Hello Sculpture Vultures, and thank you for joining me today. It’s going to be a slightly more brief introduction than usual, as I’m a little bit under the weather. I’ve just come down with some horrible lurgy or other, and my throat is on fire—so I’ll try and keep it short.

This week’s theme seems to be one of vandalism, so I thought I’d just mention that. I’ve been up in Nottingham this week fixing up Little Maid Marian and Robin Hood, who sadly had their hands ripped off.

I mean, don’t ask me how people manage to do that with their bare hands. Honestly, we struggled with it ourselves, because the casting was really quite thick in places. I’m presuming the vandals didn’t have proper tools—I don’t think they did, because it happened on Halloween. So, I think it’s fair to assume it was just mischief.

The way it was done—it definitely wasn’t cut with an angle grinder—it was ripped. So yes, I don’t know… super-strength spirits of some description? Everyone in the local area really loves the sculpture. It’s one by Neil Andrews. If you’d like to have a look at some of the work that I did this week—myself and my team—I’ve got some before and after pictures up on my website. It might just be of interest to you.

It’s www.antiquebronze.co.uk/statue-repair, and there are various projects on that page—before and after shots—and we got such nice press, actually. The BBC, local BBC news, did a little feature. They even brought in actors dressed up as Maid Marian and Robin Hood to pose next to the statue. It’s quite a nice little piece, actually, and it’s lovely to know that they think it’s a significant feature of the area.

It really is a lovely little statue. I don’t know—who knows why people do these things? But yes, let’s hope it never happens again.

Also, I’ve been on my favourite local radio show talking about vandalism—Radio Stoke. I don’t live anywhere near Stoke, but Stuart George, who is the host, has brought me on a couple of times now to comment on different issues to do with public statues.

I had a good chat with him all about a war memorial in Leigh, which sadly has been vandalised this week with swastikas. They weren’t just spray-painted on, which is bad enough—they were actually carved into the monument, which is never good, basically.

He was asking about that kind of vandalism—how you can deal with it as a conservator, and if there’s any way to prevent it. The short answer being no, sadly.

But I’ve put up the segment as a YouTube short, and I’ll link to it in the show notes if you’d like to have a listen. It’s a nice little segment, actually. He’s really got a great voice—Stuart George. He’s a great host. I could learn a lot from him, and I think you might be interested.

Apollo 13 Monument. Space Center, Houston.

Today on the show, I have Steve Barber. He’s an American filmmaker and producer who’s made some major documentaries on World War II and other military-related projects. But I really wanted to speak to him because he was the catalyst behind creating a whole raft of monuments—particularly to astronauts in the U.S.

Quick heads-up: Steve is a really colourful character, and he speaks in the same kind of majestic language—nothing you won’t have heard if you’ve worked in a foundry or a sculpture studio. I’m going to say, especially if you’ve ever dropped a chisel or a tin of wax on your toe.

Just maybe keep in mind—if you’ve got kids running around—you might not want them to hear this episode.

What fascinated me about Steve is how differently he approaches raising money for monuments, compared to how we do it in the UK. I’m a real lover of people who do things unconventionally.

My husband says I embrace chaos. Maybe I’m not an anarchist exactly, but I do struggle to colour inside the lines. And Steve’s approach is probably not to everyone’s taste, but I think his results are undeniable. They are incredibly impressive, and I think there’s a lot to be learned from him.

Steve has raised millions of dollars for the creation of monuments, and he’s brought about really important tributes to the Apollo 11 crew, Apollo 13, Sally Ride—America’s first woman in space—and others.

He isn’t a sculptor—he says he has nothing to do with art himself. You’d have to call him a creative mover and shaker. And he’s found homes for these monuments in some of America’s most prestigious locations, including the Kennedy Space Centre and Ronald Reagan’s Presidential Library.

I began our conversation today by asking him how he first became interested in documentary filmmaking.

