Lucy: Today on the show, I have Dr. Susan Owens joining me, who is a former curator of paintings at the V&A and is an independent scholar. She has published widely on 19th and early 20th-century art and culture and has a particular interest in drawings and paintings. However, that’s not how I came across her.

She recently wrote a fantastic article that caught my attention in Country Life magazine, titled Time Stands Still. In it, she took her readers on a tour of Britain in 50 Monuments. This is a delightful medley of historic and contemporary sculpture and features a couple of our very own Sculpture Vulture interviewees—sculptors such as Hewell Pratley and Basil Watson.

I really enjoyed the article both from an art historical point of view and also because she included quite a few monuments that were not really on my radar, as they are not specifically bronze. It’s a real joy for anyone who enjoys history. Today, we’re going to discuss the article in greater depth, draw out a few of our particular favorites, and explore the broader topic of public monuments. I began our conversation by asking her when she first became interested in public monuments.

Susan: Gosh, well, I’ve always been interested in what works of art can tell us about the past as well as the present. Because I used to work at the V&A, I got used to looking at the material and physical world around me and thinking in that way. But it all came to a head about two years ago when I wrote a book titled Imagining England’s Past, published by Thames & Hudson. That book was really about our relationship with the past—how artists and writers have tried to remake and reimagine the past through paintings, sculptures, monuments, poems, and novels.

This idea of creatively reimagining the past had been on my mind for so long, and it was wonderful to have the opportunity to write that book. Then, of course, I was completely thrilled when Country Life approached me to write this big article about monuments for their Christmas issue. I thought, what a brilliant opportunity!

Lucy: Well, I was delighted to see it. I had been more aware of your work in the 2D space, but I feel like now the 3D objects have captured you and pulled you into their category!

Susan: That’s the thing about working at the V&A—you’re constantly in two worlds. You have your own specialism, which for me was British paintings, watercolours, and drawings—all flat art, as you might call it. But at the V&A, you’re always surrounded by amazing works of art of all different kinds, from all around the world. You can never just be in your little 2D world; you’re always aware of the greater artistic world around you.

Lucy: Yes, and what a fascinating place to work. Before we came on air, I was just saying how I studied there, and I felt that the V&A had this wonderful synergy with Imperial College, the Natural History Museum, and other institutions nearby. I remember being invited to observe when they were analyzing an object, using a machine in one of the neighboring buildings. Then someone would say, “Oh, NASA is here looking at a meteorite—come have a look! Can you identify this metal?” It was marvelous because you had so many brilliant minds in one place, with different specialisms, and yet you could be fascinated by all of them even if they weren’t your own focus.

Susan: Exactly. That’s one of the great strengths of the V&A. When it was first established in the 1850s as the South Kensington Museum, it was envisioned as a grand museum of absolutely everything—natural history, science, and art. It was only later that these different disciplines were divided into separate museums. But they’re still just across the road from each other, and there remains an amazing level of communication and collaboration between them.

Lucy: Yeah, fantastic. So this particular article that you wrote for Country Life—can you tell the audience a little bit about it? Because it’s quite different from your book, obviously. I’ll let you explain in your own words.

Susan: Well, they approached me and asked if I would write an article about monuments across Great Britain—so in England, Wales, Scotland, and Northern Ireland. I had to limit it to 50, but they wanted me to really imagine it as a kind of tour through Britain’s monuments.

It had to be 50, and they wanted them to be fairly evenly spread geographically. But beyond that, the selection also had to include both ancient monuments and very contemporary ones. So the first thing I had to do was figure out how to define a monument. Because if you look up the definition, as I immediately did, Buckingham Palace is technically a monument!

But I wanted each monument I included to have a commemorative function—that, for me, became the bedrock of how I defined it. Even then, it was incredibly difficult to narrow it down to just 50. I honestly don’t know how I managed it! It felt impossible. I had a printed map of Britain, and I started marking it with dots to ensure I was covering the country as evenly as possible. But I could have easily chosen 100—or even 500!

