Sculpting Scottish Stories with Alan Beattie Herriot

Lucy: I began our conversation today by asking him: When did sculpture first come into your life?

Alan Beattie Herriot: Oh, that’s an interesting question. I think the first time I really became serious about it was at high school. We were very fortunate to have a fantastic art teacher—Jim Monroe. Sadly, Jim is no longer with us, but he was quite an important artist during the 1970s and 80s. He produced an enormous volume of work, and some of it is actually displayed in the Scottish Parliament now.

Jim was the first person who introduced us to clay. He brought in a potter’s wheel, some terracotta, and we even had a kiln for the first time. That was when we were finally able to experiment properly with clay.

I remember making my first terracotta Fallen Warrior. One of my relatives still has that piece to this day! Then, when I went to art college, I continued working with terracotta a lot. We had kilns there as well, so I was able to produce a whole series of pieces. Some of them were even bought by lecturers, which made for good beer money!

Lucy: Well, you have to find that when you go to college and you’re skint!

Alan Beattie Herriot: Yeah, but I mean, as I say, I got into sculpture quite early on. I really enjoyed it.

Lucy: So when you left high school, was there ever any doubt that you would go to art college?

Alan Beattie Herriot: No, not really—there was nothing else I could do but go to art college!

Lucy: The thing is, I read that you started working professionally almost the minute you left art college—which is unheard of! Nobody I know goes straight into it and manages to stick it out all the way through.

Alan Beattie Herriot: Oh, no, it wasn’t easy! I did all sorts of jobs in the beginning. But I was very fortunate—I play keyboards and piano, so for a while, I played semi-professionally in a band. We performed in clubs and even worked as a show band at one point, traveling the country and making fools of ourselves! Luckily, I wasn’t the frontman, so I was spared some of the embarrassment.

But as chaotic as it was, playing music gave my wife and me a decent income.

Also, my family has a footballing background—some of my relatives were professional players. One in particular, Alec Young, played for Everton and was nicknamed The Golden Vision. When he retired from football, he started an upholstery warehouse, and I ended up working for him—bending contract rails and fitting soft furnishings in various stores around Edinburgh. I hated it with a vengeance, but between that and the music, I was at least able to keep going.

Lucy: But were you sculpting and painting alongside those jobs at the time?

Alan Beattie Herriot: Yeah, I had a little studio in the house—pretty grim, but it was something! I painted quite a lot, but I never really thought much about exhibiting my work. Eventually, though, an opportunity came along. You remember the Heritage of York?

Lucy: The Jorvik Centre?

Alan Beattie Herriot: Yes, the Jorvik Centre in York! Just after I left college, I had made a number of head casts—essentially death masks, which I then cast in fibreglass with glass eyes and wigs to create historical characters. I was asked to do something similar for an exhibition on the Royal Mile, at the Lady Stair’s Museum. It was a historical tableau exhibition called Al Riki, and it turned out to be a great success.

Of course, they couldn’t afford the kind of highly realistic figures that places like Jorvik were using at the time, but I made do with what we had. They were essentially mannequins, but I put a lot of work into the heads to make them look real, and the costumes weren’t too bad. I fiddled around with the details to make them more convincing. The exhibition was a hit, and from that point on, I started getting more and more commissions.

At the time, though, I was too stubborn to see where it could lead. I thought, Hang on, I’m a fine artist—I can’t be doing commercial work! I didn’t realise that this could have been a fantastic career.

A couple of years later, the company behind the Jorvik Centre came up to Edinburgh to work on a project at the Whisky Heritage Centre—they were designing a barrel ride experience, telling the story of whisky-making and illicit stills, similar to Jorvik’s historical reconstructions.

I immediately thought, I could do that!

They were looking for someone to create figures, so I reached out to a reporter from The Scotsman, who gave me the name of the director of Scenic Route in York.

I sent some photographs of my work, and the next thing I knew, I got a call. “Can you come down to York?” The very next day, I was on a train—and I came away with a contract for 27 and a half.