Steven: You know, my whole life has just been kind of a series of serendipitous, divine providences. I mean, I fell into documentary filmmaking. There’s an old saying that sometimes success sneaks through the back door disguised as failure.

And I had… I had a lot of failure. When I look back at my life—I’m 64 now—all the really great stuff, from meeting my wife to three or four, maybe five really meaningful moments, all happened because I did something selflessly.

So, what happened was, I was just kind of a sales guy, running a sales organisation. And there was this guy in my parking lot every year, working on a buddy of mine’s car. He was in a wheelchair, but the guy was buff—just huge arms. It was kind of a strange thing to see. Just imagine you go out to your carport, and there’s a guy working on a car—but he’s in a wheelchair. That’s not something you see every day, right?

So, I always found that interesting. For three or four years, every year, he’d come and work on my buddy’s car. Anyway, long story short—one day he comes wheeling up to me. I’m like, “What do you want?” And he goes, “Oh, my friend Robert said you know some people with money.”

He says, “I want to do this race. I want to push my wheelchair 300 miles in six days between Anchorage and Fairbanks.” I said, “You want to do what?”

So, it was this race called Challenge Alaska. And I basically followed 32 paraplegics for six days, pushing their wheelchairs 55 miles a day. These guys were nuts, right?

When he told me about it, I kind of stopped everything I was doing. I was out pitching The Steve Barber Book and The Steve Barber Movie—trying to break into the industry. I lived in LA, had done a little acting, so I figured maybe I could make it in. But this—this was different. I knew a guy, John Paul DeJoria, who owns Paul Mitchell. I thought, let me go to him and see if he’ll fund it.

Now here’s the wild part, Lucy. I walk into his office—I’d been in that office a hundred times. The day I go in to ask for money for this guy in a wheelchair, there’s this tiny little wheelchair on the desk, made out of barbed wire. I ask the secretary, “What’s that?” And she goes, “Some woman in South Africa got her legs blown off. JP was visiting, and she gave him that as a gift because he bought her prosthetics.”

I mean—what are the odds?

So, I tell JP, “This guy wants to do this race.” He says, “How much do you need?” I go, “25,000.” He goes, “Here’s 100. Go make a movie.” I was like—what?

He goes, “You know how to make a movie, right?”

I said, “Oh yeah, sure, of course.” I had no idea. So, I go home, and this is 2007, right? I literally Google: how to make a documentary. It said, write the story, find a producer, hire a cameraman—it was all laid out, man.

So that’s what I did. I hired a photographer, hired a writer, and went up there and followed these guys. The movie ended up getting on the Oscar shortlist. I got Dan Aykroyd to narrate it. I’ll send it to you after we get off—it’s really good.

And yeah, I followed those 32 paraplegics. That’s how I got into the film business. I did that for the next 15 years. So that’s how I got into filmmaking—it all started because I helped a guy. It’s a long story, but because I helped a guy in a wheelchair, and didn’t expect anything in return—I wasn’t trying to make money—I just wanted to get him 25 grand so he could bring three friends with him and cover hotels and stuff.

Then all of a sudden, JP’s so blown away, he gives me 100 grand. “Go make a movie,” he says. And Dan Aykroyd, who’s his best friend, gives me another 10 grand. He narrates the intro, too. It was just magical.

Now the next nine movies? Not so magical. They were hard work. That first one—it was just a gift. After that, I was in the movie business for real, and had to hustle. But I knew the formula. I knew what to do, who to hire, who would buy the movies. The next eight were still great—but they weren’t magic. They were work.

But I loved them. Still do.

Lucy: And do you think that the groundwork you did in documentaries helped you be good at this unique thing you now do, which is creating monuments?

Steven: It’s the same process. It’s identical. I have to find the money, find the funding, scout the location, and plan the unveiling—which is kind of like a premiere.

It’s simpler—fewer steps. I mean, making a movie is much more complicated. You’ve got to hire way more people. With monuments, I just hire the artist. That’s it.

