank you so much for joining me today. I’ve really enjoyed it.

Hywel: Oh, the honour’s all mine, Lucy. Being part of this podcast, alongside some of the incredible people you’ve spoken to, is amazing. It’s like the most fantastic dinner party! I’ve been working through your episodes, and I’m really looking forward to hearing more of the brilliant names you’ve had on.

Lucy: It was such a joy to speak with Hywel. In fact, we chatted off-air as much as we did on-air!

During our conversation, Hywel mentioned that teaching was the first thing he ever did in life that felt truly worthwhile. I found that fascinating. He has a genuine sense of purpose in helping others uncover their talents and capabilities. That’s the mark of a humble person—someone who can see strengths in others, often more clearly than they see them in themselves, and who is willing to nurture that potential.

He also said, “Dreaming big is for someone else.” That humility, while a wonderful quality, may have been a slight obstacle for him. His success seems to have come when he became comfortable with the idea that dreaming big wasn’t just for others—it was for him too. When he clarified his own vision of who he could be, the same way he’d helped his students, things started falling into place.

The reason I wanted Hywel on the show is that I think he’s achieved something truly exceptional with his sculpture of the Queen. It’s monumental in scale and significance. He’s made her regal and dignified, as any monarch should be, but he’s also captured her human side.

Those corgis—each with its own personality—are such a clever touch. They represent her as much as the crown on her head. That’s what makes this sculpture so brilliant—it bridges the grandeur of monarchy with the warmth of the person behind it.

I’ll leave you today with what I think is the most delightful image: Queen Elizabeth, in full royal robes and crown, pirouetting in the half-light for her artist.

Please support the show by rating or reviewing it on whichever app you use to listen. It really makes a difference, and it doesn’t cost a thing! If you’d like to support me financially and encourage me to produce more content about wonderful public sculpture in bronze, please consider picking up one of my books.

My latest novel, Restoration Murder, is a cosy mystery centred around one of Grayson Perry’s works—not technically a sculpture, but a stunning vase that inspired me so much I had to write a murder mystery with it at the heart of the story. It’s packed with restoration details and lots of twists and turns. It’s a little different from my other series, which leaned more into thriller and fantasy, but I think you’ll enjoy it.

I hope you’ll join me for the next episode in a fortnight. Until then, I’ll be back to working on my current novel, and I hope that whatever you’re creating, it’s going as well as it can.

I won’t say happy Christmas just yet—it’s a bit early—but I will say, happy creating!

© Hywel Pratley – Unseen Change, 2012

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