Transforming Space Into Sculpture with Nigel Hall RA

Hello, Sculpture Vultures — and thank you for joining me today. I’m not going to do a very extensive personal update, because if you listened to the last episode — well, you’ve had more than enough of me! That one was all about me, and I think there are much more interesting things to cover today.

The only personal note I’ll mention is that I’ll be dropping just one episode this month so don’t expect a new one in a fortnight’s time, as I usually do. I’m selfishly focusing on my novel at the moment! I’m deep into the final edits and tidy-up before it goes off for its first round of professional editing, and I’m absolutely loving it.

I’m sure many of you know that feeling — when you’re just right there with a project. And right now, that’s where I am. So I’ll be back with a fresh episode in June. Now, a quick recommendation: Have you come across the podcast Materially Speaking?

I really hope you have, because it’s a fabulous companion to Sculpture Vulture. Sarah Monk is the host, and she specialises in interviews with sculptors based in Pietrasanta — as I’m sure many of you know, that area is world-renowned for its marble sculpture.

It has a long and glorious history — nearly every famed piece of marble sculpture you can think of has roots in that region. Sarah has a real affinity with the area and knows the artists there intimately. Her interviews go deep, and they’re incredibly insightful.

So, if we’re all about bronze here — she’s all about marble. There’s a special event happening in Pietrasanta on May 24th and 25th — an open studio weekend where visitors can walk around, chat to the sculptors, and see the work happening up close. Sarah’s been instrumental in giving these artists a voice and bringing their stories to the forefront.

Even if you can’t make the trip, I’m sure Sarah will be recording a lot around the event. So if you’re a carver, or simply a sculpture lover, I highly recommend putting Materially Speaking on in the studio. It’s definitely worth a listen.

I don’t know if you’ve all been following along with Thomas J Price and everything he’s been up to lately — I certainly have! He’s one of those sculptors whose rise feels absolutely meteoric right now.

He’s been showing in some truly epic locations. Most recently, he’s exhibited in Florence — in the Piazza della Signoria and Palazzo Vecchio. I mean, come on those are incredible backdrops. To see such contemporary work placed right at the heart of the classical tradition and for it to hold its own is just amazing. He’s smashing it, quite frankly.

And now? He’s in Times Square, New York. And again, it just works. His sculptures feel completely at home in the chaos and spectacle of that space. He’s also got this amazing MAN series — huge digital screens displaying blinking, staring faces that feel like they’re watching you. It’s like a sculptural takeover of Times Square, and it’s just so powerful.

Honestly, it’s fantastic to see a sculptor gaining that kind of recognition, especially in the realm of public sculpture. I’ve been absolutely gushing over his work. So if anyone out there listening has a personal connection with him — please, could you nudge him for me? I’ve reached out to his studio a few times to invite him on the show, but understandably, he’s incredibly busy and important these days. Still, I truly believe he’d be adored by our Sculpture Vulture crowd. It would be like a home-from-home conversation for him!

Usually, when I look after sculptures in public which I do in his case, for some of his pieces in Hackney there’s more direct contact. Often the artists are quite appreciative that someone’s keeping an eye on their work. But with Thomas, it’s been radio silence so far. So I’m putting the call out: Sculpture Vultures, if you know him — send him our way!

Nigel Hall – The Now, 2000. Churchill College Cambridge

Now, on to today’s guest…

I’m interviewing Nigel Hall — one of Britain’s most distinguished sculptors. And I’ll be honest, I was a little bit nervous for this one! He’s properly epic. His outdoor works are primarily made of Corten steel, painted steel, and bronze. They’re deeply concerned with three-dimensional space — with mass, line, and presence.

Nigel has had over 100 solo exhibitions and more than 300 group exhibitions around the world. He’s also taught extensively — lecturing internationally, serving as an external examiner at the Royal College of Art, and running the MA Sculpture course at Chelsea College of Art and Design.

Many of you may have even been taught by him. Nigel has won numerous accolades and awards over the years, including the Jack Goldhill Sculpture Prize. He’s a Royal Academician, and he holds an honorary doctorate from the University of the Arts London.