But it’s the same in the sense that I’m still telling a story. It’s just more compartmentalised. It’s tighter. I wouldn’t say it’s more impactful, but it’s definitely more lasting.

Like, if I drop dead right now, that Apollo 11 monument is going to be there. A thousand years from now—it’ll be somewhere. Maybe not in front of the Kennedy Space Centre, but it’ll exist. I don’t know where any of my documentaries will be. The whole internet could disappear tomorrow. This whole internet thing—it’s here now, but it could all go down one day.

But monuments? They don’t go anywhere. We’re still digging up busts from Egypt that are 3,700 years old.

Lucy: Which is exactly why those leaders chose bronze—to make sure their message lasted.

Steven: Yeah. I didn’t know that, but absolutely.

Lucy: Yes, it was a very strategic decision—kind of like war. I mean, sure, you can melt bronze down, but generally speaking, it’s too much of a pain in the ass to actually do anything with it. You’ve got to pull it down, get it to a foundry, and so on. So, they realised that using bronze meant their legacy wouldn’t easily be wiped out.

I mean, sure, anything can be destroyed, but the chances were low. It was an intentional choice.

Absolutely fascinating. So—tell people a little bit about the first one: Buzz Aldrin and the Apollo 11 Monument.

The Eagle Has Landed – Apollo 11 Monument. Brevard County, Florida

Steven: Okay, so Buzz Aldrin is a very good friend of mine—the second man on the moon. I’ve known the guy for 30 years, through different events. I’ve always loved him.

But you have to understand, Buzz is an old, crotchety, f***ing guy. He’s always been that way. And he’s always pissed that people call him the second man on the moon. I mean, it drives him nuts. And it’s like—he’s got what I call a “quality problem,” right? Most people don’t feel too bad for him. But if you know the backstory…

His father was a big deal—a general in the military—who was lobbying hard for Buzz to be the first man on the moon. It caused a major stink in ’67, ’68. His dad ticked off so many people in NASA that they gave it to Neil.

Buzz probably could’ve been number one. He was the best pilot. They even called him “Dr. Rendezvous.” He was brilliant—arguably more brilliant than Neil. But politics, egos… it all got in the way.

Every time we talk, he says, “We landed at the same time!” And I always laugh and say, “Why didn’t you just push him? Like, when he was going out the door, why didn’t you just push him the f*** out of the way?”

He always laughs at that.

So, we became good friends. And I’d always wanted to do his documentary—called Second Man—which he hated the title of, of course. After like seven, eight, maybe nine years of trying to convince him, he finally called me up one day and goes, “All right, Barber, let’s do it.”

I go, “Do what?”

He says, “You know what. The Second Man. Let’s do it. But we’ve got to change the title.”

I said, “Okay, fine. Great.”

That day, I raised $50,000. Boom. I was moving. Hired writers, started pre-production, the whole thing.

Then—disaster. Buzz’s kids—who are hideous—sued him in court. Internationally. Shut down his bank accounts. It was a mess. It was in USA Today, The New York Times, everywhere.

He calls me and goes, “I’m in a pissing match with my kids. We’ve got to shelve the documentary.”

And I’m like, “Buzz, no f***ing way, dude. Not happening. I’ve already got the money. I’m rolling.”

He just says, “Barber, shut it down,” and hangs up on me.

I was crushed. I mean, devastated. I was in tears. We were nine months out from the 50th anniversary, and I had this huge vision: premiere at the Cape, a thousand people, Space Force, major press—just massive.

So, I jumped on my bike, like I’m about to do today—I live in Santa Monica—and I rode down toward Playa del Rey, trying to clear my head.

And while I was riding, I had this memory come back to me out of nowhere. When I was 10 years old, in 1970, I met Jim Irwin—the 10th man on the moon—in Kingston, New York. He was this kind, soft-spoken Christian guy. He actually proselytised to me. On his website, High Flight, there’s this photo of the Earth rising over the moon with a quote: “It was more important that Jesus walk on the earth than man walk on the moon.”

