Plaster, Privacy and Barbara Hepworth

I just saw Hepworth in Colour at The Courtauld. My first reaction upon entering the space was astonishment. I was taken aback by the calmness and precision of her sculptural forms, alongside the expansive nature of her drawings.

What I loved most was how clearly the visual language of her two-dimensional works related to the world she created through sculpture, while many remained entirely independent artworks rather than preparatory studies. It reaffirmed something I have been thinking about within my own practice: sometimes an idea needs to take form in two dimensions. I may identify primarily as a sculptor, but that does not mean the language of sculpture must always result in an object.

Hepworth's plaster works existed simultaneously as artworks, historical objects, and records of the artist's hand. Looking closely, I could see subtle variations and stains across their surfaces. Whether caused by application, drying, ageing or other material processes, they had not been disguised. Nor did they require explanation. They simply existed as part of the object and, therefore, part of the history of Hepworth's making.

Plaster is an incredibly precious material within my own practice, second only to clay. I take a sculpture in clay to roughly 95 per cent completion because I know some of the sharpest angles, crispest lines, and most resolved curves can only be achieved once I begin working with plaster.

Clay gives me fluidity. It allows an idea to emerge and develop intuitively. Translating that form into plaster is where another kind of precision begins. The plaster becomes the master form, where I can refine the surface before moulding it in silicone and eventually translating it into bronze or marble when commissioned.

I've previously been criticised for displaying plaster sculptures with their individual markings and tonal variations visible. But I see those variations in much the same way we appreciate the veins and tonal differences within marble. They record material and process. In some places, they reveal exactly where my hand has returned to the sculpture during its final stages.

I've also been questioned about exhibiting plaster altogether. Yet plaster has an extraordinary history within sculpture. Artists including Auguste Rodin, Jean Arp, Alberto Giacometti, Barbara Hepworth, Henry Moore and Isamu Noguchi all used plaster as an important part of developing and understanding form. Their surviving plasters record process, material, and the artist's hand, and many are now valued as significant objects in their own right. The material does not become less meaningful simply because another version might eventually exist in bronze, marble or another material.

Another aspect of the exhibition that stayed with me was hearing Hepworth directly through letters written during different periods of her life. These private records offer glimpses into what was happening beyond the studio while particular works were being made. They were not necessarily written with a future public audience in mind, and there is something powerful about encountering those thoughts retrospectively.

It made me think about what it means to be an artist now. An artist's experiences, personality and private life can become increasingly entangled with professional visibility. There is a constant pressure to be present, accessible and marketable, and I find that exhausting.

Part of me would love to document more of what happens beyond my studio: where I am, how I live, the conversations I'm having and the experiences that inevitably find their way into the work. To me, being a person and being an artist are intrinsically connected.

But we also live in an information age of constant interpretation. Once something private becomes public, it can be judged, misunderstood or used to construct an idea of who you are. I find other people's opinions harder to ignore than I would sometimes like to admit.

There is an interesting contradiction here. We can now document our lives more extensively than almost any generation of artists before us, yet perhaps that visibility also makes it harder to document ourselves with complete freedom. Hepworth's letters survived as private thoughts that could later become part of the historical understanding of her work. Today, so much of what an artist records can immediately become public, permanent and open to interpretation.

Perhaps when someone looks back at certain periods of my practice in the future, there will be gaps. Not because nothing was happening, but because I made a conscious decision to keep parts of my life for myself.

Only time will tell.