I’ve actually wanted to interview him for quite some time. I’ve looked after his work for many years, but he really came to the forefront of my mind recently when one of his sculptures, at Churchill College in Cambridge, needed a condition assessment. The studio brought me in to take a look, as the piece was being relocated and needed an evaluation and a bit of advice.

And it was one of those moments, as often happens with this podcast, where someone just drops back into my orbit, and I think: Yes! You would love to hear from this person just as much as I’d love to speak to them.

So I reached out, and today’s episode is the result. I began our conversation by asking Nigel:

What stage of life were you at when sculpture became a part of your everyday?

Nigel: I suppose what I would say is that my grandfather was a sculptor. He worked in stone, mostly on restoration projects for large buildings, particularly ecclesiastical ones, though not exclusively. He worked in the West Country for many years.

And I was young, but very interested in his tools and techniques, so I suppose that’s where it began. That was probably my first real encounter with sculpture.

My mother also went to art school, she studied embroidery, actually at the same art school I ended up attending. So visual things were just part of life for us. They were always there.

And quite early on, I realised that would be my path too. I went to art school in Bristol, at the West of England College of Art, in 1960. And it was never a question of, “Should I do printmaking? Or painting?” No, I knew I wanted to do sculpture.

So I suppose you could say that right from the moment I left school, I was seriously committed to sculpture.

Lucy: So you weren’t just tinkering around at home before that?

Nigel: Oh no, I absolutely was! Even while I was still at school, I was playing around with sculpture. I remember experimenting with molten lead, you know how you can pour it onto sand or Tish, and it piles up into little spires and forms? I was doing that and making pieces that were very much inspired by Giacometti. He was one of my early heroes.

I was also building collage-style sculptures out in the garden. So yes, definitely experimenting from early on. But when it came time to go to art school, it all became much more serious.

Lucy: You really are prolific, I think. You’ve produced an awful lot of work over the years. Is that something that’s come quite naturally to you? Or have you had to really push yourself to produce that much?

Nigel: I think it must come naturally, because I honestly don’t feel like I’m especially productive.

Lucy (laughing): Really?

Nigel: Yeah! I look at other artists and think, “I’m a bit off the mark.” We’ve just been to Paris, actually, for a show, and we went to the Picasso Museum, and I know, nobody can really be compared to him, but still, when you see that level of output, it makes you think.

Compared to some, I suppose I’m just a steady worker. And that’s largely because I’m happiest when I’m in the studio working. It’s not so much a comfort zone, but definitely a space where I feel safe and content.

Lucy: I totally get that.

Nigel: I have a big studio, hopefully you’ll visit it one day, it’s in South London. It’s a great space, and I work there on my own. I do have a team based in the Midlands who fabricate my metal pieces, but day-to-day, I prefer to work solitarily.

So yes, over time, I suppose I’ve produced quite a bit. I make a lot of drawings, too. And when you add it up over the years, and you get to my age, it’s a lot of mileage. A lot of hours. So, naturally, a lot of work accumulates.

Lucy: Yeah. Are you the kind of person who loses track of time in the studio?

Nigel: Not really. I actually keep quite a routine. I’m not one of those people who’ll work all night if it’s going well, then sleep through the day. I tend to stop at a set time, usually around 5:30 or 6.

I start at about 10, have lunch in the studio, and it’s just a steady, full working day. But if something’s going really well, I’ll just say to myself, “Great — it’ll be waiting for me tomorrow.” That way, I’ve got something exciting to come back to.

Lucy: I love that. That kind of deliberate stopping point actually sounds very motivating.

Nigel: Yes, I suppose I have a fairly strict regime. My wife thinks I’m a bit over-regimented, but… that’s just what suits my work.

Lucy: Well, I like structure too, especially when it gives you the freedom to choose what you’re doing within it.

Nigel: There was a kind of shortage period for a while. After I finished at the West of England College, I went on to the Royal College, and when I graduated, I was fortunate enough to get a fellowship to America. That really helped bridge that awkward gap, you know, the moment between leaving art school and actually finding the means to set up a studio and sustain yourself.