Lucy: £27,500—wow!

Alan Beattie Herriot: It was like winning the pools! I came back floating home. But I didn’t have a studio or anything, so I reached out to a few friends—particularly some wealthy property owners—and that’s how I started Endeavour Art Studios in Maritime Street, Edinburgh. It was an old whisky bond, and from there, we created all the figures and sets for the Whisky Heritage Centre.

From that point on, we started getting approached by various independent companies looking to develop visitor centres. It was the trend at the time—visitor experiences were becoming incredibly popular. We worked on projects like the Whisky Heritage Centre, Inveraray Jail (which is still running today), and the Fighting Ships exhibition in Hartlepool.

We were literally creating costumed figures using sculpture, and I was able to employ quite a few sculptors. We made portrait heads, designed full-scale sets—it was an amazing time.

The studio lasted for 12 to 13 years, but of course, things change. Technology evolved, and the industry moved in a different direction.

Lucy: And what about that first public commission? When did that come about?

Alan Beattie Herriot: Oh, the first public commission? I was very fortunate to win the Elizabeth T. Greenshields Foundation Award, which is a Canadian foundation that supports artists. For any young, aspiring artists listening—it’s worth looking into. The only condition is that your work can’t be abstract.

This foundation is incredibly wealthy and provides generous grants, often more than once a year. If you receive it once, you’re likely to receive it again. When I won it, I was awarded £2,500 to £3,000 in 1975—which, at the time, was an absolute fortune for me!

That grant allowed me to work on a project in my hometown. I grew up in Newton Grange, the largest mining village in Scotland, which had two major collieries—the Lady Victoria Colliery and Lingerwood Pit. I approached the colliery manager, and they let me use the old rope splicing shed as a studio—which was fabulous!

I wanted to create a memorial for the miners, as there was nothing like that in the village at the time. When the representative from the Elizabeth T. Greenshields Foundation came over from Canada to see the finished work, he asked me: “Do you have another project?” And of course, I said, “Absolutely!”

So they gave me another grant—£5,000 this time!

Lucy: Wow!

Alan Beattie Herriot: That really set me on my path—without a doubt.

At the same time, I did various other jobs, including working as a supervisor for the Job Creation Program with Midlothian Council. That was actually quite beneficial because I worked alongside the town planning department, so I learned a lot about building control, planning processes, and how public projects get approved. I had about 12 young lads working under me, and we spent a lot of time trying to repair pathways in Roslin Glen, near the chapel. At one point, I thought, This is ridiculous!—we needed heavy equipment, not just shovels and picks!

But that job lasted a couple of years, and by the time I had fully established Endeavour Art Studios, things started improving significantly. Then, one day, I was approached by General Sir Derek Lang, who arrived at my studio with a delegation of Black Watch veterans—specifically, veterans from the 51st Highland Division. They told me they wanted a piper statue.

Lucy: Perfect project!

Knockencraig ©

Alan Beattie Herriot: Well, yes—but when they explained what they had in mind, I asked, “What size are you thinking?” They told me, “Oh, just a small one.” And I said, “No, no—you’ll need at least a life-sized figure!” They immediately said, “Oh, but we don’t have the money for that.” And I told them, “I didn’t ask you for money.” So that’s what we did.

We created the first Highland Division Memorial, which depicted a piper and a small girl handing him a rose. Apparently, this moment actually happened—it was a way to mark VE Day, and the statue was meant to be placed in Vught, in the Brabant region of Holland.

That area was where the 51st Highland Division was active—they liberated the entire region. The project was connected to a man named Jan Driessen, who had been an intelligence officer with the Canadian Airborne during the war. He was Dutch, and after the war, he became a successful industrialist. He also owned one of the largest independent military museums, located just outside Vught, which is where the statue was originally placed.

But later, Jan decided to relocate the museum, which left the statue stranded in the middle of nowhere—no one had any reason to visit the site anymore. That’s when the mayor of Schijndel, a nearby village, stepped in. He arranged to move both the statue and the 16-ton granite block it was mounted on.