Once you start thinking about monuments, you realize Great Britain is absolutely bristling with them. They’re not just in towns and cities but scattered throughout the countryside as well. Once you start noticing them, you see them everywhere. They’re like the collective memory of our nation.

Lucy: Yeah, absolutely. I was really interested in the way you approached the selection because you didn’t arrange them chronologically, did you? How did you decide on the structure of the article? The selection of images was so lovely—I wondered if you had approached it visually?

Susan: It was really all about geography. That’s how Country Life envisioned it—they said, Imagine it’s a tour. So I was taking readers on a journey. We started in London, then moved into the South East—Essex, Kent—and from there, we traveled around the country, stopping to look at different monuments along the way.

So within that framework, we were jumping around in terms of time—thousands of years, in fact! We went from incredible prehistoric monuments to works that have only just been inaugurated.

Lucy: Yeah, I was really pleased to see contemporary works alongside the more traditional, historic ones. And then there were those that have been embedded in our culture for hundreds of years. It made for such a wonderful mix.

One that surprised me—but that I was delighted to see included—was Marc Quinn’s A Surge of Power sculpture, the one of Jen Reid on the plinth. I liked that you included it because it was, in a sense, a guerrilla installation—there was no official permission given for it to be placed there. What made you decide to include it?

Susan: I really wanted to include Marc Quinn’s piece. It felt so important because monuments have been such a major topic of discussion recently—especially with the toppling of Edward Colston’s statue, followed by Jen Reid taking her place on that plinth with her Black Power salute.

Also, because this was Country Life, which has a more traditional readership, I wanted to make sure there was something a bit more radical, a bit more cutting-edge in the mix. Part of my reasoning was to show just how emotive and powerful monuments still are today. That was something that really struck me while writing the article—monuments are never inert. They radiate meaning. Whether it’s the values they were originally erected with or the way those values are later reconsidered, they are always speaking to us. And people respond to them in deeply emotional ways.

With Edward Colston, for example—it was astonishing that he was still there in 2020, given that his wealth came from the West African slave trade. It was no surprise that there was such a strong reaction to that monument remaining in place. For so many, the culture of respect surrounding him was absolutely intolerable.

I felt that an artistic response to that moment was important, and I think Marc Quinn is a brilliant artist. His sculpture was a really powerful statement. And I also liked the idea of a guerrilla monument—something that feels like it comes from the people, rather than being the result of a lengthy committee decision.

Lucy: Absolutely. I mean, there’s so much to say on this topic. The reason that statue remained standing for so long is because we have no dedicated curators for public spaces. Institutions have curators, but once a statue is installed in a public space, it gets handed over to highways departments, parks authorities, or similar bodies. And of course, they’re not art history-trained—they can’t be expected to be experts in everything. I really believe that public spaces desperately need proper curation. It would be wonderful to see that happen eventually, but we’re not there yet.

Susan: That’s such a good point. And funnily enough, I was just listening to the Today programme this morning about the Grenfell Tower and what should happen to it. The government has announced its plans to demolish it, but some former residents feel it shouldn’t be completely removed. They argue it should be reduced to a safe level but left standing as a kind of monument in its own right.

That’s one perspective. Personally, I feel it would be better to take the tower down but to erect some kind of monument in its place. That’s my view because I think monuments serve a vital function—they make us reflect, they make us think. But beyond that, I believe a monument to a disaster should also have a redemptive quality. It shouldn’t be solely about the raw pain and grief of the event; it should also be part of a process of grieving and coming to terms with what happened.

I think something truly beautiful could be created on that site—something akin to the 9/11 Memorial in New York, which is an extraordinary and powerful monument. It will be interesting to see how that decision is ultimately made.

Lucy: Yes, absolutely—it will be a very difficult decision.

