THE ART OF THE BRICK

THE ART OF THE BRICK
A LIFE IN LEGO

®

NO STARCH PRESS

BY NATHAN SAWAYA

The Art of the Brick. Copyright © 2015 by Nathan Sawaya.

All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic
or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the
prior written permission of the copyright owner and the publisher.

First printing

Printed in China

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ISBN-10: 1-59327-588-9
ISBN-13: 978-1-59327-588-4

Publisher: William Pollock
Production Editor: Serena Yang
Cover and Interior Design: Beth Middleworth
Developmental Editor: Tyler Ortman
Copyeditor: Rachel Monaghan
Proofreader: Emelie Burnette

For information on distribution, translations, or bulk sales, please contact No Starch Press, Inc. directly:
No Starch Press, Inc.
245 8th Street, San Francisco, CA 94103
phone: 415.863.9900; info@nostarch.com;
http://www.nostarch.com/

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
A catalog record of this book is available from the Library of Congress.

No Starch Press and the No Starch Press logo are registered trademarks of No Starch Press, Inc. All trademarks and
copyrights are the property of their respective holders. Rather than use a trademark symbol with every occurrence
of a trademarked name, we are using the names only in an editorial fashion and to the benefit of the trademark
owner, with no intention of infringement of the trademark. LEGO, the Brick and Knob configurations, and the
Minifigure are trademarks of the LEGO Group, which does not endorse or authorize this book.

The information in this book is distributed on an “As Is” basis, without warranty. While every precaution has been
taken in the preparation of this work, neither the author nor No Starch Press, Inc. shall have any liability to any
person or entity with respect to any loss or damage caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by the
information contained in it.

In Memory of Chloe Weil

Acknowledgments
Thank you to Campbell Smith, Jon Knight, Nellie Scott, Joanna
Best, and Dean West for making this book possible. Also, thank you
to all the people at the LEGO Group for helping making a child’s
dream come true.

CONTENTS

Preface .........................................................................

The Places You’ll Go: Mask .....................................

First Impressions: Skulls ...........................................

Patience and Fortitude: Lions .................................

Out of the Darkness: Gray .......................................

Unfamiliar Places: Red Dress ...................................

The Blues: Sing ..........................................................

The Older I Get: Everlasting ...................................

Create and Release: Hugman .................................

It’s Complicated: Doorway ....................................

Capillaries: Red Tree ...............................................

Write and Wrong: The Writer ...............................

Blood and Blubber: Dinosaur .................................

Arriving at Conjunction Junction:

Yellow
Mask ..................................................

The Leap: Yellow .....................................................

You’re Crazy: Grasp .................................................

LEGO Wars: Dog .....................................................

The Fear of Fear: Hands .........................................

Architect Dreams: Parthenon................................

Waldo H. Hunt: Pop-Up Book ............................

Running Water: Swimmer .....................................

Red Self-Portrait: Red Mask ..................................

Simply Beautiful: Woman in White ......................

Victor’s War: Iwo Jima Replica ............................

Heroes: Hawk .........................................................

Drawing Hands: Building Yellow..........................

Letterman: Biff ........................................................

Talk Show: Stephen ................................................

The Flaming C: Conan ..........................................

Moving Forward: Red Man Crawling .................

Meditation and Contemplation:

Blue
Cross-Legged .....................................

Amboy Shotgun: Cloud ........................................

Art Referees: Incomplete .......................................

Strawberry Fields Forever:

John
Lennon Tribute ...................................

Connections: My Boy ...........................................

Bottle Caps: Toys for Tots ...................................

Presidents: Rushmore ...........................................

The Arc: Ascension ................................................

The World of President Clinton: Globe .............

The Masters of Creativity:

Circle,
Triangle, and Square ......................

Thumbs Up: Tattoo ...............................................

Learning Something:

The
Rebirth of New Orleans .....................

Love Letter to New York: Liberty .......................

Point in Time: Courtney in Black ........................

Photo Credits ........................................................

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8

PREFACE

Some years ago I was a lawyer. But I never made a
particularly happy lawyer. After a time, I decided what
I really wanted to do with my life was make art. So I
quit, and I became a full-time artist.

It was a big decision. But when I made the leap, I
was prepared. I had already created what I felt were
meaningful works of art, and I knew I could eventually
make a living creating art.

What I wasn’t prepared for was the opposition—from
people I knew well, from acquaintances, and even
from people I didn’t know at all. During those first six
months, I heard passing complaints and objections
from people who held no stake in my life whatsoever.

I was told that I was crazy, that I was wrong, and that I
was wasting my life. I won’t lie, there were times when
I worried the naysayers might be right. But just a few
years after I quit, the complaints dried up.

9

Quitting your job to become an artist certainly isn’t
for everyone. But the creation of art should never be
opposed. Not just because the world could do with
more beautiful things, but because there’s a mountain
of evidence that shows that making art will improve
your life in surprising ways.

Making art helps schoolchildren achieve significantly
better math and science scores. Making art helps keep
less advantaged kids in school, and art classes lower
America’s terrible dropout rate.

Making art builds self-esteem and self-awareness—
qualities that aren’t always in great supply, or at least
aren’t evenly distributed, in our society.

Making art helps combat depression, a shockingly
common American condition suffered by nearly one-
tenth of the population. Making art helps people
manage serious illnesses like cancer and Alzheimer’s.

Art is all around us, in commerce and in the creativity
and imagination of the everyday.

Art is not optional. I’ll say it again, in capital letters.

ART IS NOT OPTIONAL.

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11

Perhaps that’s not even a controversial opinion these
days. But it bears repeating: art is necessary, vital, and
indispensible. Not only to the personal happiness of a
few odd ducks like myself, but to society as a whole.

I hope that this book serves as an inspiration to those
waiting to create. Don’t leave art until you have “more
time.” Do it now. If you are the kind of person who’s
too busy to make art, you’re probably just the kind of
person who should be making art.

All of us have creative thoughts, those urges and ideas
that beg you to pick up a pen or brush or camera
or even a LEGO brick. Creative ideas are gifts, like
windows that open for just a short time. Art is in the
here and now.

So take a look around, wherever you are. There’s art
there. Do you see it?

