Copyright © Andy Goldsworthy (photographs and text) and Cameron Books 2000;
First published in the United Kingdom in 2000 by Thames & Hudson Ltd;
ISBN 0-500-51026-1
"I have tried to pitch my life so that I make the best use of my time and energy. Perfection in every work is not the aim. I prefer works that are fashioned by the compromises forced upon me by nature, whether it be an incoming tide, the end of the day, thawing snow, shrivelling leaves or the deadline of my own lifetime." [p.7]
"There is a difference between a work that hangs on a wall and one that covers the wall completely — one is a picture, the other is the wall. At best, these works should feel as if they have risen to a building's surface as a memory of its origin, a connection between the building and its material source.
In 1992, I covered the floor of a London gallery in clay. In 1996, I made the same work at a gallery in San Francisco, but this time directly against a wall fourteen feet high by seventeen feet wide. I knew that the clay would crack, but didn't know whether it would stay attached. To my surprise it remains fixed to this day, despite the occasional earthquake. This clay wall was made in a spirit of experimentation, and I realised that by more careful preparation of the wall and application of the clay, I could make the installation stronger." [p.8]
"[...] I began working as an artist 24 years ago and I may well work for about another 24 years. Thinking back to how little I knew at the beginning and how much my art has taught me make me aware of how much there is still to learn. What I have made so far gives me a strong sense of the work yet come." [p.11]
"Problems [...] are a good teacher[...]" [p.22]
"Time is the tool with which I have been able to work clay and paper. A snowball melting on paper and cracking clay wall give the resistance and unpredictability that I need. These works are made in the same spirit as the throws. My energy is put into the throw, but I cannot control the outcome." [p.23]
"The beauty of red is its connection to life – underwritten by fragility, pain and violence – words that I would have to use in describing beauty itself. This sense of life draws me to nature, but with it also comes an equally strong sense of death. I cannot walk far before seeing something dead and decaying. Uprooted trees, fallen rocks, landslides, flood damage... A grip on beauty is necessary for me to feel and make sense of its underlying precariousness. So many of my sculptures are within a hair's breadth of failure. I often see works – a balanced column of rocks, stacked icicles – looking stronger with each piece that is added, but also know that each addition takes it closer to the edge of collapse. Some of my most memorable works have been made in this way, and some of my worst failures could have produced some great pieces. Beauty does not avoid difficulty but hovers dangerously above it – like walking on thin ice." [p.25]
"The beauty of red is its connection to life – underwritten by fragility, pain and violence – words that I would have to use in describing beauty itself. This sense of life draws me to nature, but with it also comes an equally strong sense of death. I cannot walk far before seeing something dead and decaying. Uprooted trees, fallen rocks, landslides, flood damage... A grip on beauty is necessary for me to feel and make sense of its underlying precariousness. So many of my sculptures are within a hair's breadth of failure. I often see works – a balanced column of rocks, stacked icicles – looking stronger with each piece that is added, but also know that each addition takes it closer to the edge of collapse. Some of my most memorable works have been made in this way, and some of my worst failures could have produced some great pieces. Beauty does not avoid difficulty but hovers dangerously above it – like walking on thin ice." [p.25]
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