I felt quite sad about the Marc Quinn statue because it received a lot of criticism. But I do think he stepped in and did something that was very much needed at that precise moment. It was a bold move, and I respect him for it. So I was really happy to see it included in your article.

I was also thinking about how war monuments dominate our public spaces. There are so many of them, and they are often beautifully made, which means they receive a great deal of attention. But I really appreciated that your article wasn’t solely focused on war memorials. There was a celebratory aspect to many of the monuments you included.

Was there one monument you really wanted to feature but had to leave out?

Susan: Oh, there were so many I had to leave out! One that I really wanted to include was Gillian Wearing’s sculpture of Millicent Fawcett, the suffragist, in Parliament Square. It’s a wonderful piece—very understated, but no less powerful for that.

I also wanted to include the memorial to John Donne in St. Paul’s Cathedral. I love John Donne, and this statue of him is remarkable. He actually dictated how he wanted it to look—he’s depicted standing on his own funerary urn, wearing his shroud tied at the top of his head. It’s such a peculiar, striking image.

By Garry Knight from London, England – Millicent Fawcett Statue 02 – Courage Calls, CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org

Another one I would have loved to include is the Arundel Tomb in Chichester Cathedral. That would have been a lovely addition. But ultimately, I was trying to cover so much ground. I wanted to feature everything from the Cenotaph to Greyfriars Bobby.

I felt it was important to include animals as well, so I made sure to feature the monument to Lord Byron’s dog, Boatswain, which stands in the grounds of Newstead Abbey. It’s rather wonderful—deeply moving. The inscription on the tomb is a beautiful poem that describes the dog as having beauty without vanity, strength without ferocity. It’s a really touching tribute, but also quite quirky.

And perhaps it’s particularly British that we have so many animal monuments!

Lucy: Absolutely. And I think there’s possibly no nation that appreciates its animals quite as much as we do. But I read a rather sad statistic that there are more animal sculptures and monuments than there are dedicated to women.

That said, I think we’re finally starting to catch up. That statistic might have been accurate five or six years ago, but in the last few years, there’s been a noticeable increase in monuments to women. I’m really hoping we overtake the animals soon!

Susan: It’s about time, isn’t it?

Lucy: Now, you and I decided we would each choose a couple of monuments from your article that we particularly loved. So, I thought I’d let you start—what’s one monument you feel is worth highlighting?

Susan: Well, one that I really love—partly because it’s quite close to where I grew up in Derbyshire—is a monument to a little girl, a five-year-old named Penelope Boothby, who died in 1791.

Her father, Sir Brooke Boothby, was a rather extraordinary man—an amateur poet and philosopher. He was part of the Romantic movement and believed deeply in the importance of being close to nature. There’s a very famous portrait of him in the Tate Gallery by Joseph Wright of Derby, showing him reclining on the grass next to a stream, completely immersed in nature.

When their only daughter died, both he and his wife were absolutely devastated. Their grief was so overwhelming that their relationship didn’t survive—they parted at her graveside and never lived together again. As part of his mourning process, Sir Brooke Boothby commissioned several works of art to commemorate her. One of them was a remarkable marble sculpture by Thomas Banks, which is in a church in Ashbourne, Derbyshire.

It was actually featured in the series Gentleman Jack, so some people might have seen it without realizing its full history. What makes it so moving is its simplicity. Most funerary sculptures in churches are surrounded by elaborate carvings, decorative elements, and traditional motifs. But this one is different—it’s just a marble sculpture of Penelope, dressed in her ordinary clothes, lying as though she’s asleep in her bed at home.

It’s incredibly simple and heartbreakingly beautiful. The inscription on it reads:

“She was in form and intellect most exquisite. The unfortunate parents ventured their all on this frail bark, and the wreck was total.”

While Thomas Banks was sculpting it, Sir Brooke Boothby would visit the studio almost daily, watching as his daughter’s form took shape in marble. He would stand there and weep. When the sculpture was finally installed in the church, it was kept inside a box for a long time—presumably because he felt it was such an intensely personal expression of grief. It seems he wasn’t ready for it to be exposed to the public, because no one else could ever see it in the way he did.