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13

14

THE PLACES
YOU’LL GO
MASK

“Today is your day! Your mountain is waiting.
So...get on your way.” —Dr. Seuss

My father inherited a number of remarkable traits from
his adoptive Lebanese American parents. One was an
enthusiasm for Lebanese cooking: falafel, kibbeh, and
infinite variations of barbecued meat. To this day, my
dad, Dick, likes to construct elaborate meals from a
battered, ancient Lebanese cookbook whose recipes
often begin with instructions like “Step one: Slaughter
the lamb.”

Dad also inherited a love for baseball, and the New
York Yankees in particular, from his father. Dad had an
all-American childhood and loved his hometown hero
Roger Maris.

15

I grew up with my dad and mom in Veneta, Oregon.
We were a uniquely American blend: We were the
only Sawayas there, for sure. We were one of many
families in town who idolized Don Mattingly, but
probably the only ones who could cook a passable
shawarma.

We lived out of town a little, surrounded by forest.
The nearest neighbor was more than a mile away. Dad
worked for the National Forest Service as a civil engi-
neer. Mainly he designed roads and bridges before
moving into forest management and environmental
protection. Growing up in Oregon, and having a
guy like Dick for my dad, I had an outdoorsy kind of
upbringing, with lots of hiking and looking for things
in the forest. The first baseball game I ever saw was
when my father drove me all the way to Seattle, where
the Yankees were playing the Mariners.

The population of Veneta was, and remains, about
2,400. The town was so small that Veneta’s kids had
to ride the bus to the next town to attend Elmira
High. The gas station was the town’s big hangout
for teenagers. The other place to be was the Dairy
Queen. I ate hamburgers and an ice cream cone for
lunch at the Dairy Queen nearly every day. But at
night, the gas station was where the high schoolers
collected, at a group of picnic tables. You’d get a soda
or some Twinkies, and you could get a hot dog for 25
cents.

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18

The thing about growing up in Veneta was that if you
were born there, you tended to grow old there too.
When I graduated, only three or four of us left the state

to
go to college. The thing about growing up in Veneta was that if you
were born there, you tended to grow old there too.
When I graduated, only three or four of us left the state
to go to college.

I was my high school’s valedictorian, and I

gave
a speech based on the Dr. Seuss book

Oh,
the Places You’ll Go. I held up the

book
and read out some passages, and

everyone
laughed in all the right places. I was my high school’s valedictorian, and I
gave a speech based on the Dr. Seuss book
Oh, the Places You’ll Go. I held up the
book and read out some passages, and
everyone laughed in all the right places.

But
a lot of the people I used to hang out with

at
the gas station are still there, working in Veneta
and drinking together on Friday nights. And when I
go back now to visit my family, I wonder what sort of
person I would have been had I stayed. How would I
be different? Would I have pursued my art or just left it
behind? I have no doubt that had I stayed in Veneta, I
would be a different person. But a lot of the people I used to hang out with
at the gas station are still there, working in Veneta
and drinking together on Friday nights. And when I
go back now to visit my family, I wonder what sort of
person I would have been had I stayed. How would I
be different? Would I have pursued my art or just left it
behind? I have no doubt that had I stayed in Veneta, I
would be a different person.

I was thinking about Veneta and my family when I
created Mask. Where does your identity come from?
From your parents? From your team, your town, or your
career? What things about ourselves are fixed, and
what can change?

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22

FIRST
IMPRESSIONS
SKULLS

Life’s true face is the skull.
—Nikos Kazantzakis

The first official contact I had with the LEGO Group
was a cease and desist email. The company didn’t
like what I was doing and wanted me to stop doing
it. The email I received seemed like a form letter, with
only a vague sense of what I was actually attempting:
creating original art, using LEGO bricks as a medium. I
think they were more worried about my use of the term
“LEGO” properly than my actual artwork.

In any case, ceasing really wasn’t part of my plan. It
was fortunate that I happened to be an attorney at
the time, and I was able to recognize the message for
what it was.

23

Today, the LEGO Group and I have a much better
relationship. But we’ve had some ups and downs.
I built Skulls in a moment of frustration with the
company. I wanted to do something that was “anti–
childhood toy,” that was about a really un-LEGO
theme: death. I looked for precedent and found
LEGO pirate sets with little skulls on the flags and
little skeletons for haunted-castle sets. I even built
Skulls in bright, happy LEGO colors—blue, yellow,
green, and red. Every brick I pressed was like, “Take
that . . . and that . . . and that!”

These days, I get together with the LEGO Group’s
leaders once a year. They talk about what the
company’s doing, and I talk about what I’m doing.
We part as friends. The LEGO Group has a product,
this fantastic children’s toy and a wonderful brand,
and the company wants to protect it. And I get where
it’s coming from, I really do.

I think in many ways, the LEGO Group has come to
terms with its role as a medium of play and art. Just
as a company that creates oil paints must celebrate
oil painters, too, the LEGO Group has learned it has
everything to gain from celebrating LEGO artists.
After all, it’s not just me these days, but a whole
community of artists.

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28

PATIENCE
AND FORTITUDE
LIONS

Patience and fortitude conquer
all things. —Ralph Waldo Emerson

When I moved to New York to attend NYU in 1991, I
was just a kid from a small town in Oregon. Like a lot
of college students, I didn’t have a whole lot of cash,
so I had to get a job. I worked my way through college
at a marketing research firm. As part of a small team of
twentysomethings, I found information for marketing
groups so that they could devise their advertising
strategies.

We uncovered the latest trends in instant coffee, what
people wanted from a AA battery, and how many
chocolate chips were in the average chocolate chip
cookie. All the stuff you just jam into Google these
days, that’s the stuff we used to look for. But in 1991,
Larry Page and Sergey Brin were still in high school, so
we found our information the old-fashioned way—at
the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue.

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A lot of the research was pretty dreary. But no
matter how inconsequential my research mission
was, I always got a buzz out of walking up the steps
into the library. Inside, it was just so grand. You
felt like you shouldn’t have the right to be in there.
The massive windows and chandeliers of the Rose
Main Reading Room were surely the private domain
of social notables and scholars, rather than freely
accessible to a student looking for tidbits on cat-food
flavors. Not only was the architecture and interior
gorgeous, but the library itself was “full service.” You
couldn’t just go pick up a book; you had to request
that it be brought from the stack to you.