Lucy: Oh my gosh!

Alan Beattie Herriot: Yes! They moved the entire memorial to the entrance of Schijndel, which turned out to be a far more appropriate setting. Schijndel was actually the first village liberated by the 51st Highland Division, so it made perfect sense for the statue to be placed there.

I remember speaking to one of the veterans, Dr. Tom Renouf—a remarkable man, though sadly no longer with us. He told me, “When we entered that village, children were coming out and throwing roses, but there were still mortars and gunfire going off around us.” Amidst the chaos, a small girl walked up to a piper and handed him a flower.

That moment became the inspiration for the sculpture. The statue was a great success, and we later created a copy, which was placed in Perth, Scotland, on the North Inch. That unveiling was incredible—something like 2,500 veterans were still alive at the time, and they marched through the streets of Perth. We had 250 musicians—pipers, a full military band—it was an amazing sight.

Lucy: Those are the sculptures that never get any aggravation, I find. The ones that people rally around and truly love. They’re the ones that remain untouched. They never seem to attract graffiti or antisocial behaviour because the community has its eyes on them. Everyone who was part of that unveiling, and so many more, act as guardians of the sculpture.

Alan Beattie Herriot: That’s true. I’ve been very fortunate that most of the pieces I’ve worked on have been well received by the communities where they’ve been placed.

Lucy: You’re incredibly multi-talented—you can paint, you illustrate as well. Do you use those other skills in your sculpture process? Do you start with them, or do you go straight to clay?

Alan Beattie Herriot: Oh no, no—I always draw first. I try to come up with initial sketches—just to get the concept down on paper. Then I think about whether it’s practical from an engineering perspective—whether anything about the design might cause structural issues or safety concerns.

Lucy: Yes, I’ve known cases where people were crossing roads while staring at their phones, and they walked straight into sculptures—especially if the figure had outstretched arms! Some have actually knocked themselves out, but of course, that’s not the sculpture’s fault!

Alan Beattie Herriot: Exactly!

Lucy: The problem is that when something like that happens, expensive landscaping often has to be done, all because someone wasn’t concentrating!

Alan Beattie Herriot: When I’m commissioned to do a piece, I always start with drawings. Fortunately, I studied higher engineering at school, which has been incredibly useful. I tend to draw foundation plans, provide size drawings and elevations, and all of that is usually very helpful in the planning permission process.

If my technical drawings aren’t quite up to scratch, they can at least be handed over to an architect who can refine them and incorporate them into the building control applications. I also create visuals—I make drawings and then superimpose the sculpture into its intended location, so clients can see exactly how it will look before it’s installed.

Lucy: Are you at the stage where you can cherry-pick the jobs you want, or do you take whatever comes up? You’ve got such a wide variety of work in your portfolio.

Alan Beattie Herriot: Well, people assume that because I have all these pieces out there, I must be rolling in cash. But honestly? I’m as poor as Lazarus! That said, I consider myself very fortunate—I’ve at least managed to make a living from my art. That’s no small thing.

Anyone who can make money as a sculptor, or in art in general, has my full respect. It’s an incredibly difficult thing to do. I don’t think I’m special—I’ve just been lucky. There are hugely talented figurative sculptors out there, many of whom I think are far beyond me in skill.

I’ve always seen myself as just a workman—I’m able to create something, and I do it to the best of my ability. That’s it. I don’t think, Oh, this is something extraordinary. If the client is happy, then I’m happy. I have great fun doing it, and generally, I’m pleased with most of my work—though not all of it.

There are a couple of pieces that annoy me, but I won’t tell you which ones!

Lucy: Well, the problem is that once it’s in permanent form, there’s no going back!

Alan Beattie Herriot: Exactly—nothing I can do about it now! But the honest truth is, not everyone knows what’s good and what’s bad when it comes to sculpture. I’ve seen some truly dreadful pieces out there—especially a couple of recent footballer statues (which I won’t name!). Even the players themselves have looked at them and said, “Pretty good, isn’t it?”—when it’s clearly not!