He was just a decent human being. And I hadn’t thought about him in 50 years. But there he was—in my mind, like a vision.

That’s when it hit me: monuments.

If I couldn’t tell the story through a documentary, maybe I could honour it in bronze. I still wanted to do something big for the 50th, and now I had this vision: 12 monuments for the 12 men who walked on the moon.

So, I rushed home, got on trusty Google, and started searching: astronaut monuments. There was only one major one—in the U.S. Capitol—and I remembered it because I shot a movie there years ago.

I Googled the guy who built it: George Lundeen, from Loveland, Colorado. Legendary American sculptor. His family’s been in the bronze business for 55 years. They’ve done thousands of commissions. If you’ve seen bronze art in America, you’ve probably seen their work.

Now, look, I’m not an artist. I have zero art acumen. I’m just a visionary—a hustler. So, I call him up and say, “Hi, my name is Steven Barber. Did you do the astronaut monument in the Capitol?”

He says, “Yeah.”

And because I live in LA, I’m always bracing for someone to be territorial, like, “Stay away from my stuff.” I figured he’d hang up on me. But I tell him, “Look, I’ve got this big idea. I want to build 12 monuments for the moonwalkers. Can you do it in nine months?”

And then—silence. Just dead air. I’m thinking, “Hello?” Total crickets.

And finally, in this calm, gentle voice—he’s the total opposite of me—he says, “Mr. Barber, I’ve been waiting for this phone call for 25 years. No one has ever called us about doing more after the Jack Swigert Monument, the one from Apollo 13. If you can make it happen, we can build them. But we’ve got to move fast.”

And that was it. He’s a genius. He’s literally Michelangelo. And that’s how it started.

I’m like, “Really? Okay.” So that was my first yes. I said, “All right, I’ll get back to you.”

Then I called NASA—no luck there. So, I called Buzz and told him what I wanted to do. Buzz lit a fire under somebody’s ass, and next thing I know, they called me back.

And then—this is where it ties back to my film career—the guy running the Kennedy Space Center? He’s a former Marine. I had no idea. So he calls me up and says, “What do you want to do?”

I said, “I want to build 12 monuments.” He goes, “I don’t have room for 12 monuments. Can you build the crew of Apollo 11 in the next nine months?” And Lucy—I mean, I just couldn’t believe it. Stuff like that doesn’t happen. I hadn’t even said hello yet.

I said, “Yes, sir. I can.” He goes, “Well, you’re lucky—I just spent $10 million on a Moon Garden. We’ve got a place to put it. But we’re not paying for it. Go find the money.” I said, “You’re giving me a space in front of the Kennedy Space Centre—in a Moon Garden?”

He said, “We’re already drawing up the paperwork.” Then he goes, “You did the movie Return to Tarawa, right?” And Lucy, I just fell out of my chair. I’m like, “What do you mean I did Return to Tarawa? How would you know about that?”

I go, “My demo is fat 55-year-old men sitting on couches in Iowa watching the Military Channel.” He goes, “Yeah—I’m your demo.” He’d seen three of my films. Because they played them on the Military Channel constantly. They gave me like $25,000, and just aired them over and over again for years. So yeah—millions of people saw them, but it’s a niche audience.

But that was the moment. That validated me. He goes, “Look, you’re the real deal. Go raise the money. I’ll give you the space.” And that’s how it all started. So that morning, I got on the phone. And let me just tell you how great the Lundeen family is, okay?

I called George the next day—I go, “George, oh my God—they gave me the space! We can do it!” And he’s like, “Well, Barber, I got to move a lot of stuff around, but we can do it. We can get it done. But I need money—like, within 30 days. We need something to get moving. At least a hundred grand.”