I loved the place. So when I got a call 20 years
later to help celebrate the New York Public Library’s
turning 100 years old, I was pretty excited. This
excitement faded a little when they emailed me and
asked, “Could you do a rendition of the exterior
of the Public Library building?” I thought that was
the most boring commission ever. I mean, it’s a
nice-enough building to look at. But in a simple
miniaturization, there’d be no discovery or wonder
or awe—all the things that the library contained,
all the things that the library was for me. So I said,
“Let me get back to you,” and thought of what the
library meant to me.

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If you’ve ever visited, you’ll know that flanking each
side of the library steps is a great lion carved from
pink Tennessee marble. On the south side of the
steps lies Patience, while guarding the north end is
Fortitude. The lions were named for the qualities that
New Yorkers characteristically displayed in times of
adversity. For the hundred years of their existence,
Patience and Fortitude had been an integral part of
city life, witnessing innumerable parades, wearing
Mets and Yankees caps to celebrate World Series
wins, and standing strong in 100 million tourist
photographs. For New Yorkers, they’re as much a
symbol of the city as the Brooklyn Bridge.

So I pitched the idea of doing replicas of the lions,
these wise sentinels that had been watching me come
and go for nearly two decades. Happily, the powers
that be at the library agreed, and my re-creations were
unveiled on the steps 100 years to the day after the
original marble lions were presented to the public.
As of this writing, the LEGO lions still sit in the library
lobby, majestically guarding the entrance and, I hope,
simultaneously inspiring some young minds that
are experiencing them for the first time.

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34

OUT OF THE
DARKNESS
GRAY OUT OF THE
DARKNESS
GRAY

“Write it. Shoot it. Publish it. Crochet it, sauté it,
whatever. Make.—Joss Whedon

I suffer from depression. I have tried a lot of
different methods to stem my depression. I have
tried more exercise. I have tried less sleeping. I
have tried more sleeping. But the one thing that
helps me beat depression the most is creating art.

When I am creating art I can keep going. Maybe
it is because it gives me a goal, or maybe it just
takes my brain to a different place. Making art
makes me happy. I have said it before and I will
say it again: We all need to create more art. I’m
not saying you need to spend three months on
a life-size dinosaur skeleton replica. Maybe just
try some painting at the beach. Maybe some
finger-painting with your kids. Maybe just some
doodling at your desk. But just keep creating.
Creating art, just a little a day, just a little a week,
will make you happier.

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36

UNFAMILIAR
PLACES
RED DRESS UNFAMILIAR
PLACES
RED DRESS

When in doubt, wear red.
—Bill Blass

One morning, I awoke to a strange email in my inbox.
It was a photographer who wanted to collaborate on
a project. Based in Brisbane, Australia, this Dean West
had suggested mixing my LEGO sculptures into his
own hyperrealistic photographs. Because I get many
invitations like this and most of them come to nothing,
I emailed back saying, “If you’re serious, come to
New York,” and then promptly forgot about it. To my
surprise, two weeks later, Dean was knocking on my
door with a hundred ideas and no time to waste. The
collaboration became our In Pieces series.

Working with Dean forced me into places I don’t
usually go. Normally, I sit in a room by myself,
surrounded by dozens of boxes of bricks arranged
by color and shape. It’s a familiar space. I can reach
for the next thing I need without looking, and the
ideas flow through my fingers automatically. I have my Working with Dean forced me into places I don’t
usually go. Normally, I sit in a room by myself,
surrounded by dozens of boxes of bricks arranged
by color and shape. It’s a familiar space. I can reach
for the next thing I need without looking, and the
ideas flow through my fingers automatically.

37

sketches, which I generally don’t share with anyone
else; most of what I’m looking for is in my head. But
with Dean, over the course of several years, I found
myself driving thousands of Nevada miles to find
the precise kind of fencing he wanted, talking down
a disgruntled motel owner brandishing a shotgun,
standing on a studio rooftop dressed as a cowboy
(the talent hadn’t shown up for the shoot), and
taking photos of a Los Angeles storefront at four in
the morning because we couldn’t afford the official
permits. I have my sketches, which I generally don’t share with anyone else; most of what I’m looking for is in my head. But with Dean, over the course of several years, I found myself driving thousands of Nevada miles to find the precise kind of fencing he wanted, talking down a disgruntled motel owner brandishing a shotgun, standing on a studio rooftop dressed as a cowboy (the talent hadn’t shown up for the shoot), and taking photos of a Los Angeles storefront at four in the morning because we couldn’t afford the official permits.

Dean’s photography gave my sculpture a context
it doesn’t usually have. In the case of Red Dress,
that context was a near-desolate cinema on a winter
night. The girl in the red dress is alone, maybe
abandoned. The kid in the ticket booth is there, but
protected from the elements by a pane of glass. A
red light, perhaps from a departing car, glows from
the bottom-right corner.

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39

In the story we’d written for ourselves, she leaves
home in this gorgeous creation, a confident, attractive
woman about to enjoy a night out. But in the work, on
the other side of that night out, we see that confident
identity has been stripped away. Dean and I wanted
the wintry wind to be howling, tearing at the dress and
scattering its fragments. I’d created a dress before, but
nothing like this. Getting the flow of the fabric just right
was technically very difficult, but Dean never tired of
talking about it or finding ways to make the sculpture
and photo better.

Red Dress is now one of my favorite pieces. And
though he drove me nuts at the time, I have Dean
to thank for it.

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46

THE BLUES
SING

I am the one,
Holding the clouds,
Drinking the rain,
Until I dro wn me out.
—”By July” by Sirsy

I typically have to sketch, worry, and sweat over a
sculpture to complete it. Not many pieces come to
me fully formed. But Sing did, in a bar, of all places,
while I was listening to my friend Melanie sing the
blues with her band, Sirsy. She was singing a song
called “By July,” and I instantly had an idea for Sing
that I jotted on a napkin.

47

And yet, in one of those strange fights over
artistic inspiration, my wife’s daughter Blair remains
convinced that her face is Sing’s inspiration. I started
on Sing a few nights after Blair’s debut in a school
musical, and I’ve never had the courage to tell her
that it was really my friend Melanie.