So I went to Los Angeles for two years, had a studio there, funded by the fellowship, and I worked very hard. It was an extraordinary experience, a completely new environment, and I travelled a great deal, which was actually one of the stipulations of the award: to not only work in the U.S., but to travel and really get to know the country.

It was absolutely brilliant. I even had my first exhibition in America in 1968 with the Nicholas Wilder Gallery in LA, a very well-known gallery at the time.

Lucy: That’s such a strong start!

Nigel: Yes, and then I came back to the UK in 1969. Back then, you could often get a day a week teaching in an art school, and that was enough to just about get by. Then it went up to two days a week, and I travelled around teaching at different schools.

And that worked well for a few years. But then, in 1974, a job came up at Chelsea School of Art. I had already done some teaching at the Royal College and elsewhere, but this was different. It was to run the postgraduate sculpture course.

Lucy: Was that a big leap for you?

Nigel: Well, I spoke to John Hoyland at the time, a wonderful abstract painter who I’d known from my time in America. He was actually running the postgraduate painting course at Chelsea, and he said, “Take it. It’s a wonderful art school. It won’t cramp your style. You’ll enjoy the students — and they’ll give you the time and freedom to do your own work too.”

And that was exactly right.

The principal at the time, Fred Brill, was very keen for his staff to be active artists, so it was really encouraged. They even gave us time off to travel for exhibitions, wherever they were in the world.

Lucy: That sounds like an incredibly supportive environment.

Nigel: It was. I stayed there for seven years, from 1974 to 1981. It was hard work, though the course was a one-year four-term postgrad, which was intense for both the students and the staff. But we had tremendous applicants, and we only accepted about seven or eight students a year, so we could really pick those with promise.

I loved it.

But around 1980–81, I started showing more widely, my first show with Galerie Maeght in Paris, and others and I was finally selling some work. So I decided to take the plunge and leave the teaching job.

Since then apart from a short stint of two weeks at the New York Studio School, invited by a dear friend and dean there, Graham Nickson I’ve been working away, rather selfishly, in my own practice.

Lucy: It sounds like it really was the right stage of your life to take that leap. You kind of need a bit of financial support from somewhere at that point, just to pay the boring bills while you build momentum. Even with exhibitions, it’s not an easy career to get traction in.

Nigel: That’s absolutely true. The art world has always been pretty unstable, especially when it comes to sales and income, even now. You never quite know how things are going to pan out from one exhibition to the next.

But I do feel incredibly fortunate that I’ve been able to keep doing what I love and still survive over the years.

Lucy: Do you think exhibitions have been a bit of a secret weapon for you? I mean, you’ve had so many especially solo shows. Has that been a good strategy?

Nigel: I suppose I see it as necessary, really. I need to get the work out of the studio and into the world to hear people’s reactions to it.

I actually love putting on shows, despite the stress they inevitably bring. And they really do bring stress! My last one was in Paris, with a gallery that’s new to me, a new team, a new audience. So of course, you worry. Will anyone show up to the opening? Will too many people show up and no one can see the work properly? Will anything sell?

And my work is a slow burn, as you can imagine. It doesn’t jump off the walls. It doesn’t shout for attention. Figurative work, I think we’d all agree, tends to sell more easily.

Lucy: Yes, and I think sculpture has its own challenges too. A painting? You can pop it up on a wall quite easily. But sculpture you have to really have the right space, the right setting. It’s a bigger commitment.

Nigel: Yes, and although sculpture was my first love, and I suppose it still is, my work has always been deeply involved with the two-dimensional as well.

I make what most people call paintings, but technically they’re drawings because they’re on paper albeit often on the scale of a painting. But for me, they are complete works in themselves. They reference the same ideas and sources as my sculpture, and the two disciplines definitely inform each other.

Sometimes I’ll spend weeks just drawing, and then I feel ready again for the challenge of sculpture. That interplay between the two has always been really important to me.

Because I’ve always valued that relationship with the flat surface, I was drawn quite early on to the white wall as a structural support for sculpture. A lot of my early work especially through the seventies, eighties, and nineties was wall-based, and much of it still is.