But what are they supposed to say? Sometimes, the public simply can’t tell the difference between great and terrible sculpture.

Lucy: I think sculptors at your level, when they talk about mistakes—if you want to call them that—they’re things that only you see. They’re probably tiny details that bug you, but most people wouldn’t even notice, let alone criticise.

Alan Beattie Herriot: That’s very true. A lot of people assume that because I do this professionally, it must come easily. But it doesn’t. Nothing I do is easy.

Lucy: Yeah, that’s interesting.

Alan Beattie Herriot: Honestly, sometimes I’ll sit down with a sketchpad and draw like a nine-year-old. I’ll think, For God’s sake, this is ridiculous! It’s a bit like handwriting—sometimes I scribble something down, and it looks like a doctor’s prescription.

Lucy: And yet…?

Alan Beattie Herriot: And yet, if I take my time, I can write in perfect copperplate!

King John ©

Lucy: So tell me, what is the best part of it all for you? What’s the bit that brings you joy?

Alan Beattie Herriot: Oh, that’s an interesting one, because I truly love what I do. I love painting—when I get the time! Sometimes, when commissions are thin on the ground (which happens—there are always big gaps), I get really absorbed in painting.

Lucy: We call that kipper season!

Alan Beattie Herriot: Exactly! Feast and famine, that’s how it goes. And then, suddenly, I return to sculpture and it almost takes me by surprise. I find myself thinking, How did I forget how much I love working in 3D? Recently, for example, I was commissioned by the commandos to create a piece featuring four leaping salmon.

Lucy: Right.

Alan Beattie Herriot: Now, my studio master at art college was Scott Sutherland—he was the head of sculpture at Duncan of Jordanstone College of Art & Design. Scotty created the Commando Memorial at Spean Bridge. For whatever reason, I never set out thinking, Oh, I’ll do military sculptures. It just happened naturally.

It all started when General Sir Derek Lang came to me about the Highland Division Memorial. After that, more regiments started approaching me—the Queen’s Own Highlanders, the Seaforth Highlanders, the King’s Own Scottish Borderers—so over the years, I ended up creating quite a few military memorials.

But back to the salmon sculpture— I was approached by the commandos to recreate a piece Scott Sutherland had originally made. I actually remember Scotty working on it when I was in college! He originally cast it in fibreglass, which at the time was a brand new material. He gave it a metallic aluminium finish, and it was installed as a water feature in Perth, in the middle of a pond.

At some point, someone must have waded in and damaged it, because it was removed… and then it simply disappeared. Fortunately, Scott Sutherland’s son, David, still had the original maquette. He had it boxed up and sent to me, and they asked if I could recreate it. I said, “Yes, I can—though obviously, my modelling will be different. My touch will be different. It might even be a bit more detailed.” But I was happy to keep Scott’s original composition. I recently finished the piece, and it’s now being cast at Powderhall Foundry.

Lucy: Which one is your favourite? Do you have one?

Alan Beattie Herriot: There are two or three, but one I recently finished is the Seafarers’ Memorial in Wick.

Lucy: Yes, I’ve seen that!

Alan Beattie Herriot: It’s just so photographic. If you take a picture from behind, with the coastline in the background, it’s unbelievable. One evening, the Northern Lights appeared behind it, and another time, the whole sculpture was frosted over—the images were just breathtaking. I thought, Wow, that’s really something special.

Lucy: I mean, the Robert the Bruce statue—that’s a masterpiece. A lot of people feel a deep connection to that sculpture.

Alan Beattie Herriot: Well, there are things about it that annoy me, of course—but generally speaking, I think it suits its location really well. It’s placed outside Marischal College, which is an absolutely stunning Gothic granite building—the second largest granite building in the world, in fact.

They spent millions cleaning and restoring the stonework, as well as making significant renovations inside. Now, it looks fantastic. It’s a great location—I do like that one.