The more I look at the sculpture now, the more it
looks like Blair. I’m not really sure whose face it is
anymore!

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50

THE OLDER
I GET
EVERLASTING THE OLDER
I GET
EVERLASTING

After graduating from NYU, I stayed in New York
and went to work at the law firm Winston & Strawn.
Having spent my childhood in small towns, living in
one of the busiest, most frantic, and most crowded
cities in the world was still amazing to me. In New
York, the sidewalks were filled with people you’d
never know, and the anonymity took getting used to.

One morning while getting my coffee on the way to
work, I saw something that really jumped out at me:
a couple in their late 60s just standing there, holding
hands, as the crowds surged all around them. They
weren’t in a rush to go anywhere. They had no career
to build. No fortune to make. No deadline to meet.
No billable hours. They had each other, and you could
tell that was the most important thing to them.

51

Maybe they were a retired couple whose kids had
left home. Maybe they were from out of town, on
vacation. But what struck me the most was the
way the couple transcended New York, ignoring its
demands to be in a rush, to always be leaving to go
somewhere better. It was like their everlasting love
had put them in a bubble.

At the time, I was making LEGO sculptures in the
evenings to reduce the stress in my life. I couldn’t do
complex human forms, not yet. So the image was
filed away, and my mind moved on to other things.

When I met Courtney, now my wife, the transcendent
couple came back, and I was inspired to build them.
When we get old, I like to think Courtney and I will
still be standing on sidewalks, holding hands. So
when I look at Everlasting now, there’s a little bit of
the old couple mixed up with a little bit of us.

And you know something? The older I get, the more
I like this piece.

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CREATE AND
RELEASE
HUGMAN CREATE AND
RELEASE
HUGMAN

People say graffiti is ugly, irresponsible,
and childish. But that’s only if
it’s done properly. —Bank sy

One day, when I was in the first grade, every kid in
my school received a red helium balloon with a long
string tied to it and a little card attached. We were
asked to write out our school’s address on these cards
with a note reading, “Wherever this lands, please
write me back.” So we all went down to an open field.
There were three or four classes in each grade, so
easily 500 students down there, all holding these red
balloons with names, addresses, and notes. There was
a countdown, of course. Three . . . two . . . one . . .
and suddenly 500 red balloons were in the air at once,
rising up, up into the blue sky, like a great red blanket.

57

I remember standing there, watching them disappear
into little red pinpricks. And then they were gone. We
spent the rest of the day talking about where they
might land. California, New York, Mexico, Peru?

And what I liked, and what stuck with me until years
later when I created Hugman, was this idea that you
can make something, then release it—send it off on
its own adventure from which it might, or might not,
one day return to you.

So I’ve made dozens, maybe hundreds, of Hugmen
and left them all around the world, wherever I happen
to be. I’ve left them all across the United States, in
Australia, Singapore, Taiwan. In parks, on benches,
hidden in bushes, or locked onto the wheels of parked
bicycles. I just set ‘em up and leave them there. More
often than not, the Hugman lasts for just an hour
or so, a transient piece of the city’s landscape. And
then I’m like the little kid looking up at the sky and
wondering, “Where did that red balloon get to?”

Back at school, about a month after the balloon
release, one of the kids got an anonymous postcard
from a state or two away, which read, “I got your
balloon. Hi, how are you?” The principal got up in
front of the whole school and read this postcard, and
everyone just went crazy. It was the only one that
came back, but for me, that was enough.

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IT’S
COMPLICATED
DOORWAY IT’S
COMPLICATED
DOORWAY

When I met the woman who is now my wife, it was
complicated. Courtney had three kids and a booming
PR career, and she was going through a protracted
divorce. I was this guy who’d just become the guy
who used to be a lawyer and was now a LEGO artist.
So while there was no doubt in either of our minds
that the other was The One, it was hard to share that
information with anyone else. What do you tell the
kids? What do you tell the friends and family? It just
seemed easier to keep it to ourselves and tell no one.
Because we were trying to hide our relationship, I had
to put on this happy, smiley, we’re-just-friends persona
to face the world. It was only when the world had
averted its gaze that I could sneak out the back door
and be with the one I loved and feel everything I was
feeling.

65

It was a confusing, desperate, exasperating time,
one that drove a lot of my work. During this period,
I made Caged Heart, Loves Me Not, Doorway, and
others.

When I was making Doorway, I was using Courtney’s
garage in San Diego as a studio. It was hot outside,
so I had the garage door rolled up two or three feet
off the ground to let a bit of airflow in. I had been
on some late-night TV show the night before, where
I’d been talking about quitting my job to do LEGO
sculptures.

Courtney’s daughter Delaney was in high school,
and her history teacher had seen the show. He said,
“Listen, kids, I saw this guy who quit his job to follow
his passion, and I only hope that you guys follow your
passions the same way.”

And Delaney, kind of unimpressed, raises her hand
and says, “Yeah, he’s in my garage right now.”

So I’m making this piece, Doorway, about all this
deep emotional stuff and the angst of stifled love,
and I’ve got 15 girls poking their heads under the
garage door, yelling, “He’s in there, he’s in there;
I can see him!”

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68

CAPILLARIES
RED TREE CAPILLARIES
RED TREE

The reaction to my first exhibition was overwhelming,
and in the weeks that followed, I was in a constant
state of euphoria. On the way back to the hotel after
the show, I proclaimed to Courtney that I wanted to
build everything and that I could build anything out
of LEGO bricks. Right there in front of the hotel was
this striking tree covered in twinkling lights. It was
illuminated. It was so alive.

And at that point, I was inspired to create its antithesis.
The image of a deciduous tree that’s lost all of its leaves
reminds us of winter, of the life falling from its limbs.
Essentially, a bare tree reminds us of death. But we
know the tree isn’t dead. It still has life within, beneath
the surface, that just lies dormant until the spring. When
I look at the tree, I don’t see the loss of life, but the
veins of a new tree ready to explode.