For a long time I worked with very linear, tubular forms playing with line and enclosure and I was always very conscious of how those forms read against the wall. Even now, I’m looking at a piece in the room it’s made of wood, two interlocking ellipses and it’s essentially a relief, in the sense that it’s tied to the wall.

Nigel Hall, Chinese Whispers IV, 2008.jpg

That actually turned out to be serendipitously helpful because it meant that collectors could place my sculptures where they might otherwise hang a painting. They don’t take up floor space, and they don’t need a plinth. I’ve been in exhibitions I remember one in Buffalo that was called Relief Form. I hadn’t thought of my work as relief before that, but I can see why people describe it that way.

And, to put it a little crudely it’s worked quite well financially, because not only do people enjoy those pieces, they can also actually find space for them in their homes or galleries.

Lucy: Yes, that makes so much sense. Do you find that you spend a lot of time thinking about sculpture more broadly — not just your own work?

Nigel: I certainly do think about my sculpture, all the time, really. I carry with me and I’ve got one in front of me now, a small black-covered notebook. I’ve been using this same kind of notebook since the early sixties 1962 or 1963. In my studio, I’ve now got two full shelves of them.

In those notebooks, I jot down ideas for sculpture, for drawings, for colour, notes about exhibitions, all sorts of things. So yes, my work is almost constantly on my mind. It’s often the last thing I look at in bed at night, and the first thing I pick up in the morning. I carry one with me all day, always.

I tend to see the world sculpturally. Even just looking out the window now, I’m watching the movement of trees. I love the rhythm of it that sensation of something moving close to you, shifting against a middle ground, which in turn moves slowly against the far distance. Or looking out over a cityscape the way verticals rise and intersect with horizontals. That’s all sculpture to me.

It’s a bit like dance, in a way sculpture. There’s this sense of movement and counter-movement, especially when you’re in motion, passing through the world. The environment becomes kinetic, shifting around you and that’s part of how I experience form.

I also draw a great deal from nature. Not everyone knows that side of my work, but throughout my life, I’ve done drawings of the landscape wherever I’ve travelled. In fact, there’s a small show just opened at the Royal Academy that features some of those landscape drawings, from the American desert in the 1960s and from the Swiss mountains right up to the present day.

They’ve displayed those drawings alongside my more geometric and charcoal works, and the contrast creates a really interesting conversation between direct observation and abstract formal exploration.

So yes, I’m always thinking about sculpture. And I do still look at other people’s work, though I must admit, and this might sound awful, as I get older, I find there’s more and more in the world that fascinates me, but perhaps less and less in the art world that truly excites me.

I think that’s natural. The longer you live, the more deeply occupied you become with your own work, with your own ideas and language. That’s where the real satisfaction lies. It’s not that I’ve closed myself off to new work, I look but the things that really engage me tend to come from within.

Lucy: Yes, it sounds like you’re constantly reinterpreting the world around you but through your own sculptural language. The way you interact with and observe your environment and then express that sculpturally it’s clearly a lifelong fascination. Almost an obsession, maybe?

Nigel: I think you’ve put it quite well — it is an obsession. You know, when you ask a question that takes my mind back to the early days, I’m reminded of something very specific. The first time I ever flew, I must’ve been about 14, I went on a flight with my grandparents, I think to Lough or somewhere similar. It was a sparkling clear day, much like today brilliant blue skies, bright white clouds.

And I remember looking out of the airplane window, and it just completely struck me: these floating white clouds, each one casting a soft shadow on the surface of the sea. It was like a dance a relationship between the object in the sky and its presence on the ground. It was so spatial, so sculptural.

That was the first time I really understood what I would call sculptural space.

And I began making work in response to that idea. My earliest pieces at the Royal College were about landscape and clouds, I wanted to break away from the idea of sculpture as a single, self-contained object that just sits on a pedestal or on the floor. I wanted to explode that idea, to create something that felt expansive, environmental, spatial.

One of those early sculptures had five parts:

a large archway that you could walk through
two suspended elements above it, like clouds
and below, two floor pieces almost like mats or carpets

So you were surrounded by elements that represented the earth below, the threshold in between, and the sky above a full vertical encounter. I was trying to choreograph space, to let the viewer move through it and experience it from all sides.

That’s something that’s continued right through to today.