I said, “Okay.” Months go by—three, four months. I finally got Quicken Loans—a company called Rocket Mortgage—to sign on for $750,000. But the guy running the marketing department hated me. It wasn’t his idea. He tried to kill it. We went at it—we literally had a blowup on Easter Sunday.

© Statue of John L. Swigert Jr & Steven C. Barber

I said, “You owe me a hundred grand. You’re supposed to be paying seven installments of $100K. I need it.” He goes, “You’re calling me on Good Friday?” I go, “Yeah. You know what would be good? If you sent me my f***ing money.”

Then I went over his head and called the CEO. I said, “Look, I’m having a hard time with your marketing guy. He won’t give me the money.” Finally, they sent me the hundred thousand. That was January 3rd, 2019—seven months away from the 50th anniversary.

So, I call George and go, “George, I got the money. I want to come out there with my wife and meet you guys.” I had never even met them. So, we rented an SUV and drove out—2,000 miles to Colorado. It was actually a nice trip. We stopped at the Grand Canyon, did a little sightseeing.

But I get out there, thinking, “Okay, show me what we’ve got to do. We’ve only got six months.” Lucy, I walk into the studio—and it’s already up. It’s built. The monument is already sculpted in clay.

And I just started crying. I still get emotional telling this story. I’m not going to go there this morning—but I could. I could. I looked at George and I was just blown away.

You have to understand—I walked into a professional sculpture studio, knowing nothing about any of it, other than what I’d seen on their website. This was a grand space. Thirty or forty other monuments in progress. A huge operation.

And there it was: the Apollo 11 crew, right next to Dick Butkus. Now, Dick Butkus—he’s like your Beckham. Huge. One of the most famous football players in the world. And they were building a 14-foot-tall monument of him—just towering over the Apollo 11 sculpture.

That’s the first thing I saw: Butkus and Apollo 11. I looked at George and said, “Here’s a hundred grand. But how did you…?” And they just smiled. These people believed in me more than anyone ever had. My parents didn’t even believe in me like that.

They said, “Ah, Barber—we knew you’d get it done.” I was floored. And that’s how this started. That’s the kind of relationship we had. I mean—who does that? Who goes out on a limb like that? But you know, later—years later—George told me, “We would’ve sold it anyway.”

Lucy: Yeah, but you were a good bet. They obviously believed in you.

Steven: Yeah, a hundred percent.

Lucy: And look what you’ve brought them. Look how much work you’ve brought them.

Steven: I have. I’ve brought them a lot of stuff.

Lucy: You’ve repaid that trust.

Steven: Yeah, but that’s the thing—people like them? They don’t care about the money. They’re flush. I’ve brought them maybe three or four million dollars’ worth of work. But that’s still just a tiny fraction of what they do. I’m like one-tenth of one percent of their business.

They don’t do it for the money. They do it because they like me. They like the work we’re doing. They loved the Apollo 11 piece. They loved Apollo 13. Sally Ride. Trump… well, that one was a little dicey. But they believe in the vision.

Lucy: I think they do it because they love sculpture. You don’t get that good at sculpture unless you love it. You’re not just doing it for business. There are a million ways to make money—but they chose art. Artists want to create something significant.

Steven: Well, I’m not in the monument business. I’m in the heart business. I just raised $75,000 for Jimmy Carter.

Lucy: Wow.

Steven: Yeah, which is pretty exciting to me. Because Jimmy Carter was the most decent… Look, he wasn’t a great governor. He wasn’t a great president—he made a lot of mistakes. But he was a great man. His legacy was what he did after the White House. Fifty years of service after he left office.

He was just the kindest, most decent human being to ever sit in that executive branch. A real Christian. A guy who cared about people. He did more after his presidency—vaccines, Habitat for Humanity, global health initiatives… I mean, just a decent guy.

So now I’m building my first bust. That’s new for me.

Lucy: Very good.

Steven: I’m in the bust business now. It’s only $75,000—which in monument terms is nothing—but it’s going to be installed at the Naval Academy.