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70

WRITE AND
WRONG
THE WRITER WRITE AND
WRONG
THE WRITER

Don’t bend; don’t water it down; don’t try to
make it logical; don’t edit your own soul according
to the fashion. Rather, follow your most intense
obsessions mercilessly. —Franz Kafka

Seeking out the truth is something of a family pastime.
My grandfather on my mother’s side, Jack Swenson,
was a legendary midwestern journalist who made the
switch from radio to television without a hitch. In the
‘50s and ‘60s, millions of people relied on him to tell
them the way things were. My mother, too, worked
as a journalist—for the West Lane News, a weekly
newspaper in Veneta. Tuesdays were always the nights
we wouldn’t see her, because they went to print that
night. She didn’t get home until two or three in the
morning, and I was long since asleep. Tuesday was the
night the paper went to bed.

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Since my grandfather was a journalist and my mom
was a journalist, it seemed like a good thing for me
to do too. In high school, I was editor of the school
paper. I had a great journalism teacher, Anne Johnson,
who’d always encourage me and stay behind to help
me put together the paper. We covered all the sorts
of things that thousands of small-town school papers
do: sports, achievements, staff changes. But in my
mind I was like my grandfather or my mom, a warrior
for truth in a world of fuzzy gray deceit.

Once, and I can’t remember what the story was, I
had to have a meeting with the vice principal, who
wanted me to wait for his approval before running
a story. My response was something like “This is
ridiculous! No one can tell me what to write! I’m
taking this to the Supreme Court.” Little did I know
that the Supreme Court had already ruled that punk
teenage editors of high school newspapers could be
restrained by vice principals!

I thought I would go into television, like my
grandfather. When I first went to NYU, it was to
study journalism, and I packed my bags with all
the passion for the truth that I could muster. And
though I left behind that journalistic life many years
ago, I now look to my artwork as my contribution to
finding the truth, distinguishing right from wrong,
and following in the family footsteps.

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BLOOD AND
BLUBBER
DINOSAUR BLOOD AND
BLUBBER
DINOSAUR

There are two kinds of teachers: the kind that fill you
with so much quail shot that you can’t move, and the
kind that just gives you a little prod behind and you
jump to the skies. —Robert Frost

I had my first solo show in April 2007. It was at the
Lancaster Museum of Art, in the rural and Amish town
in central Pennsylvania.

At the time the museum contacted me, I thought,
“Wow, what an honor,” with the simultaneous thought
that it would likely also be my last solo show. It was
early in my career, and I hadn’t yet built up confidence
in what I was doing.

I didn’t know what to expect, and I was a nervous
wreck. We had this whole sequence planned where
my family was going to fly in and see the show first
at 5 PM before it opened to the public at 6 PM. Since I
never expected to do another solo show, I called all I didn’t know what to expect, and I was a nervous
wreck. We had this whole sequence planned where
my family was going to fly in and see the show first
at 5 PM before it opened to the public at 6 PM. Since I
never expected to do another solo show, I called all
my friends and invited them.

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my friends and invited them. So they were all there,
but I never thought anyone else would come.

At about noon that day, the director of the museum
called and said, “You’re not going to be happy, but
I’ve started letting people in. It’s freezing outside, and
they’re queued up around the corner.”

I was stunned. Usually the gallery saw 35,000 visitors
in a year, but my show had 25,000 in six weeks. The
Amish came, with their buggies and beards.

So they were all there, but I never thought anyone else
would come.

At about noon that day, the director of the museum
called and said, “You’re not going to be happy, but
I’ve started letting people in. It’s freezing outside, and
they’re queued up around the corner.”

I was stunned. Usually the gallery saw 35,000 visitors
in a year, but my show had 25,000 in six weeks. The
Amish came, with their buggies and beards.

What blew me away most of all was that these nine-
year-olds came walking through. The show drew
in many families and people who’d never come
to an art museum before. Kids were asking me for
autographs in Lancaster cafés . . . it was bizarre. I was
so overwhelmed by the reaction to the show that I
wanted to give something back to the kids. So, in
May of that year, I started building Dinosaur.

I began creating a skeleton, something like you might
find in a natural-history museum. I was lucky in that I
had some serious experience in the subject. I had a
middle school science teacher named Al James—Mr.
James, at the time—who was an amazing teacher and
would always go the extra mile.

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He would take us on field trips—not to the
zoo or the other typical sites, but all the way
to a cave in the mountains, for days. He’d
mention offhand, “Oh, and by the way there
are bats, so you’ve got to bring a tarp with you
so you don’t get bat guano all over you while
you’re sleeping.”

That’s stuff that changes your life as an eighth
grader.

One of Mr. James’s more grotesque assignments
prepared me for Dinosaur. He asked all of his
students to find a dead animal, then strip its
flesh and reconstruct its skeleton. I’d found a
dead beaver by the side of the road, so that
became my project. Do you know how to strip
the skin and flesh off a beaver? You’ve got to
boil it on your mother’s stove top. So I did that.

Luckily, I had very supportive parents.

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I went along with Mr. James, in the summer
of ‘88, to the Oregon Institute of Marine
Biology on a summer course. Most of my job
was reconstructing a skeleton from a dead
California sea lion for a museum. The Institute
had a walk-in freezer, like a butcher’s freezer,
and inside there was a whale carcass, a great
white shark, and a few sea lions. Now, sea lions
are pretty big, and they’re covered in blubber,
which you’ve got to cut off with a chainsaw.
(You could euphemistically call this step a dirty
job.) Then you’ve got to boil the body in giant
cauldrons so all the flesh falls off, and finally
you’ve got to piece all the bones together
again to make the skeleton.

That summer, I completed the reconstruction
of the sea lion’s skeleton, and I also did a
brown pelican. I hope they’re still in natural-
history museums somewhere. So when it came
to Dinosaur, I knew what it took to create a
skeleton. It took me about three months to do
Dinosaur—about the same time it took me to
do the sea lion!

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ARRIVING AT
CONJUNCTION
JUNCTION
YELLOW MASK ARRIVING AT
CONJUNCTION
JUNCTION
YELLOW MASK

To me, the face in this sculpture is Will, Courtney’s
son. This piece was done in about 2008, and the
expression on Will’s face is just how he always looks
to me.

When I first met Courtney, Will was about 4 and I was
30. Despite my age, I hadn’t really spent a lot of time
with kids. I’d been a student, I’d been a lawyer, and
I had just declared to the world that I’d become an
artist. But I wasn’t a father or uncle, and few of my
friends in the city had started families. I was leading a
simple and self-indulgent life of bachelor bliss when
along comes this beautiful woman and her three
equally beautiful children, Delaney, Blair, and Will.