Lucy: I mean, that sounds like the most epic challenge, capturing something like that in sculpture. Is it a frustrating process? Because I imagine it must be quite hard to bring that kind of expansive, layered vision into physical form?

Nigel: It is difficult, but not as difficult as it sounds. I always think of it as a process of steps. That old phrase: “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” That’s how it feels. People often ask me, “What influences your work?” And I usually say: the last work. The previous piece is always the spark. I look at it and think, “Yes, but what else could I do?” — and I evolve from there.

If you look at a sculpture I made five years ago, and compare it to one now, there’s probably quite a big leap, but it’s still recognisably my work. There’s a consistent thread but always development.

Some of those early pieces did have a sort of toy-like, almost playful quality to them. But even now, I’m still exploring those same ideas. Take, for example, a moment I once had in the countryside: I was looking out a window at a grassy hill, rising sharply into view. The wind was rippling through the grasses. And above that, clouds drifting slowly across the sky.

That was a three-dimensional experience for me and I’ve carried it with me ever since. The horizon line, the movement, the tension between stillness and change. That kind of space runs like a nerve through much of my work.

I’ve even made sculptures with vertical hanging forms, like plumb lines. For me, they became metaphors for how we exist on the surface of a globe. The idea that we’re all being drawn to the centre of the earth, like a suspended line pulled by gravity it’s such a beautiful, universal idea.

And that’s what I try to hold in the work that sense of space, balance, and subtle movement.

Lucy: I was going to ask — is there a particular part of the sculptural process that you enjoy the most? Or is it all difficult? All uphill? Or perhaps it ever feels like smooth sailing?

Nigel: Looking back, especially to those early hill and cloud pieces, I remember the sheer joy of modelling in clay. That was pure pleasure. I absolutely loved it. Then came the plaster casting, which was also a pleasure. There’s something satisfying about the rhythm of that process.

But after that, I would often cast those pieces in fibreglass, and that was less of a pleasure. Fibreglass is an unpleasant material to work with, no two ways about it.

Eventually, the forms I wanted to make changed. And, with great regret, I moved away from the clay modelling I loved so much. I started working with aluminium, welding and brazing it, and over time, I grew to enjoy that too, even though it was a completely different set of skills.

Then later still, I moved to making cast pieces from cut sheets, and nowadays I mostly make my originals in wood. Some of them are quite intricate which can be engrossing, yes, but also very taxing.

So, to answer your question it’s not all pleasure. Certain aspects are like using an electric jigsaw, for instance. Once you get good at it, there’s a real satisfaction in following a line with precision. It becomes a kind of flow, very tactile, very focused. But overall? It’s work. It’s absorbing, yes, but not always joyful.

Lucy: That’s such an honest insight. It’s interesting that the joy shifts as the materials and techniques change. Do you ever get a moment of deep satisfaction when it all comes together?

Nigel: There are these fleeting moments, yes. When you first have the concept, that moment of spark, that’s exciting. Then you begin the making, and it becomes a bit of a slog. But somewhere in the middle, there’s a moment when it starts to come together, it begins to resemble the idea you’d imagined. That’s a great feeling.

Then, almost inevitably, it falls apart. Not literally, but conceptually it doesn’t quite hold the energy or balance you were hoping for. That’s always a bit of a crash.

But then, when you complete the piece just for a moment, you step back and think, “Yes, that’s got something.” It’s brief, but it’s real. Then, a few weeks later, that glow fades again… but occasionally it returns, often when you see the piece again, out in the world.

Lucy: So it’s not even necessarily when you finish — it’s when you encounter it again?

Nigel: Exactly. Just recently, I revisited a piece called Desert Rose, which is permanently installed at Clifford Chance in Canary Wharf. It’s two metres tall, and it’s set beautifully behind a big glass wall, overlooking those striking towers. And you know… it looked good. Really good.

That piece is based on the natural crystalline rock formations you find in the desert, also called “desert roses.” I’ve collected a few of them over the years, and they’ve always fascinated me.

I made that sculpture between 1986 and 1991. It was tough work, cut from bronze sheet using a jigsaw, which, looking back, was absolutely brutal.