And that’s huge. The Naval Academy—that’s like building a monument to the Queen at Buckingham Palace. That’s the level. It’s like West Point. It’s a major institution. So, we’ve already started building. And this is the crazy part—I got the money in one day. That’s never happened before.

I just called a couple Naval Academy graduates I knew—guys I’ve pitched movies to over the years. Very successful, multi-millionaire guys. Sent them the pitch—they loved it. Because they went to the Academy. One gave me 50 grand. The other gave me 25. Boom. Done in a day.

Lucy: I mean, this is the thing that made me so interested in your work. Raising money for monuments is a difficult thing. Raising money for anything is hard.

Steven: Monuments—monuments is a whole other beast.

Lucy: Yeah. There are a lot of monuments that are worth making. A lot of people who should be commemorated. But 99% of those never get made—because they don’t have someone like you to make them happen.

Steven: Exactly. I always start with the CEO. Always. I never go through marketing.

Lucy: You just go straight to the top.

Steven: Yeah, because here’s the thing about marketing people: one, they’ve never done anything. And two, they’re scared to do anything—because they’re terrified of losing their job.

Marketing people are absurdly overpaid. They’re making 60, 70, 80 grand a year, and they’ve never taken a real risk. Their “vision” means nothing. So no—I never waste my time there.

If I can get to the CEO, then it can go to marketing. That’s when I’ve got a real shot. But it’s usually hostile. Almost always hostile. You wouldn’t believe the reactions. “You went to my CEO?! How dare you!” And I’m like, “How dare you? You’re twelve years old. Why the f*** would I call you? I need an adult.”

And when it falls apart, I go right back to the CEO. I’ll say, “Sir, listen—I’ve worked with Dan Gilbert.” You might not know who that is, but Dan Gilbert is worth $20 billion. Owns the Cleveland Cavaliers. One of the biggest business figures in America. Very respected. And CEOs know each other. It’s a small club.

And I read your Financial Times all the time. Love that paper. Britain’s financial world is massive. London’s a huge hub—Middle Eastern money, Dubai money, legacy banking, hedge funds… You’ve got it all. Actually, I’ve been trying to build something in the UK. Do you know who the first British woman in space was?

Lucy: No… I should, though.

Steven: Dr. Helen Sharman. You should Google her. She’s cool. And I’ve been trying to pitch a monument for her—maybe in the financial district, or in front of a museum—because there are no astronaut monuments in the UK. None. Zero. So, I’ve gone after some wealthy British folks, same way I always do. I go straight to the CEOs.

And my pitch is simple: “Look, you’re not going to make a dime from this. This is a God story. This is legacy. This is patriotism. This is bigger than you.” I tell them, “You’ve already made all your money. You’ll wake up tomorrow, make more. You’ll buy a bigger house, a bigger yacht, a new Ferrari. But this—this is something that’ll last. This is a legacy you haven’t even thought of.”

That’s the hardest part of what I do.

Steven with the Sally Ride Monument. Cradle of Aviation Museum, NY.

See, when I used to sell advertising—it was easy. If you’re McDonald’s, you have to buy print, digital, radio, TV. They might not buy your radio station, but they have to buy something.

Nobody has to buy a monument. Nobody’s even thought about it.

And I’m telling you, if I’d known how hard this was when I started, I never would’ve done it. Never. Even today, I wake up and go, “What I do is impossible.” Because here’s the job: I have to cold call a total stranger—a CEO—someone I’ve never met, and say:

“Hi. My name’s Steven Barber. I’ve got a really extraordinary opportunity for you that you’ve never thought of in your life.” That’s like Inception. You seen the movie Inception?

Lucy: Yes.

Steven: That’s what I want—I want to get 50 CEOs on that first-class plane with DiCaprio, and put monuments in all their heads. That’s the dream. Because you’re not just pitching an idea. You’re putting an idea into someone’s brain—a brand-new one. That’s the magic.