Early in our relationship, I watched Will while
Courtney ran some errands. The last time I’d spent

When I first met Courtney, Will was about 4 and I was
30. Despite my age, I hadn’t really spent a lot of time
with kids. I’d been a student, I’d been a lawyer, and
I had just declared to the world that I’d become an
artist. But I wasn’t a father or uncle, and few of my
friends in the city had started families. I was leading a
simple and self-indulgent life of bachelor bliss when
along comes this beautiful woman and her three
equally beautiful children, Delaney, Blair, and Will.

Early in our relationship, I watched Will while
Courtney ran some errands.

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any real time with a four-year-old, I was probably
one myself. So what did I like doing when I was
that age? I recalled that I really liked Schoolhouse
Rock!. So Will and I sat down and watched back-to-
back-to-back episodes. We sang “Three Is a Magic
Number” and “A Noun Is a Person, Place, or Thing.”
We learned about the words and, but, and or during
“Conjunction Junction.” We oohed and aahed at
the cigar-chomping, pool hall–hustling fat cat in
“Naughty Number Nine.” After a couple of hours
the door opened, and Will rushed out and said,
“Mom, I know what an adjective is!” The last time I’d spent any real time with a four-year-old, I was probably one myself. So what did I like doing when I was that age? I recalled that I really liked Schoolhouse Rock!. So Will and I sat down and watched back-to-back-to-back episodes. We sang “Three Is a Magic Number” and “A Noun Is a Person, Place, or Thing.” We learned about the words and, but, and or during “Conjunction Junction.” We oohed and aahed at the cigar-chomping, pool hall–hustling fat cat in “Naughty Number Nine.” After a couple of hours the door opened, and Will rushed out and said, “Mom, I know what an adjective is!”

I was feeling pretty good about my parenting skills
right then. I was thinking that, maybe with enough
DVD box sets, I could really master this thing. I had
a lot yet to learn, and Will taught me so much.

Ten years on, it takes more than a rerun of a ‘70s
kids’ program to hold Will’s attention. He lives with
us in Los Angeles and goes to high school, plays
soccer, talks in monosyllabic grunts, and does all the
usual teenage boy stuff. He’s also a pretty good artist
himself, and he loves all things film. Unsurprisingly, he
holds no interest in LEGO creations whatsoever.

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THE LEAP
YELLOW THE LEAP
YELLOW

“Look on every exit as being an entrance
some where else. —Tom Stoppard”

I had a lot of things on my mind the day I planned
to leave the law firm in 2004, not least of which
was my resignation speech. But whatever room was
left over was taken up by the idea for Yellow. More
than anything else, Yellow was the idea that made
it impossible for me to continue living as I was, and
forced me to make the leap to pursue my art full time.
I sketched Yellow out on memo pads, Winston &
Strawn stationery, drink coasters, restaurant receipts,
and tablecloths hundreds of times before I actually
built it.

Yellow is also one of those pieces whose meaning
has changed for me over time. When I dreamed it
up, it was part of a trilogy representing birth, life, and
death. Yellow was death, a man tearing himself apart
and seeing his vital essence spilling out on the ground
before him. Originally, I wanted organs coming out
too—really graphic stuff.

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But in the two years it took to translate the idea
into a finished work, the guts stopped being guts
and became just bricks. And once it appeared in
shows, Yellow began to be seen as a standalone
piece, represented on posters and book covers and
websites without its companions, Blue (birth) and
Red (life), to provide context.

I think now, with the benefit of
a decade’s hindsight, that
Yellow is not about death
at all, but about opening
yourself up to the world
without fear or reserve. It’s about
dropping the mask and the hundreds of little
compromises you make every day to show the world
the true you, and letting life come at you as it may. I think now, with the benefit of a decade’s hindsight, that Yellow is not about death at all, but about opening yourself up to the world without fear or reserve. It’s about dropping the mask and the hundreds of little compromises you make every day to show the world the true you, and letting life come at you as it may.

The frustrations and anxieties I felt when I lived a
lawyer’s life were never the result of privation or lack
of opportunity. Quite the opposite: I was presented
with choices, and I made the “right” one every time.
Somehow, after making all those “right” choices, I
ended up in the wrong place. So I decided to make
a wrong choice instead. And I have Yellow to thank
for that.

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YOU’RE CRAZY
GRASP YOU’RE CRAZY
GRASP

When someone tells me “no,” it doesn’t mean
I can’t do it, it simply means I can’t
do it with them. —Karen E. Quinones Miller

I knew I had it pretty good as a lawyer. I knew that I
would have a pretty successful career and life if I
just stuck at it. My parents were proud that I had
graduated from law school and was making my way
in New York, and I didn’t want to let anybody down.
We all have second thoughts about the decisions
we make, and that’s why any kind of negativity is
dangerous. It scratches at your own self-doubt and
makes it itch.

If you hear others say it often enough, you start to tell
yourself that you can’t do it. You don’t need that. Life
as an artist is insecure enough.

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When people around me started chipping away at
my convictions, I found myself at a crossroads. Do I
listen to what they are saying, or do I keep faith in
the leap I’ve made?

So while it was hard, I had to cut some people out of
my life. It was a difficult time. But I don’t think I could
have gotten to where I am and done what I’ve done
if I’d kept them in my life.

I made Grasp for them. Grasp is breaking away from
that negativity—pulling away and escaping all of
those things trying to hold you back.

When I quit practicing law, my parents picked up the
slack, helping me pay some bills so I could follow
my dream. They were an amazing support and never
showed any doubts or disappointment. I wouldn’t be
where I am without that support.

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LEGO WARS
DOG LEGO WARS
DOG

Dogs do speak, but only to those
who know how to listen.
—Orhan Pamuk

When I was a kid, my parents let me keep a 36-square-
foot LEGO city in our living room. Maybe Mom and
Dad thought it made for a good conversation piece,
or perhaps they were just patient. It was behind the
couch, so visitors didn’t necessarily see it at first
glance. But if you did peek behind the cushions, you’d
have seen office buildings, roads, homes, airports,
hospitals, military bases, cars, trucks, stuntmen, kids
playing on the street, and other scenes of a vibrant
miniature community. Sometimes my sister, Stephanie,
who’s three years younger than I am, would play with
me in my city.