Lucy: Gosh, that’s such a tragic story, but also such a beautiful tribute. It captures that kind of personal devastation so brilliantly. I can understand why he wouldn’t want to share it.

And I don’t know—marble just feels like the perfect choice of material for a child. There’s something so pure and innocent about it. It almost glows. Do you know when it was finally put on public display?

Susan: It was quite a bit later—I’m not sure exactly when, or whether it was after Sir Brooke’s death. But as you say, the sculpture embodies innocence, and that was actually quite a new idea at the time.

In that period, children weren’t always seen as innocent—they were often regarded as small adults who needed to be disciplined and shaped into proper people. But this sculpture reflects the emerging Romantic idea of childhood innocence, and the marble enhances that sense of purity. It’s incredibly moving.

And I think that’s what the best monuments do. As we were saying earlier, they continue to affect people even centuries later. You don’t need to have known this little girl to feel something when you look at her. She becomes almost universal, and the choice of material—marble—adds to that timeless quality. As you said, it has this wonderful way of seeming to glow from within.

Lucy: It really does. And I wonder if the continual presence of the father—his deep grief, his daily visits to the studio—somehow seeped into the sculpture itself. Or maybe the artist was simply so attuned to the intensity of that grief that he was able to translate it into the stone.

Boadicea Sculpture Westminster Bridge

Boadicea, Westminster Bridge

Because the minute you look at it, you feel that pain. Even if you don’t know the story behind it, you immediately understand that this child was taken too soon. It’s incredibly eloquent.

So, the piece I chose—well, I had to go with a bronze, I’m afraid! I picked Boudicca and Her Daughters, which stands on Westminster Bridge.

This was created by Thomas Thornycroft—though his son Hamo did assist him—but I think this was really Thomas’s magnum opus.

The story of Boudicca is such an interesting one. At the time the statue was created, Queen Victoria was on the throne, and Britain was searching for a classical past that, strictly speaking, it didn’t really have. So, Boudicca—the Celtic queen of the Iceni—became a perfect parallel for Victoria. She was elevated into this semi-mythological figure of national identity.

I love the fact that it’s one of the very few monuments to women from that time period. Of course, Boudicca was a real person, but the representation we see in the statue is largely imagined. The chariot, for example, is a highly stylized interpretation—it’s not historically accurate. And I very much doubt that she rode into battle without reins to control her horses!

Her daughters, who are depicted alongside her, sadly met a terrible fate. The reason Boudicca fought back against the Romans was because of an incredible injustice. Her husband had died, and in his will, he left his land and wealth jointly to the Roman Empire and to his wife and daughters. The Romans, however, refused to honor this agreement and claimed everything for themselves.

Boudicca and her daughters were brutally punished—her daughters were raped, and she was flogged. In response, she led an uprising, seeking revenge. She won some battles but was ultimately defeated in a horrific manner.

But this statue captures a triumphant moment. It’s incredibly powerful—she commands her horses purely through her presence, without any need for reins.

And what I love most is how well it fits into its surroundings. The way it interacts with the architecture is fascinating. You have the Houses of Parliament, Westminster Abbey, County Hall—all these powerful institutions. If you interpret Boudicca as a stand-in for Queen Victoria, it almost feels as though she is commanding the state, the church, and local government, all from her chariot.

It’s beautifully positioned, but Thornycroft never lived to see it in place. There was some debate about where it should be installed, and by the time it was finally erected, he had passed away.

When I’m feeling a bit defeated by life, I look at Boudicca. That statue has such an uplifting, triumphant energy. It’s a reminder of resilience and strength.

Susan: Glorious, isn’t it? Absolutely glorious. And it’s so interesting to think about the parallels between Queen Victoria and Boudicca—especially since Boudicca’s name itself means victory.