Lucy: That’s hard graft! Bronze sheet is no joke…

Nigel: It was. And stupidly, I didn’t use ear defenders. I just thought I’d do it this once. Of course, that “once” turned into many hours — and it left me with pretty bad tinnitus.

Lucy: Oh no. Isn’t that just the way though? You think, “I’ll just do it quickly now” — and then years later, you’re paying the price.

Nigel: Exactly. It’s foolish in hindsight, but at the time… you’re caught up in the work.

Lucy: Yeah, exactly. I didn’t actually realise you made as much of the work yourself as it sounds like you do. I always presumed you had a fabricator involved, I mean, obviously a foundry for casting bronze, but you work in quite a few different materials.

Nigel: Yes, all the recent wood pieces, for example, are quite intricate and finely wrought. That’s just my nature, I like things made beautifully and precisely. People are always quite astonished that I make them myself, but with the exception of a couple of very large ones, I’ve made all of them myself.

Lucy: Wow. And those are stunning, they’re not simple pieces by any stretch.

Nigel: Thank you. These days I also focus a lot on making maquettes, pretty accurate models in plywood. If it’s something I want to scale up, I’ll send those to my team, who can take measurements and plans from the maquette to produce the final work, whether that’s in bronze or Corten steel.

Lucy: So are you mostly self-taught when it comes to these more technical aspects?

Nigel: Yes, when it comes to the wood pieces, absolutely. They’re built on an internal skeleton, over which I lay birch ply. I originally thought I’d work with veneer, but I couldn’t find anyone who could do it quite the way I wanted. So I abandoned veneer and just taught myself how to do it properly with high-quality birch ply.

I figured out how to cut, fit, and finish it myself and I’m rather pleased with the results. They’ve become beautiful objects in their own right.

Lucy: They really are. You must’ve picked up a lot of techniques over the years.

Nigel: Well, when I was a student, we did most of it ourselves. The technicians were there to help, of course, but you were doing the welding and the cutting and I think that’s stayed with me. It’s incredibly helpful when I talk to my team now I understand what’s involved.

And while I never studied engineering, I’ve always wanted my sculpture to be self-supporting to feel structurally confident. I don’t like the idea of a sculpture needing to be embedded in the ground to stay upright. I want my works to live in the real world and stand on their own terms.

Lucy: That’s such a great philosophy and so rare. Honestly, I think more artists should follow that idea: Don’t ask someone else to do something you wouldn’t do yourself.

Nigel: Exactly. Although I think that’s something that often only comes with experience. Your middle son might disagree he’d probably say, “Well, how hard can it be?”

Lucy: Oh, he does! All the time. And my answer is always the same: “Very hard.” But he’s seventeen, he thinks he knows everything right now.

Nigel: (Laughs) We’ve all been there.

Lucy: I wanted to ask you something slightly bigger-picture. You’ve had a very long and successful career, and that’s not easy in sculpture. Interest in this kind of work tends to ebb and flow sometimes dramatically. Have you found that difficult to navigate? Were there ever periods where it felt like no one was buying, no one was interested in shows?

Nigel: Yes, absolutely. It’s true, the fashion in the art world shifts constantly, and sculpture has had its low points. I remember going through a particularly conceptual phase in the art scene when it felt like nobody would ever want to exhibit a three-dimensional sculpture again.

But I’ve been fortunate. I’ve always managed to find galleries and collectors who supported my work. And I’ve also tried to be quite proactive I made a conscious effort to exhibit regularly, to keep things visible. I’d aim for two or three solo shows a year, and for the most part, I managed that rhythm. Of course there have been fallow periods. It hasn’t all been smooth sailing. But I’ve learned to keep working regardless. Sometimes the interest returns when you least expect it. And when it does, you need to have the work ready. The interest might come and go, but your own commitment has to remain steady.

Lucy: Yeah. Okay, so keeping those gallery relationships going making sure they’re still putting your shows on, that’s been a really good strategy for you?

Nigel: Yes, absolutely. And also, showing internationally has been key.

Lucy: Yeah?