So, once you get someone hooked on the monument idea, then the real work begins. Now you’ve got to figure out the location. Then you need a design. Then you need to raise the money. Then you’ve got to get everyone around the donor on board.

It’s layers and layers—and I’ve done it six, seven, eight times now. And I’ve done it big. But man… it’s hard as fuck.

Lucy: Are you just having these chance encounters? Or are you cultivating this? Like, is there a process here, or is it all instinct?

Steven: Honestly? It’s instinct. And that’s something George—my sculptor—isn’t always thrilled about. He’s like, “Steve, I’m a multimillionaire because I sell multiples. You’ve never tried to sell another Apollo 11. You’ve never tried to sell a second Apollo anything.”

And he’s right. I’m a one-off guy. I’m Barber—the one-off sales guy. That’s who I am. Because for me, it’s all about creating something from nothing. That’s where the joy is. Nobody had ever built Apollo 11. Why? That made no sense. It’s the greatest story in human history. Who the hell am I? I live in a rent-controlled apartment with a high-maintenance beauty queen and a cat. I’m just a regular guy, making a hundred grand a year. Not a man of means.

But still—I made it happen. And here’s how I look at it: If you go back and watch any movie before 1985—any movie—you’ll see people walking through airports carrying their suitcases. Right? Every single movie. People lugging their bags around.

Well, how long has the wheel been around? Six thousand years. But it wasn’t until 1986 that someone—probably sitting in Dallas Fort Worth airport—said, “You know what? I think I’ll put wheels on this suitcase.” Boom. Life changed. Because wheels on suitcases? That’s only been a thing for the last 35–40 years.

So, I always liken it to that: The best ideas haven’t even been thought of yet. That’s what Apollo 11 was. The idea had always been there, but no one had made it real. And part of why is because the astronauts were super picky about their likenesses. They wouldn’t let people use them. And NASA? NASA doesn’t give a damn about art. That’s not what they do.

NASA has zero interest in monuments. Apollo 11 is the only monument they have. It’s a miracle it exists. They don’t fund art. They don’t do sculpture. It’s just not on their radar. The only reason mine got built is because the guy running the Kennedy Space Centre at the time was a Marine—and he’d seen one of my films. And I was exactly nine months out from the 50th anniversary. And Buzz Aldrin was my friend. All these little stars had to align.

Otherwise? That monument would never have happened. And even then—it was not smooth sailing. They made it hard. I couldn’t even cut the ribbon! One guy said to me, “I’ll pull that fucking monument out of there if you don’t shut up.” Total power move. “You don’t control the narrative—we control the narrative.”

Lucy: So, has this work totally taken over your documentary career?

Steven: I did a documentary about building Apollo 11. You’d love it—it’s really well done. But yeah, I made nine or ten documentaries between 2007 and 2019. And now, if this Trump deal goes through… that’ll be the next film.

Right now, I’m literally waiting on a number. Waiting for the White House to call me. And that whole thing—getting a Trump monument built—was another total Steve Barber miracle.

I was working with someone who had the deal set… and then Trump fired him. And when Trump fires you, you vanish. So, everything we had in place—gone. No one at Mar-a-Lago knew anything about the monument, and no one wanted it.

But I got lucky again. A buddy of mine in the Army knew a congresswoman. She came out to the sculptor’s studio, saw the monument, took some video—and she had the president’s cell number. Sent it to him directly. And Trump went bonkers. I’ve got the text: “Oh my God, this is awesome. I want it.”

That was like three weeks ago. Now, the monument is sitting on a loading dock in New York, and I’m just waiting on the official okay from the White House. What I really need is the picture—me shaking hands with the President in front of the monument I made for him. That’s my calling card.

Apollo 11 isn’t doing it anymore. Apollo 13 isn’t doing it. Sally Ryder? Nobody gives a shit. But the President of the United States? As controversial as he is, millions of people love him.

