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A conversation with the sculptor Tony Cragg about his works and the exhibition in Darmstadt
From April 26 to October 26, 2025, the artist will be showing his unique works in the Darmstadt Sculpture Garden, which play with material and form in a fascinating way.
Darmstadt, April 25, 2025. British sculptor Tony Cragg is one of the most important figures in contemporary sculpture. Since the 1970s, his work has explored the interplay of form, material, and space – often with an almost organic aesthetic. His sculptures can be found in museums, parks, and public spaces worldwide. Now, his works are on display in the sculpture garden at the Spanish Tower in Darmstadt. We spoke with him about artistic processes, the power of form, and the role that matter plays in them.
Her sculptures often resemble living organisms unfolding in space. Where does this formal language come from – is there a conscious source of inspiration, or do the forms develop intuitively during the creative process?
What interests me about sculpture is that it allows for a very unique relationship with the material – one that has nothing to do with practical use. In our everyday lives, we use materials almost exclusively for functional purposes, but sculpture gives the material space to unfold freely – without purpose or utility.
I don't reproduce things that already exist. Rather, I'm interested in: What else can be expressed with material? What ideas and emotions can be evoked? I want people to get a sense, when they look at my sculptures, of the role material plays in our lives – how much it shapes our environment and our thinking.
We like to distinguish between organic form – what appears vibrant, emotional, and irregular – and geometric order – what seems technical, rational, and controlled. But in reality, these levels don't exist separately. Even organic structures ultimately consist of geometric units: molecules, cells, patterns. This connection between structure and sensation interests me.
In our industrial world, simple, efficient forms often prevail: straight lines, smooth surfaces, right angles. This has led to a certain "impoverishment" of form. The diversity we find in nature is lost in this process. Sculpture can offer a counterpoint – it is one of the few forms of human engagement with material that pursues no external purpose. It begins with purposelessness – and it is precisely from this that its freedom arises.
I never know from the outset what a sculpture will ultimately look like. It is always an open process. I don't work like a designer with a clear concept, but rather allow myself to be guided by the material and its development. Often, I am surprised by what emerges. That is precisely what makes it so exciting for me.
In your current exhibition in Darmstadt, you are showing works in a sculpture garden. What role does the exhibition space play for your work? Do your sculptures react to their surroundings – or should the surroundings react to them?
The term "sculpture park" is actually misleading in this case. While it is a park, it's not untouched nature. Rather, the environment itself has been shaped by humans: the plants, colors, and paths – all of it has been selected, arranged, and composed. Therefore, I find it only logical that sculptures should also find a place there – as another "species" among the many man-made elements.
For the exhibition in Darmstadt, I considered how one moves through the space. I wanted to create a sequence, a path that leads from one sculpture to the next – each sculpture standing on its own, yet simultaneously offering a visual invitation to the next. It's about confrontation and the direct experience of form in space.
For me, the park is primarily a space, a place where my works are placed. I don't see it as a partner with whom I enter into a direct dialogue. I process my relationship to nature more conceptually in my studio – not in the outdoor exhibition context.
Their materials range from bronze and wood to plastic. How do you decide which material is right for a particular sculpture? Does the material sometimes dictate the form – or vice versa?
In sculpture, the choice of material is not simply a technical decision—it is central to what the sculpture ultimately expresses. Looking at the development of sculpture, one sees that until the late 19th century, artists worked almost exclusively with materials such as bronze, marble, or wood—and mostly in figurative forms.
But since Duchamp, at the latest, it has become clear that all materials, all forms, and all colors have an effect—intellectual or emotional. We live in a world where we are constantly surrounded by material impressions. Duchamp's famous urinal was not only a provocation but also a liberating act: it showed that even everyday objects can acquire artistic significance.
Since then, sculpture has evolved into a study of the entire world of materials. Artists today work with everything—from chocolate to DNA to meat. For me personally, it is no longer interesting simply to discover a new material. That has happened many times over.
The more important question is: What effect does a particular material have—and how can I use it to create a form that reinforces or questions this effect? Of course, the location also plays a role. In outdoor spaces, for example, I rely on durable materials – bronze, steel, certain plastics.
But each material has its own language. Steel stands for strength, stability – its very name suggests this. Bronze, on the other hand, is an ancient alloy with a low melting point – ideal for casting delicate, complex forms. And glass? That's a world unto itself: When I work with glassmakers, the material often brings its own geometry – drops, strands, naturally formed structures.
That's precisely what interests me: the interplay between the idea and what the material inherently offers. Sometimes the form dictates the direction – but very often it emerges in dialogue with the material itself.
You have been exploring the relationship between matter and form, between nature and culture, for decades. Has your perspective on these topics changed over the years?
My perspective on the relationship between matter and form has changed over the years—not through sudden breaks, but rather as a gradual development. When I began sculpting in 1969, I had no clear idea of what sculpture even was. I was simply fascinated by the effect of forms and wanted to experiment with new materials.
At that time, I worked with plastics that were still largely unknown in the art world. I collected industrial objects with simple geometries and limited color palettes—everything seemed to come from a single source. This led me to ask: What do these uniform mass-produced items tell us about our world?
I began sorting them, stacking them, combining colors—and developed a growing need to create my own complex forms. Not as representations, but as independent entities. This is how, for example, the idea arose to recreate the shadow of a vessel—something intangible yet visible.
Early Forms series was ultimately inspired by fossil sites where numerous extinct animal species were discovered simultaneously—a metaphor for the vast diversity of forms that once existed or could exist.
Later, I became increasingly preoccupied with the interplay between geometric structure and organic form. This development never occurred abruptly, but rather in logical, successive steps.
Despite all the changes, one thing has remained constant: my wonder at the material world—at its chemical, physical, and formal properties. This fascination has accompanied me for more than five decades—and it remains as strong as ever.
When you approach a new sculpture: Does the process begin in your mind, on paper, or directly with the material in your hand?
For me, a new sculpture doesn't begin with a sudden epiphany or classical inspiration—a term I've honestly never fully grasped. Rather, a new work almost always evolves from the previous one. While working on a sculpture, you make a multitude of decisions, some minor, others pivotal—like whether a form has three or four legs.
When a work is finished, a kind of memory of the journey remains. You begin to sense: Had I decided differently at a certain point, something entirely different would have emerged—with a different form, a different meaning, a different emotional quality. And this very thought leads to the next sculpture.
You want to see what happens when you take a different path. But even then, you discover something new, unplanned. You end up in a place you couldn't have foreseen. The wonderful thing is: There's still so much undiscovered in the world—and in art. I have the feeling that it's all just beginning.