Lucy: Yeah, good.

Alan Beattie Herriot: Maybe St. Michael in Linlithgow as well—I rather like that one too. It has a beautiful setting.

Lucy: I think location makes a real difference, doesn’t it? A great piece in the wrong place… I don’t know if you’d ever be 100% happy with it.

Alan Beattie Herriot: Absolutely. Years ago, I was asked to do a talk at the Irvine Burns Club. For them, I had created a bronze window sculpture depicting Robert Burns and William Wallace—two of Scotland’s great patriots—imagining them meeting in heaven.

The base of the sculpture was a recreation of the old Irvine Bridge, which no longer exists. It was placed in a recessed window at the stairhead—a beautiful little piece. So, for their directors’ dinner, they asked me to give a speech.

Oh my God—it was a black-tie event! I was sitting beside Jimmy MacGregor that night. And I was thinking, What on earth am I going to talk about? Eventually, I decided to speak about the people who had taught me—and the people who had taught them. It became a kind of lineage of Scottish sculpture, tracing back through generations.

My studio master, Scott Sutherland, was taught by Alexander Carrick. Both Carrick and Hew Lorimer had been students of Professor Lanteri—a Belgian sculptor who taught at Kensington Art College. Lanteri, in turn, had taught Rodin.

Lucy: Wow!

Alan Beattie Herriot: So if you follow the thread—Carrick studied under Lanteri, then returned to Edinburgh, where he worked in the West of Scotland, training under Pittendreigh MacGillivray. MacGillivray was a brilliant sculptor, responsible for some stunning works, including a statue of Robert Burns in Irvine and a magnificent John Knox statue in St. Giles’ Cathedral, Edinburgh.

Eventually, Carrick established his own yard in Edinburgh, where he passed on his knowledge to the next generation. Now, when I was a child, we didn’t have much money. But my dad would take us on free trips to the Chambers Street Museum—because it was free, and you could press all the buttons and watch mechanical exhibits moving. It was great fun.

Occasionally, we’d go to see a sawdust-and-sandals film at the Playhouse Picturehouse at the top of Leith—something like Kirk Douglas in Spartacus or Victor Mature in The Robe. And whenever we went into Edinburgh, I was always fascinated by the public sculptures. I vividly remember being mesmerised by the Boer War Memorial on North Bridge—it’s a stone carving depicting a group of soldiers. That was probably one of my earliest inspirations.

There’s the Royal Scots Equestrian statue, and the Black Watch Memorial at the top of the Mound. These are sculptures I was instinctively drawn to, simply because of their look and quality. And it turned out—they were all by William Birnie Rhind.

I had no idea at the time, but when I later learned they were all by the same sculptor, I thought, Well, that makes perfect sense. It’s a bit like music—when I hear Burt Bacharach, even if I don’t know the song, I can recognise his touch. Some people just have that signature style.

The Elizabeth Sword: A Very Special Commission.

I’ve got a photo up there of a piece I worked on—the hilt for the Sword of State for Scotland, which was presented to the King at St. Giles’ Cathedral during his dedication ceremony. There were about seven of us involved in the project. Mark Dennis, an advocate, actually designed the sword. It’s a bearing sword—a ceremonial weapon, not meant for combat. After we completed the work, my friend and I were asked to create a documentary about the making of the sword.

Alan Beattie Herriot Queens Own Highlander

Alan Beattie Herriot: The film ended up being an hour and fifteen minutes long. Most of the music for the documentary was written by me, and Pete recorded it all. The whole project was done for the Heraldry Society in Edinburgh. For one part of the process, we travelled to Iona to source a specific stone—a piece of Lewisian gneiss. It’s pronounced “nice”—Lewisian gneiss. This stone is about 52 million years old and has a beautiful green hue. We took it back to the Lapidary Club in Edinburgh, where we worked alongside a professor and another expert to shape it.

It was fascinating to see how you can cut a stone into a cube, take off the corners, and slowly grind it into a perfectly polished sphere. Once it was finished, we drilled through it—this stone would serve as the connecting piece that held the sword’s tang and blade together.

