My works are temporary and meant to capture the imagination of all who pass by. They are fantasy structures that remind viewers of a kiss under a lilac bush or a special climbing tree from childhood. I often hear talk of fort building, and some viewers reminisce about the Garden of Eden. Humans enjoy crawling into a natural bivouac and feeling enclosed in a sapling world.
Weaving the Surreal Sculptures: Stickwork of Curiosity, Collaboration, and Connection | Patrick Dougherty
Patrick Dougherty’s art is an expression of imaginative curiosity, materialised through a profound yet playful observation of the natural world. His sculptures are crafted by weaving tree saplings into ephemeral structures, created in collaboration with both people and nature.
His works evoke memories of a distant past when human shelters were made in harmony with nature. At first glance, the surreal and massive sculptures might appear to be the creations of non-human beings—such as birds, beavers, or even fairies—conveying a sense of fantasy, familiarity, and wonder. Some viewers might relate them to the Garden of Eden, while others see them as an invitation to immerse oneself in the natural world—both physically and emotionally.
Throughout his career, Dougherty has created over 300 impermanent sculptures. Despite their temporary nature, the impact of his work is enduring, as it fosters a strengthened bond between humanity and nature.
How was your childhood? Growing up, did you often interact with the natural world?
My childhood home in North Carolina was flanked by wooded areas, and our favourite playground became a dogwood grove where we hollowed out living thickets to create bedrooms, kitchens, and more. These early forays into building simple shelters probably influenced my choice of materials when I turned to sculpture as an adult.
For children, a stick is an imaginative object; it can be a tool, a weapon, or a piece of a wall. I like to think that somewhere in my subconscious, there is residual know-how passed down from our hunting and gathering ancestors. Like all children, I was a serious fort builder and capitalised on some of that innate knowledge.
During my two formative years in the University of North Carolina Art Department, I struggled unsuccessfully to meld my ideas with many different materials. However, I ultimately rediscovered the saplings along my own driveway. Those saplings were plentiful and renewable, like having an endless warehouse of material at my fingertips.
What was the first sculpture that you ever created, and what was your last? Was there any similarity between those two?.
I have always loved making things, but my initial attempts at sculpture in formal settings were with clay. Some of these early efforts were traditional ceramic vessels. During a recent sculpture project in my hometown, I found myself working on three towering pottery forms. Ironically, the chosen site is only a mile from the clay studio where I struggled with the same forms as a student 40 years ago.
Building a home is not solely a human endeavour; from birds to reptiles to mammals, many species engage in creating shelter. Have you ever drawn inspiration from the homes of nonhuman species? What lessons can we learn from them?
As for my own home, I seem to be rooted like a back tooth on twenty acres just west of Chapel Hill, NC. Initially, I burrowed into this land to build a log house, but in the midst of that effort, I discovered an approach to the natural world that has remained central to the art life that has consumed me. As I considered shelter, I explored my atavistic tendencies and scoured the nearby woods for interesting building materials. Even then, I was dedicated to structures that had reciprocity with their surroundings and seemed to belong to the forest nearby. The last forty years have proved that, although I had only one house in me, I also magically contained hundreds of building-size sculptures.
Before I could begin working with saplings, I needed to understand what birds, beavers, and other shelter builders knew about sticks: branches have an infuriating tendency to tangle with each other. If you drag a sapling through the woods, you’ll see what I mean—the side branches become entangled with everything. Additionally, each stick has a bit of flexibility, and when it is bent and then pulled through a matrix of brush, it snaps into place and holds itself. I use these tendencies to hold my work together.
Occasionally, I have observed animal building activities featured on televised nature series, whether it’s a gorilla making a nest or an African bird constructing a tree hotel. As I watch, I feel a connection with their efforts. I tell my wife, “I know what they’re thinking! I know the next move!”
Human cities are built with concrete, often challenging ecological harmony. Your sculptures could lay the foundation for sustainable living spaces. What do you think about incorporating materials like mud and clay in your stick works to create cities that blend with the landscape? Do you believe this is possible?
My works are temporary and meant to capture the imagination of all who pass by. They are fantasy structures that remind viewers of a kiss under a lilac bush or a special climbing tree from childhood. I often hear talk of fort building, and some viewers reminisce about the Garden of Eden.