And more than that—business people respect the position. If someone takes the time to reverse engineer what I’ve done and asks, “How did you build this? How did you get it to the President? How did you get him to say yes?”—that’s the story.

Not the monument itself. The real story… is how the hell I made it happen.

Lucy: Tell people where they can find out more about you—especially if they want to, well, throw some money your way.

Steven: Oh, if you want to throw money at me, that’s easy! Just call me—no, I’m kidding. But really, go to the Lundeen Studios website. That’s important, because I’m not an artist. I never pretend to be.

I’m a guy who’s passionate about art. And I’m especially passionate about the Lundeens. I mean this when I say it—they are simply America’s greatest sculptors, bar none. George and Mark Lundeen, and their protégé Joey Bainer, who’s maybe even better than they are. They’re not just great artists, they’re decent, kind people.

When we did Apollo 11, they built that monument on spec. I didn’t ask them to do that. I didn’t even have the money yet. But they believed in it, and they knew we needed to start months ahead. That’s the kind of collaborators they are.

So, check them out—Lundeen Sculptors, Loveland, Colorado.

And if you want to reach me, my company website is vanillafire.com. It’s my film site, but you’ll find my contact info there too.

If you’re someone who’s never thought about building a monument before but maybe should, just know

there’s no money in this. I’ll be honest. This is not a money-making game. But it’s so much bigger than that. It’s about legacy. It’s about telling a story that will last.

President Trump, Mark & George Lundeen

I don’t know if you’ve come across Malcolm Gladwell’s book The Tipping Point—but I really recommend it if you haven’t. Actually, anything Gladwell writes is worth picking up.

In The Tipping Point, he talks about how ideas spread, how certain people shape movements. He categorises them as Connectors, Mavens, and Salesmen.

Well, Steven Barber? He’s a Connector and a Salesman in one body. That’s why he’s been able to do what he does.

What struck me most about Steven is his ability to see what’s missing. The reference he made to luggage—how no one thought to put wheels on it until the 1980s—is so telling. That kind of vision, of spotting the obvious after the fact, is rare.

Where others saw Apollo 11 as a story already told, Steven saw an absence. He saw the fact there was no monument—and realized that was a story waiting to be told.

He’s also able to bridge worlds that don’t usually connect: astronauts, sculptors, CEOs, funders, politicians. And he makes it feel natural.

What also jumped out at me is that he’s thinking on a much bigger scale than most of us. Especially over here in the UK, where monument fundraising is often trying to scrape together £75,000 over a few years. Steven raised that in one day—and for him, that’s small potatoes.

He’s used to raising hundreds of thousands for a single project. And maybe that’s an American thing—the scale of ambition, the larger-than-life personality. The land is bigger, the food is bigger, the portion sizes are bigger… so maybe donor wealth is bigger too.

But really, it’s about his boldness. His confidence. His refusal to think small.

And that’s the biggest takeaway for me: Don’t shrink your vision to match the limits of what you think you can fund. Elevate your ambition—and let the scale of the story determine the ask.

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I’ll be writing up an article on Substack pulling out some of the biggest takeaways from this conversation with Steven—especially around fundraising for monuments, but really, it’s relevant to anyone trying to fund any kind of creative or civic project.

It won’t be a handbook, exactly, but it’ll offer some of Steven’s lessons in a practical way.

Substack is a space that’s close to my heart—it’s where I get to write, which is very much my home territory. Broadcasting is lovely too, but there’s something about the page and the pen (or keyboard) that feels grounding for me.

If you enjoy the podcast, please consider:

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It doesn’t have to be financial support—just sharing it helps a great deal. And on days when I’m feeling a bit under the weather (like today, with this sore throat I just managed to keep at bay with a strong coffee), your comments and messages mean a lot.

I’ll be back with you in a couple of weeks. Until then—take care, keep dreaming big, and don’t be afraid to ask for more than you think you can get. You might be surprised by who says yes.

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