We lived outside the city limits of Veneta, and our
nearest neighbor was over a mile away, so it wasn’t
like I could go knock on a friend’s door very easily.
Growing up, if I wanted to play with another kid, it
had to be my sister.

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Stephanie would give my LEGO figures names and
backstories. I would be playing with this guy on a
motorcycle and I’d say, “Hey, watch this jump,” and
she’d go, “Yeah, that’s Dan. He’s married to Susan,
they’ve been living together for years, and they have
this white house with the yellow roof.” And I’d say,
“Yeah, sure!” For me, Dan was just a crazy guy on a
motorcycle; for Stephanie, he was a family man with
so much to lose if the jump went wrong.

Now, the thing about this LEGO city behind the couch
is that it wasn’t just a city. It was also a highly organized
military complex, from which I could arrange sorties
and other campaigns against Stephanie’s Barbie
dollhouse, which she kept in her room.

I would create an army of LEGO figures and build
aircraft and warships out of LEGO bricks to attack
the Barbies. I couldn’t just carry my army down
the hallway to her bedroom; it had to have official
transport. For whatever reason, I decided that the
hall carpet was an ocean, so the army couldn’t drive.
Planes and battleships were the order of the day.

The army would sail forth over the carpet-ocean, then
knock politely on the door. Stephanie would open the
door, and I’d yell, “Attack!”

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Of course, Barbie dolls are much taller and
larger than your average LEGO figure. So I’d
have to try to overwhelm them with numbers. It
never worked; the Barbies always won.

At some point, I asked my parents, “Can I have a
dog?” And they said, “No.”

So I tore down my LEGO city and built a dog.
It was very rectangular and boxy, so I called it a
boxer. When it was finished, I had my first “aha”
moment with LEGO creations. Building that dog
showed me that this toy could be used for more
than building cars and trucks and buildings. You
can build all sorts of artwork with it—animals,
people, even ideas.

Of course, that dog was long ago deconstructed
to make a myriad of other things. But when I was
sketching out ideas for the In Pieces collaboration
with photographer Dean West, I had this desire
to make another dog, a better dog. And I’m
rather proud of this dog: the poise of his legs,
the turn of his head. He tells a story within Dean’s
wonderful photograph.

And when I look at it, there’s still the spirit of
the dog made out of a city that waged a savage
LEGO war against the Barbies in a home in the
green Oregon forest.

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THE FEAR
OF FEAR
HANDS

Worry is a misuse of the imagination.
—Dan Zadra

I’m a worrier. Whatever success I’ve had, I’m always
thinking, can I sustain this? When’s the other shoe
going to drop? What if my work is just a fad, a kind of
artistic pet rock that people find bright and shiny for a
while before moving on to something else?

Hands came after my Lancaster, Pennsylvania, show,
sometime in 2008. I’d never expected to have a solo
show, and when Lancaster came up, I took it with both
hands (so to speak!). I never really thought it would
be successful; I was just this guy noodling around with
LEGO bricks.

But Lancaster did go well, lots of people came, and
suddenly art people—serious art people—became
interested in what I was doing. I got invited to do
another solo show, in Hollywood, Florida. And, of
course, they said, “We want to see some new stuff,
work that no one else has seen before.”

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So I went back into the studio, but I found that
something had changed. There were expectations
that never existed before. In my studio, alone,
surrounded by all these buckets of bricks with a
blank table in front of me, I suddenly found myself
very afraid.

What if I can’t think of anything to create?

What if the thing I create sucks?

What if I create this show for Florida, and nobody
comes, and the reviews are bad, and the gallery
loses a ton of money?

What if Lancaster was just a fluke, and really there is
no talent in these hands after all?

In 2008, it wasn’t too late for me to go back to being
a lawyer. I still had my law degree, I was a member
of the bar—I had the pieces of paper that told the
world, “This guy’s a lawyer.” I didn’t have a piece of
paper that said, “Yes, you are an artist. Yes, you have
the world’s permission to do what you do.”

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It was just me and a room full of bricks, waiting
for an idea to turn up.

So I decided to use the fear. Rather than let it
suffocate my ideas, I let it be the idea. I created
Hands, a depiction of an artist’s worst nightmare.
I was afraid that I’d reached the limit of my
ability, that I’d peaked and that people would
no longer have an interest in what I was doing.
Happily, I was wrong. When I turned 30 years
old, I thought there was no way that I’d be
doing this at 35.

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ARCHITECT
DREAMS
PARTHENON ARCHITECT
DREAMS
PARTHENON

A doctor can bury his mistakes, but an
architect can only advise his clients to plant vines.
—Frank Lloyd Wright

When I was a lawyer, I was one of several hundred at
my firm, working mostly on mergers and acquisitions
for huge companies like Microsoft, McDonald’s, and
Philip Morris. Our offices were in the MetLife Building
on Park Avenue, right above Grand Central Station.

In a city known for the soaring elegance of the Empire
State Building, the class of the Flatiron Building, and
the historic Upper West Side brownstones, the MetLife
Building is a square, uninspired slab of glass and
concrete. It’s depressing just to look at and is regularly
voted as the building that most New Yorkers would
like to see torn down. It’s somehow tall and squat at
the same time. Pan Am built it in the 1960s and went
out of business a few decades later. Perhaps we’d best
leave it at that.

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Because it’s on the same block as Grand Central
Station, the building sits outside the grid. So instead
of having its unsightliness tucked away into the city,
it stands tall and stark, offending New Yorkers from
just about every vantage point in Manhattan. And
this was the place that I would go to and come home
from, every day.

When I was younger, I thought I might like to be an
architect. It made sense to me. My father was an
engineer, so he was out there building bridges and
things in the parks. And I had built my great LEGO
city behind the sofa in the living room. I had a book,
bound in deep purple, with all the classical Greek and
Roman architecture, and I used to try to put some of
the more famous buildings into my LEGO city.

When I was 10 or 11, I was on vacation with my
mother’s parents in Colorado, and I mentioned my
architectural career aspirations. My grandfather took
me to see an architect he knew. Our interview took
place along a garden path.

