Burlap and Clay Sculptures: A Personal Journey
Why burlap?
It all began after I read The First Fossil Hunters by Adrienne Mayor. One story from the book stayed with me: in ancient Greece, when large bones were unearthed, people would wrap them in burlap and place them in temples, believing them to be the remains of heroes. Cities would even compete over who had more of these sacred relics, as they were seen as signs of divine favor and prosperity.
That image stayed with me. Burlap is a fabric, yet not quite a fabric. It’s rough, coarse, and full of meaning—more of a concept than a material. To me, it feels close to an idea, a memory, a gesture of reverence. I see it as something carrying symbolic weight, like Zora Neale Hurston once wrote:
“I carry memories shaped by the fabric of my being—woven from the time and place that claimed me, each leaving its mark, each having its say.”
In a way, I feel I’m continuing that ancient gesture. My burlap dragon came into being almost on its own, as if there was no other possible material for it. The same goes for the three burlap chickens—they simply insisted on being part of the conversation. They wanted to speak with the dragon.
And then there are the clay figurines. I’ve made three so far, though I’m thinking of creating a fourth—one with a woven skirt. There’s surprisingly little information available about them online. I’m considering traveling to Turkey to visit a museum with an exceptional collection of prehistoric female figurines. I want to see them in person.
As artist Michele Oka Doner once said:
“When I look at ancient art, I find something deeply personal—an understanding that stretches across time. They gazed at the same stars I do. And despite the passing of thousands of years, one thing remains unchanged: the fundamental structure of the human body.”
Why do I make these figurines?
Firstly, I want to hold them. I want to feel their size, their texture—I want to understand them through touch. And secondly, I keep wondering: why were these figurines made? In times when life was filled with danger and hardship, why was the act of creating them so essential? What was their purpose?
Barnett Newman once said, “The first man was an artist—not because he spoke, but because he picked up a stick and drew in the mud, carved a line in the sand. From that gesture, sculpture was born.”
What are my prospects with clay and burlap sculpture?
They are undeniably a part of my practice. These forms are necessary to me—they define the volume I exist within. They are my sculptural reflections. A dialogue between ancient memory and contemporary hands.