I don’t know how much influence Queen Victoria and Prince Albert had in commissioning the statue, but Thornycroft had previously created an equestrian statue of Queen Victoria, hadn’t he?

Lucy: Yes.

Susan: It almost feels like a metaphor for Victoria, doesn’t it?

Lucy: I think it is. That was definitely a strong aspect of it.

From what I understand, Victoria and Albert did have quite a bit of input into the project, though I’m not exactly sure to what extent. But I do know that Thomas Thornycroft was an artist with a lot of interests, shall we say. And I think his enthusiasm for the Boudicca piece waned at a certain point.

It wasn’t just him, though—there was a general loss of momentum around the project. And when an artist loses that kind of external energy and support, they often start looking elsewhere for creative inspiration.

Susan: And it’s a lot of bronze as well!

Lucy: Yes, absolutely. It’s an enormous sculpture.

I know that Morris Singer eventually got the commission to cast and assemble all the pieces, but it was actually another foundry that had originally been given the job. I imagine that must have been quite devastating for them—to be awarded such a major commission, only to have it lapse for years and then ultimately go to someone else.

That must have been especially painful when the project ended up being so successful.

There’s actually quite a sweet story connected to this monument—my mum and dad made a pact that when one of them left the building, so to speak—when one of them passed away—the other would go and wait for them in front of the Boudicca statue. They were afraid they might not be able to find each other in the afterlife, so they chose a meeting place.

Susan: Oh, that’s so wonderful.

Lucy: It is, but also very sad.

Susan: Yes, but that’s what monuments mean to people—they’re meeting places, aren’t they?

Lucy: They really are.

Susan: They serve as focal points—for memory, for emotion, for ideas. They’re incredibly powerful.

Lucy: Absolutely. I actually met a man recently who works closely with homeless people, helping them get off the streets. He told me something really interesting about the role of monuments.

He said that homeless people often gather around monuments, but they’re frequently left out of discussions about public space. He explained that when he’s looking to help someone, he doesn’t go searching for individuals—he goes to the monuments, because that’s where people will be.

It’s just another example of how monuments function as gathering places.

Susan: That’s fascinating.

Statuary detail of Scott monument, Edinburgh

Detail of The Scott Monument By Stephen Dickson – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org © 

Lucy: So, what’s your next choice?

Susan: Oh, well, I wanted to talk about the Scott Monument in Princes Street Gardens, Edinburgh—partly because I love the writings of Walter Scott.

He’s not much read these days—maybe just by Ann Wilson, Rory Stewart, and a handful of devoted fans. But in his time, he was incredibly influential. His novels were widely read, not just in Britain but also in France, where he was hugely popular.

So when he died in 1832, it was clear that something significant needed to be done to commemorate him. A competition was held to design a monument in Edinburgh, and it was won by George Meikle Kemp—a self-taught, amateur architect.

Kemp’s design featured a massive marble statue of Scott, seated with his favorite deerhound, Maida, by his side. But what makes it so striking is that this statue is housed within a towering Gothic canopy—a structure with soaring pinnacles, pointed arches, and intricate detailing.

The monument is absolutely immense. And within it, there are dozens of smaller statues, busts, and carvings—many of them depicting other Scottish poets and monarchs, but mostly featuring characters from Scott’s own novels, like Kenilworth, Ivanhoe, and Waverley.

You’ve got everyone from Bonnie Prince Charlie to Gurth the Swineherd from Ivanhoe—all these little figures. It almost feels like stepping inside Walter Scott’s imagination. Some of the characters are historical, others are entirely fictional, but they all reflect his unique storytelling genius.

In many ways, Scott invented the historical novel as we know it today. Of course, novels set in the past had been written before, but he revolutionized the genre by dramatizing historical events in a way that made them vivid and exciting.