Nigel: I think if I’d relied solely on England, it would have been much harder — just due to the nature of my work. My first ever solo show was actually in Paris in 1967. Then I had a couple of shows in the States, one in New York, one in Los Angeles. After that, it was Hamburg and Cologne. So before I had a solo exhibition in London, I was already showing abroad quite a bit.

Lucy: Wow — that’s quite unusual. And it sounds like you’ve kept that rhythm going?

Nigel: Yes, I have. I’ve got galleries in various countries that still represent my work. And I think that’s helped to even out the bumps. Because the art world is often about fashion — and what’s in vogue in one place might not be in another. Showing internationally helps to balance that out.

Lucy: And are exhibitions still the main way that your work sells?

Nigel: Yes, mostly. But interestingly — I’ve just nearly completed a commission that came about in a very different way. Not through a gallery at all, actually. It all started when someone came to our house to visit my wife, Ekra. They saw a drawing hanging in the hallway and immediately recognised it. They said, “I love this guy’s work — what’s it doing here?” And when Ekra said it was mine, they ended up arranging a studio visit for someone else — an American collector.

He came to the studio, and he was very pleasant, very easy to talk to. But honestly, I thought he didn’t seem all that taken with the work. He declined to look at much of it — wasn’t interested in seeing the smaller drawings. But I showed him one large piece — a five-by-four-foot drawing — and then that was that.

The next day, I got an email. He described the drawing in absolute detail — every shape, every colour. It was clear he had really seen it. And he wanted to buy it. Not only that — he said he also wanted a sculpture for his property in Sonoma Valley, California.

He originally said, “I think it should be six metres high.” I said, “That’s far too big!” — I mean, it’s enormous. He asked what I thought it should be, and I suggested something between three and four metres. Eventually, we settled on three and a half.

It was made here in the UK by my team. Just about the largest single piece you can send as one continuous chunk of steel.

He hired a professional team to install it. It’s painted steel — a very sharp yellow — and in the Californian light, it looks absolutely fantastic.

Lucy: That’s such a brilliant story. Especially the fact that he didn’t gush right away — it clearly stayed with him.

Nigel: Exactly. That made it even more rewarding. I thought he’d barely glanced at it — but he had studied it deeply. He even remembered the composition and the catalogue number. I mean — that’s real looking.

Lucy: And clearly, a client who truly understood the work.

Nigel: He was one of the most honourable, easy clients I’ve ever had — and incredibly enthusiastic. I wish they were all like that!

Lucy: Amazing. It’s a good strategy to have multiple streams of income, I find.

We’ve had certain clients who could easily take up every booking we’ve got — they’re big enough, and their collections are extensive. But I don’t like relying too heavily on any one source. Even if they’re great to work with, I always try to make sure I’ve got lots of horses in the stable, so to speak. That way, if one goes quiet, there’s another one running.

Nigel: Exactly. That’s absolutely how I’ve found it, too.

Lucy: It just feels like a safer way to run a creative business — especially when you’ve been going a long time.

Nigel: Yes, yes.

Lucy: Oh, Nigel, it has been such a pleasure to speak to you. I’ve really appreciated the conversation. Would you mind telling people where they can find out a little bit more about you if they’d like to?

Nigel: Yes, my website is nigelhallartist.com, and I’m on Instagram, I think under the same heading.

Lucy: Do you enjoy Instagram?

Nigel: I do. It’s the only social media platform I really use, and I’ve been on it for a few years now. I find it really good for getting responses from people around the world. I mostly post my own work — sculpture and drawings — and sometimes things I see while travelling. But the feedback from other artists and viewers has been really encouraging. I find it terrific.

Lucy: Thank you so much, Nigel. I hope we speak again soon.

Nigel: You’re very welcome. Thank you, Lucy. Bye-bye.

Lucy:
So when Nigel was speaking about space and shape and horizontals and voids… I don’t know about you, but my mind was filled with these otherworldly forms. It felt like something straight out of a science fiction film — almost like alien artefacts, the kind of sculpture we might discover on a distant planet.

Strangely, I’d never felt that before about his work when I’d seen it in person, but hearing him talk about it — it all just suddenly made sense.

