Creating larger-than-life pieces requires more than simply scaling up. The planning needs to be as formidable as the work itself.
Large-scale work entered my studio practice more as a practical necessity than artistic ambition. During graduate school, I was searching for a way to bring together multiple materials and methods without the work collapsing under its own weight—either conceptually or physically.
A couple of decisions led me to find myself working on a scale beyond what I had imagined possible. One was to make the found object the primary driver of the concept, rather than a supporting detail. Because these objects are fixed in scale, the figure must adjust to them in order for the relationship to feel believable. The second was using a traditional doll format (ceramic parts on a textile body). While not the reason I adopted this method, it did allow the work to increase in scale without taking on the risks of large, solid ceramic forms, and it used standard-sized kilns to make the components.
Planning
For each project, the level of planning needs to be commensurate with the scale and complexity of the piece. Work that exceeds life size requires me to think about the sculpture as a complete system from the very start. Meaning and aesthetics need to be developed in tandem with the practical realities of fabrication, structural stability, transport, and installation. This level of planning can sometimes come at the expense of creative flexibility later on. The sketchbook becomes a place where unexpected ideas surface and potential pitfalls are exposed. However, no amount of planning will eliminate all surprises, especially in ceramics. These unforeseen challenges keep me engaged, and the work feels alive to me until the end.
Building and Logistics
Large-scale sculpture, particularly work that crosses disciplines, relies heavily on engineering. Every decision is a negotiation within the piece; the final work represents an agreement of both visual and structural needs. I try to make structural decisions mirror the concept so the way something is built reflects the why as well.
With a work like No True Scotsman (a collaborative work with my wife, Emily; see Ceramics Monthly March 2026), there were many structural and logistical challenges to consider during every phase of the work. This 12-foot (3.6-m) figure needed to be freestanding, stable, and constructed in sections so it could be moved and installed without heavy equipment. Not every gallery has a forklift handy, and I certainly don’t own one to move the work into storage!
Thinking about how the piece will exist in the world outside of the studio is key. How will it be moved/transported? Will the crate fit through a standard door? Will it survive a bumpy road there? Where will I keep it?
For the past decade, I have built casters into the bottom of work too big to pick up, so that moving the work after uncrating does not damage it—or the mover. My crating method balances both material cost and transportation safety (see Ceramics Monthly October 2019). Storage, on the other hand, is always a problem. There is never enough. My work is never shown more than six times, so toward the end of its life, I have some tough decisions to make.
Sisyphean Wheel
The most challenging and illustrative example of these demands was Sisyphean Wheel. The work was composed of twelve separate busts and took a full year to complete. Math became part of the process to bring these components together in a practical and visually compelling way.
This work was going to be too large and precise for me to stand back and eyeball what looked “right,” so I used the Golden Ratio (1:1.618) to determine the proportional relationships between every component before clay was ever touched (total dimensions of the circle, inner open space, head to shoulders, etc.). To ensure all pieces aligned correctly, each ceramic component was built inside a custom-built wooden form to minimize slumping and maintain a precise angle.
Once the clay pieces were fired, an internal steel structure needed to be developed so the full weight of the other eleven busts was not resting on the bottom head. To achieve this, two metal structures were fabricated (by my father, a steel worker). Inside the base is a hidden steel structure with a square tube extending up. The heads are attached to a 12-sided “lollipop” with a square tube that slides into its mate in the base, ⅛ inch (3.1 mm) longer than the bottom bust, supporting all the weight through the space inside that head. From there, it was a matter of keeping the work balanced while bonding the twelve heads to the metal structure.
The finished work was extremely heavy and needed to be installed and transported without heavy equipment. To accomplish this, I made a pedestal the exact height as the floor of the crate so that the pedestal could be placed, and the work rolled directly onto it without any lifting. To date, this work has survived four exhibits and two interstate moves.
Cost
All of this comes at a cost, of course. Financial and practical realities have a big impact on my studio practice. Large work is expensive to make, costly to ship, and difficult to store. There are few opportunities to exhibit this work, and even fewer galleries able to help offset the cost. Sales are rare. Not many patrons have the interest, funds, and space for work at this scale. I can’t think about material expenses as financial investments.
Perhaps the most costly has been the wear and tear on my body. Fifteen years of working large, fast, and in 60-hour weeks without much equipment takes a toll. With four bulged disks in my back, both arms in need of tendon surgery, and plenty of other complications from lifting heavy objects regularly, the physical cost is hard to ignore. The bill is coming due.
To Be Continued...?
That being said, there was never any real choice in the matter. Despite promises to myself that “this huge piece will be the last,” I find myself drawn to this scale again and again, partly because those ideas and themes can only exist at that size, and partly because of the total commitment it requires. It consumes my mind with problems of creativity, engineering, math, logistics, and construction in a way I find addictive. I get to disappear into a driven purpose, a feeling I cannot put a price on.
the author Richard W. James is currently an Associate Professor of Art and Ceramics Area Head at Miami University, Oxford, Ohio. More work and information at richardwjames.com.