The craftsmanship was incredible. The American artisan, Dane Vogelpoel, created the scabbard and its decorations, while the hilt itself was a joy to sculpt. It was just one of those fantastic projects—the Lord Lyon King of Arms was involved as well, and the whole process was superb. In the end, we were presented to the King at Holyrood Palace. We even included that moment in the documentary.

Lucy: Right.

Alan Beattie Herriot: When the King came in and saw the sword, he took a real interest in the craftsmanship. At the end of the day, I think he was genuinely impressed. The sword itself is called The Elizabeth Sword—

Lucy: Wow.

Alan Beattie Herriot: Yes—it was created in honour of the late Queen. The King remarked that he thought she would have been very pleased with it.

Lucy: And where is it now?

Alan Beattie Herriot: It’s displayed permanently with the Honours of Scotland in Edinburgh Castle, in the Crown Room.

Lucy: Great. If you had the chance to give yourself advice when you were starting out, what would you say? Is there anything you would have told your younger self not to do?

Alan Beattie Herriot: Just think of something else to do!

Lucy: Make money a different way!

Alan Beattie Herriot: Exactly! Stick it out at school, study economics, become an accountant—anything like that!

Lucy: Would life have been very different for you?

Alan Beattie Herriot: I have no complaints. As I’ve said, I’m one of the lucky ones. But it is a very, very difficult path to take. It’s extremely difficult. The first thing to suffer in any government’s budget is usually the arts.

Lucy: Yeah.

Alan Beattie Herriot: From theatre to archaeology funding, it’s always the first to go—it’s pretty grim. And yet, the world desperately needs people like us.

Lucy: Absolutely.

Alan Beattie Herriot: Imagine what a great world it would be without people like us!

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

Alan Beattie Herriot: Sure, yeah. The best place would be my website, though I really need to update it! It’s www.alanheriot.co.uk.

Lucy: Perfect, I’ll put a link in the show notes for that. What struck me most about Alan was his incredibly high spirits. In fact, I think that might just be his secret sauce—the thing that fuels his creative success. He has this self-deprecating humour, a brilliant ability to tell stories, and he never leaves the humour out of them.

When he talked about starting out—joking about making a fool of himself in his band days—or when he laughed about sometimes drawing like a nine-year-old, it was clear how naturally engaging he is. And that engagement must have been a huge asset in connecting with selection committees, clients, architects, and entire communities.

Alan also has creative versatility that’s genuinely impressive. He mentioned being a musician, playing keyboards semi-professionally in a band while touring Scotland’s club circuit to support himself and his wife. But he also composed and recorded the music for the documentary he was involved in.

On top of that, he has technical drawing skills, and when sculpture commissions are scarce, he effortlessly shifts into painting—then back again when sculpture calls. That ability to move fluidly between artistic disciplines is remarkable—it showcases his extraordinary range.

Throughout the conversation, especially when he told the story about the Sword of State for Scotland, I kept thinking about that Rudyard Kipling line from If: “If you can walk with kings but not lose the common touch…” And that’s exactly Alan. He has a working-class pragmatism—he even calls himself a “worky” who just does things to the best of his ability.

But at the same time, his artistic sophistication has made him one of the most sought-after sculptors in Scotland. He’s run his own business for over four decades, which is no small feat in this industry. And clearly, he hasn’t done it for money—he says himself, “I’m as poor as Lazarus!”

Yet, he was commissioned to craft the hilt of the Sword of State for Scotland. I don’t think that’s too bad… for a worky! After the interview, Alan and I continued chatting for at least another hour. I haven’t included it all in today’s episode, but he had so many brilliant stories that I can’t wait to share them in other formats.

I’ll be putting some of them out on YouTube Shorts and Instagram Stories, so if you’re interested, make sure to check them out. Honestly, every single one of his stories is a gem—and I’m quite sure he’ll continue to entertain you.

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