His shapes are so satisfying. They’re perfectly honed, substantial, and solid — they make you want to run your hands over their surfaces. (Though, as a conservator, I must say: please don’t.)

There’s a contradiction in his sculpture that I love — they’re so grounded and weighty, and yet they seem to float. It’s like they exist just outside the realm of our everyday physics. Maybe the gravitational pull between the forms works differently. Maybe they obey other laws entirely.

And what Nigel gives us — I think — is this sense of the essence of shape. He refines things right down to their purest form. That’s his language: the elemental form, translated from the world he observes.

What struck me most is that the same idea that captivated him as a young artist — this fascination with how objects exist in space — has nourished him for decades. From flying over the sea and watching the shadows of clouds fall on the water, all the way through to now, he’s followed that single thread. There’s something deeply authentic about that — a single-minded pursuit that keeps unfolding the more you follow it.

It’s like he’s gone down a creative wormhole, and he’s still discovering more. Not many things in life offer that kind of endless depth. And yet, even as he reflects on the broader art world, he quietly says — and I’m paraphrasing — “Not much else really excites me these days. I mostly just want to keep exploring this language of my own.” And I think that’s the mark of an artist who’s truly found his voice.

Nigel Hall, Kiss, 2000, Canary Wharf.jpg

He’s not putting other people’s work down — not at all. But what really struck me was his point that the more immersed you are in your own work, the more fascinating it becomes to you. And that’s something I’ve absolutely observed myself.

At the moment, I’m completely obsessed with my novel. I don’t want to think about anything else — and the idea that that kind of creative obsession can actually grow rather than diminish over time… well, that’s a very tantalizing idea, isn’t it?

I also love that Nigel is so deeply involved in the making of his work. He’s incredibly hands-on — he’s not just sketching out an idea, handing it over to a team, and saying “get on with it.” He prioritises the craftsmanship, the manual labour, the process of building the work with his own hands — and he considers that just as important as the concept itself. That’s not to say it’s the only valid approach — I know many brilliant artists who see their concept as the core, and others can build it. But for Nigel, his hand in the making is a crucial part of what gives the work its authenticity.

So if you’re buying a Nigel Hall, you’re not just buying an idea — you’re buying his touch as well. That really stayed with me.

He’s also been remarkably consistent with exhibitions — right from the start. And that actually reminded me of Henry Moore, who also gained momentum through regular exhibiting. Now, I know exhibitions themselves aren’t exactly a wild concept — but when you’re working in large-scale sculpture, it’s a different beast altogether.

The logistics are expensive. It’s physically hard work. There are transport costs, storage, insurance, setup, even just getting help to move the thing. And that puts many sculptors off — understandably. But I think Nigel is proof that making the effort to get your work out there — in person, not just digitally — can be a real game-changer.

These days, it’s so easy to think: “Well, I’ll just put it on Instagram or my website and that’s enough.” But sculpture, especially large work, demands to be seen in person. A photograph just never captures the presence of the real thing. So even if it’s just a local exhibition or a shared space — if you can get your work physically out of your studio and into the world, that’s where the magic happens.

Please support the show by buying one of my books — I have at least two I think are very good on the conservation of sculpture.

There’s Bronze Behaving Badly, which is a great read if you want to learn more about the principles of conservation: what should — and shouldn’t — be done to sculpture, and how we approach this kind of work in the 21st century.

And then there’s Wax On, Wax Off, which is more of a hands-on manual for those of you who are custodians of your own sculpture at home. It covers small, medium, and even larger-scale work — and is aimed at helping you understand what you can do yourself.

Now, this is a small plea — I know many of you have already bought Wax On, Wax Off (I can see the sales!), but for some reason… I have no reviews. And as any author will tell you, reviews are so important. I’ve had lovely feedback from people who’ve emailed me — but if you could just take a moment to write that into a review, it would make a huge difference. Even a couple of sentences is perfect.

You don’t need to buy anything else — if you already have the book, just pop a quick review on Amazon or wherever you got it. It would mean a great deal to me, and it really helps the podcast too.

I’ll be back in June with another episode — and until then, I hope you find some of that stillness and space that sculpture invites us into.

Thanks for listening. Bye for now.

Please Support The Show