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Creating larger-than-life pieces requires more than simply scaling up. The planning needs to be as formidable as the work itself.
Large-scale work entered my studio practice more as a practical necessity than artistic ambition. During graduate school, I was searching for a way to bring together multiple materials and methods without the work collapsing under its own weight—either conceptually or physically.
A couple of decisions led me to find myself working on a scale beyond what I had imagined possible. One was to make the found object the primary driver of the concept, rather than a supporting detail. Because these objects are fixed in scale, the figure must adjust to them in order for the relationship to feel believable. The second was using a traditional doll format (ceramic parts on a textile body). While not the reason I adopted this method, it did allow the work to increase in scale without taking on the risks of large, solid ceramic forms, and it used standard-sized kilns to make the components.
Planning
For each project, the level of planning needs to be commensurate with the scale and complexity of the piece. Work that exceeds life size requires me to think about the sculpture as a complete system from the very start. Meaning and aesthetics need to be developed in tandem with the practical realities of fabrication, structural stability, transport, and installation. This level of planning can sometimes come at the expense of creative flexibility later on. The sketchbook becomes a place where unexpected ideas surface and potential pitfalls are exposed. However, no amount of planning will eliminate all surprises, especially in ceramics. These unforeseen challenges keep me engaged, and the work feels alive to me until the end.
Building and Logistics
Large-scale sculpture, particularly work that crosses disciplines, relies heavily on engineering. Every decision is a negotiation within the piece; the final work represents an agreement of both visual and structural needs. I try to make structural decisions mirror the concept so the way something is built reflects the why as well.
With a work like No True Scotsman (a collaborative work with my wife, Emily; see Ceramics Monthly March 2026), there were many structural and logistical challenges to consider during every phase of the work. This 12-foot (3.6-m) figure needed to be freestanding, stable, and constructed in sections so it could be moved and installed without heavy equipment. Not every gallery has a forklift handy, and I certainly don’t own one to move the work into storage!
Thinking about how the piece will exist in the world outside of the studio is key. How will it be moved/transported? Will the crate fit through a standard door? Will it survive a bumpy road there? Where will I keep it?
For the past decade, I have built casters into the bottom of work too big to pick up, so that moving the work after uncrating does not damage it—or the mover. My crating method balances both material cost and transportation safety (see Ceramics Monthly October 2019). Storage, on the other hand, is always a problem. There is never enough. My work is never shown more than six times, so toward the end of its life, I have some tough decisions to make.
Sisyphean Wheel
The most challenging and illustrative example of these demands was Sisyphean Wheel. The work was composed of twelve separate busts and took a full year to complete. Math became part of the process to bring these components together in a practical and visually compelling way.
This work was going to be too large and precise for me to stand back and eyeball what looked “right,” so I used the Golden Ratio (1:1.618) to determine the proportional relationships between every component before clay was ever touched (total dimensions of the circle, inner open space, head to shoulders, etc.). To ensure all pieces aligned correctly, each ceramic component was built inside a custom-built wooden form to minimize slumping and maintain a precise angle.
Once the clay pieces were fired, an internal steel structure needed to be developed so the full weight of the other eleven busts was not resting on the bottom head. To achieve this, two metal structures were fabricated (by my father, a steel worker). Inside the base is a hidden steel structure with a square tube extending up. The heads are attached to a 12-sided “lollipop” with a square tube that slides into its mate in the base, ⅛ inch (3.1 mm) longer than the bottom bust, supporting all the weight through the space inside that head. From there, it was a matter of keeping the work balanced while bonding the twelve heads to the metal structure.
The finished work was extremely heavy and needed to be installed and transported without heavy equipment. To accomplish this, I made a pedestal the exact height as the floor of the crate so that the pedestal could be placed, and the work rolled directly onto it without any lifting. To date, this work has survived four exhibits and two interstate moves.
Cost
All of this comes at a cost, of course. Financial and practical realities have a big impact on my studio practice. Large work is expensive to make, costly to ship, and difficult to store. There are few opportunities to exhibit this work, and even fewer galleries able to help offset the cost. Sales are rare. Not many patrons have the interest, funds, and space for work at this scale. I can’t think about material expenses as financial investments.
Perhaps the most costly has been the wear and tear on my body. Fifteen years of working large, fast, and in 60-hour weeks without much equipment takes a toll. With four bulged disks in my back, both arms in need of tendon surgery, and plenty of other complications from lifting heavy objects regularly, the physical cost is hard to ignore. The bill is coming due.
To Be Continued...?
That being said, there was never any real choice in the matter. Despite promises to myself that “this huge piece will be the last,” I find myself drawn to this scale again and again, partly because those ideas and themes can only exist at that size, and partly because of the total commitment it requires. It consumes my mind with problems of creativity, engineering, math, logistics, and construction in a way I find addictive. I get to disappear into a driven purpose, a feeling I cannot put a price on.
the author Richard W. James is currently an Associate Professor of Art and Ceramics Area Head at Miami University, Oxford, Ohio. More work and information at richardwjames.com.
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