For example, in Kenilworth, he imagines Queen Elizabeth visiting the Earl of Leicester at Kenilworth Castle. He blends real historical events with entirely fictional characters, setting them in motion like the gears of a well-oiled plot machine. It was groundbreaking. And honestly, I don’t think we’d have historical fiction in quite the same way today without him.

But despite the grandeur of the monument, not everyone loved it when it was unveiled in 1846.

Charles Dickens hated it—he called it a “great failure” and said it looked like a church had sunk into the ground, leaving only its spire sticking out!

Lucy: Oh no!

Susan: Yes! And you can kind of see what he meant—there’s this huge Gothic structure towering above the landscape. But Queen Victoria loved it, and it actually inspired her when she was planning the Albert Memorial after Prince Albert’s death in 1861.

When discussions began about how to commemorate Albert, someone suggested naming a university after him, but Victoria rejected the idea. She wanted a monument. And the design of the Albert Memorial in London was directly influenced by Kemp’s concept for the Scott Monument.

But the monument also has a tragic history. The construction process took a heavy toll on the workers—many of the masons who worked on it developed silicosis because they were cutting stone in enclosed workshops, breathing in fine dust particles. It’s estimated that nearly half of the workers involved in its construction died as a result.

And George Meikle Kemp himself never lived to see it completed.

In 1844, towards the end of the project, he was walking home one foggy March night when he slipped and fell into the Union Canal. He drowned.

So even though the monument itself is a magnificent tribute to Scott, it’s also tied to this hidden story of tragedy—the loss of the workers who built it, and the untimely death of the man who designed it.

Lucy: Wow, that’s heartbreaking.

Susan: It really is.

Lucy: Yeah, gosh—what an unusual kind of sadness surrounding it. I imagine there were many, many deaths connected to the construction of monuments that have never been acknowledged. Health and safety wasn’t really a concept back then, and people just didn’t know the risks.

Even when I started working in conservation—so, about 30 years ago—masks were laughed at. If you wore one, people thought you were being ridiculous. I had quite bad asthma as a child, so I always wore a mask, and I remember the teasing I got for it on site.

Now, of course, it’s completely different. You can’t go anywhere without PPE. You pick up a pen to write a conservation report, and someone’s asking if you’ve got a visor and gloves. And I’m like, I’m writing on a piece of paper, what’s going to happen? Or they’ll insist I wear a hard hat, and I’ll think, Apart from pigeons, what exactly is going to fall on my head?

So in some ways, it’s gone too far in the opposite direction. But overall, it’s a good thing.

But yes, I didn’t actually know much about that monument before, and I certainly didn’t realize its significance in relation to historical fiction. I think I’ll have to make a pilgrimage up to see it now!

The Royal Artillery Memorial

Image by Peter Trimming. Artillery Memorial, Hyde Park Corner

Susan: I highly recommend it.

Lucy: Good! Well, my final choice is a monument that’s a favourite of many—the Royal Artillery Memorial at Hyde Park.

It commemorates the First World War and honours the Royal Artillery division, which lost nearly 50,000 soldiers. It’s one of the best-known war memorials—not just because of its prominent location in central London, but also because of Jagger’s statues.

As war memorials go, I think even now, it’s considered the pinnacle of what a great war memorial should be.

A lot of people associate the bronze sculptures with Jagger, but he actually designed the entire monument, not just the statues. The marble elements are just as significant, particularly the enormous howitzer on top.

The inclusion of the artillery was very much a decision made by the memorial committee. At the time, minimalist war memorials like the Cenotaph were incredibly popular, but they wanted something that represented what was actually done in the war. They wanted to acknowledge the machinery and equipment involved. And I think this monument does that so effectively.

It’s quite an unusual piece in the sense that it’s more than just one thing. It’s not just about the human figures—it’s this combination of sculpture, architecture, and symbolism. There’s a lot happening, which is why you can stand in front of it for ages and still find new details to take in.

Jagger’s figures have such a distinctive realism to them. They have weight—there’s a real solidity to them. They’re solemn and noble, but they’re not the kind of heroic, idealized soldiers you often see on plinths around the city. They feel real.