Humans enjoy crawling into a natural bivouac and feeling enclosed in a sapling world. A visitor might say to her husband, “We could live here.” In that statement, I hear a need that many humans have: the desire to step through the forest curtain, sit for a while, and breathe with the other animals.
Bringing nature back into our lives through more sympathetic architecture and design is already a high priority for some. I have seen fanciful drawings of crafting trees into living spaces and buildings festooned with living walls. I like to think my work is a nudge in the right direction.
Your works have been realised through collaboration. Many hands have shaped the structures, stories have been shared, and nature itself has collaborated, as your pieces are often supported by trees. Have you witnessed collaborations bringing communities together? If yes, is nature a part of this community?
Early on, I learned to partner with organisations, and invariably, we would seek volunteers to help gather large quantities of saplings. I am not the only person who appreciates a good sapling; closet stick collectors started coming out of the woodwork, and before long, I had volunteers of every ilk looking for a chance to indulge their basic building urges. Because of that extra energy and goodwill, I have been able to create larger works. It is also clear that it’s harder to dislike a sculpture if one of your neighbours has worked on it.
In the initial phase, I set up the parameters of the work, laying out the footprint and projecting how the final product should feel in its site. I sometimes make a drawing or small model so that everyone can see the idea. I break the process of building into smaller pieces so that a volunteer can practise without fear of failure. Those who return several times tend to take on more complicated tasks. I try to handle the work on the entire exterior myself because those sticks are crucial to the finished look. The interior requires many hands and extensive detailing, and much of the assistance is applied within.
I am energised by the hubbub of communal work, but I remain fully responsible for the outcome. It is my work, and the volunteers are free to relax and dig in. It might be a hippie and a businessman working with a grandmother and a high school senior, and for a short period, we, like a small indigenous band, work furiously on beauty and burnish our object until it shines in its location.
If healing the climate crisis were child’s play, imagination, wonder, and awe would be essential qualities for realising this potential. How can we align playfulness with practicality while sculpting a new world? What is the role of an artist in this scenario?
Our contemporary challenge is how to reconnect with and live in harmony with the plants and animals that still share the Earth. Sculptures made from twigs and other environmental initiatives are helping to raise awareness.
Personally, I have always been an environmentalist. I live in a house with a very small footprint, primarily made from recycled materials. I try to be conscientious about where and how I gather my saplings, usually finding areas that are regularly maintained. As for the big issues of combating climate change and the loss of species, I feel as powerless as everyone else. It is hard to see how individual effort can make a difference in the face of systemic problems created by contemporary life. Give up your car? Recycle? Save an iceberg? Adopt a polar bear? The best I can do is create work that feels relevant to me and, incidentally, reflects on the natural world.
What message would you give to emerging artists working with nature-based sculptures?
Artistic expression is a vast wilderness, and finding one’s voice requires patience and commitment. I absolutely love my work, and one factor in my success has been my sense of humour. I view making sculpture as a series of problem-solving events, and I am enthusiastic about facing the visual problems, material problems, and management problems that arise each day. I have always worked an 8-hour day and consistently finish sculptures by the established deadlines. I would say that everyone has a gift, and every newly minted sculptor must discover their own unique vision and make the most of it.
I hope making sculptures is everyone’s impulse. If your readers don’t already tinker, I hope they will grab a bit of the material world and create a fanciful object or something they need. Such activity has helped me personalise my world and has provided a gleaming portal to an enhanced life.
We all live in an interconnected ecosystem, and our stories are inseparable. Do you consider your creations to embody this universal approach?
My years as a sculptor have been a pure pleasure and have encompassed a wide range of great opportunities. This work has connections to architecture, basket making, and even the flower arrangements of ikebana traditions. It flirts with indigenous building techniques and the random structures built by children. It draws inspiration from birds that construct their own apartment buildings and apes that make simple nests.
It’s work that resides in that “sweet spot” of simple shelter and calls to the imagination of those who build garden scrap shacks, duck blinds, or survival bivouacs. Over the past forty years, I have averaged ten major sapling installations per year, each requiring three weeks from start to finish. Nevertheless, I always look forward to returning to Chapel Hill and spending time in the woods around my house. Sometimes, during a lull, I conjure up the picnic table where I built my first sapling sculpture from the red maples near the creek. That day was magical; it was a portal ajar—a narrow hallway between my front yard and the larger world of ideas.
Interview by Priyanka Singh Parihar