And then, of course, there’s the figure of the deceased soldier at the back. He’s partially covered by his greatcoat, and I believe Jagger had to really fight to include that.

The committee initially thought it was too much—that it was too real, too painful to depict death so directly. They wanted something more symbolic, more suggested. But Jagger refused to back down. He believed it was vital to show the full reality of war.

That’s what makes this monument so powerful to me—he managed to create a work of art that also carries a deeply moral message. It reminds us that war isn’t just about heroism and sacrifice—it’s also about loss and suffering. And I think that’s why it stands out among war memorials.

Susan: I completely agree. It’s painful to look at, and that’s exactly why it’s so effective.

Even the small details add to that sense of realism—like the kit the soldiers are wearing. The shell carrier has his panniers strapped to his legs, and the driver is wearing these massive, heavy protective boots.

Those details make you feel the discomfort, the weight of it all. They remind you of how cumbersome and exhausting it must have been just to move in that gear.

And then there’s the greatcoat covering the fallen soldier. There’s something unbearably poignant about that detail. It’s an item designed to keep you warm, but here, it’s being used to cover a dead body. That contrast is devastating.

Lucy: Yes, and it was incredibly controversial at the time. But I read that Jagger was so determined to include that figure that he said, I’ll do it for free.

It was essentially unwanted by the committee, so he told them they could have it at no cost. In the end, they paid him a small fee for it—probably because they didn’t want to feel beholden to him—but it wasn’t about the money for him. He needed it to be there.

The way he focused on all these small details reminds me of still life painting. He treated every element as important as the figures themselves. That’s what makes him such a genius.

And I believe he originally wanted even more still life elements—additional pieces of equipment and kit—but not all of them made it onto the final monument.

There were so many people involved in that committee, and everyone had their own opinions. Even up until the last minute, he was being asked to make changes. That must have been infuriating.

He had a clear vision of what it should be, and yet he had to keep tweaking it to keep people happy. I don’t think I’d have had the patience!

Susan: And the fact that he had served—he knew the details. He wasn’t coming in from the outside, just imagining it. This was all drawn from his real experience, from being there, in action.

Lucy: Yes, exactly. And I was also thinking about how other sculptors had been involved in the project before him, but none of them quite worked out. They just couldn’t find the right person or a design that really captured what they wanted.

So for Jagger to actually get the project over the finish line—it must have taken real skill. I imagine he must have been quite a good people person as well. He didn’t just throw his hands up and say, Look, I’m the artist, let me do it my way. If he had upset everyone, the monument might never have been completed. But he saw the bigger picture and managed to navigate all of that.

Well, Susan, thank you so much for joining me today. I really appreciate it. It’s been wonderful to see the article in Country Life.

The only problem I’ve had is that it’s really difficult to get printed copies once they’re off the shelf! Country Life produces so many copies, but then they move straight on to the next issue.

Susan: Yes, exactly—it just disappears so quickly!

Lucy: I think they need to have an option where we can order extra copies. That’s my demand!

Susan: I completely agree!

Lucy: Well, thank you so much for coming on. It’s been a real pleasure talking about these monuments with you.

Susan: Likewise—thank you for inviting me on. It’s been wonderful to chat about all this with you.

Lucy: Lovely! And for anyone who’d like to find out more about you, where can they go?

Susan: Right, well, I have an Instagram account—it’s just @susan.ex.owens, I think.

Lucy: And people can also pick up a copy of your book. Give us the title of your most recent one again?

Susan: Well, the book about the past is called Imagining England’s Past: Inspiration, Imagination, Obsession, and that was published by Thames & Hudson in 2023.

But a much more recent book, which has just come out, is called The Story of Drawing: An Alternative History of Art. That was published by Yale University Press in October 2024.

Lucy: Fantastic! Thank you very much.

Susan: Thank you!

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