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“Why would you want to be an architect, boy?
Why?” Whenever I asked a question or made
an observation, he flew into a minor rage,
repeating, “Why, boy, why?” It was almost as
if he was offended that this skinny kid from
Oregon had notions of joining his profession.
By the time my grandfather collected me, I
never wanted to speak to an architect for any
reason ever again.

Fast-forward to New York City, and I’m coming
home from the MetLife Building and pulling out
my LEGO bricks, just creating things to unwind
at the end of every day. And I remembered my
old book with the black-and-white pictures of
the ancient buildings of Athens and Rome. I
remembered one picture in particular, of this
building on the crest of the Acropolis. And I
reckoned that I could build it myself without the
help of any wild-eyed old architect from North
Dakota.

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WALDO H. HUNT
POP-UP-BOOK WALDO H. HUNT
POP-UP-BOOK

I knew I’d found the magic key.
—Waldo H. Hunt, on pop-up books

There is something fascinating about the obituaries
page. It’s amazing to hear the life stories of remarkable
people who somehow passed your notice while still
living—people like Waldo H. Hunt, the “King of the
Pop-Up Book.”

I read about Mr. Hunt in the Los Angeles Times in
late 2009. A former advertising man, he devoted the
second half of his life to reviving the American pop-up
book genre. He revolutionized the way pop-up books
were written and produced. If you have a pop-up book
at home today, you have Waldo H. Hunt to thank for it.

As a grown man making his living with art made out
of a toy, I found something of a kindred spirit in the
pages of that newspaper. So I decided to make a pop-
up book of my own in tribute to Mr. Hunt, inscribed
with a poem I’d written a few years before.

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This is a poem
About a girl in a boat,
Who kept sailing around
The confines of a moat.

The moat went around
A very big palace
Inside lived a prince,
And his maid Alice.

The prince had no problems.
His life was pure pleasure.
But his love for that girl,
He could not measure.

And the girl loved him back.
Their love had been bound.
But she still sailed on her boat.
Around and around.

She didn’t dare stop
For around the moat’s edge
Were sharp jagged rocks
Where her boat could not wedge.

The prince watched her each day,
And watched her each night.
They’d talk all the time.
But it just wasn’t right.

He begged her to jump.
And leave the boat far below.
But she kept sailing around,
Not ready to go.

“I’ll catch you,” he promised.
“There will be no harm.”
And she wanted to go
And live in his arms.

But the boat seemed so safe.
And the jump seemed so big.
She could not just leave,
And abandon her rig.

“Finally,” the prince said,
As he jumped on her boat.
“If you won’t come to me,
Then I’ll sail on the moat!”

And they sailed on her boat,
Just watching the palace.
But they could not go back,
‘Cuz it was now owned by Alice.

The moral of the story,
If you must know:
If you stay where you are,
Then you may never go.

So if one would jump,
And prepare for the hassle,
One day they will find,
They can live in the castle.

RUNNING
WATER
SWIMMER

Run when you can, walk if you have to, crawl if you
must; just never give up. —Dean Karnazes

I come from a family of runners. My dad is
a marathoner—still runs races at the age of
60-something and places really high for his age.
My sister is a runner too. She even married a
professional runner. It’s in the family.

I grew up in Oregon, where running is a holy thing.
Track is what you do. My hometown of Veneta is 30
minutes from the University of Oregon in Eugene,
where Bill Bowerman coached, Steve Prefontaine ran,
and Phil Knight started Nike. Eugene goes by the
nickname of Tracktown, USA, and the university track,
with massive grandstands on either side along the
straights, looks more like an Olympic stadium than
a college facility. This is where I had my track meets
growing up.

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Some places have ghosts. In New York, the Dakota
building on the corner of 72nd Street and Central
Park West is still thick with the presence of John
Lennon, who used to live there. People come from
all around the world, for all sorts of reasons, just to
stand on that corner where he lived and died. They
soak it up and talk to each other about what it all
means. It’s a pilgrimage.

In Eugene, Oregon, the ghost is Steve Prefontaine.
“Pre” once held every American running record
between 2,000 and 10,000 meters, was Nike’s first
endorsed track athlete, and died tragically in a
car accident in 1975 at the age of 24. Running on
that track and in that stadium was to be constantly
reminded that Pre once ran there. Runners come from
every corner of the globe just to sit in the stands. At
the US Olympic track and field trials, often held in
Eugene every four years, the best American athletes
walk in the footsteps of thousands of more ordinary
ones and leave running shirts, shoes, and medals at
the place where Pre died. There’s a big track meet
every year, the Prefontaine Classic, and a running
track through Eugene called Pre’s Track.

Pre ran like a crazy man. He used to push himself,
then push himself harder again—harder than anyone
else. He used to say things like “Somebody may
beat me, but they are going to have to bleed to do
it.” That’s what’s drummed into you as a track kid in
Eugene, Oregon: to push yourself like Pre.

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It was that thought that led me to Swimmer,
another long-distance athlete. I started
experimenting with Swimmer because I
wanted to explore sculpting the female form.
But this was right after my first show, and I was
trying to work out how to do it in a way that
was appropriate for a show a lot of kids would
attend. So I had this idea of a figure, with her
head down, who just swam and swam and
swam. And kept swimming long after all the
others had stopped.

Today Swimmer is one of my most popular
pieces wherever it goes in the world—
Singapore, Taipei, Australia, Europe, and
the United States. People find different
things to enjoy about it, see different things
in it: swimming upstream, swimming against
the tide, swimming with sharks. And that’s
something I could never have imagined all
those years ago, lacing up my shoes on a
haunted running track in Eugene.

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RED SELF-
PORTRAIT
RED MASK RED SELF-
PORTRAIT
RED MASK

Nothing is more real than the masks
we make to show each other who we
are. —Christopher Barzak

When you work as an artist, you see the natural
world around you differently. Things that you
might not have noticed before or just took for
granted, you start to see through the prism of
your art. So if you’re a painter and you see a
tree or a bird or a sunrise, you think, How could
I paint that? If you work in steel or marble, you
think, How could I sculpt that? For me, it’s all
about bricks. If I see the curve in a tree, or a
puffy white cloud, I think, How could I do that
with bricks?

That’s when you start to get into the artist’s state
of mind, that amazing, wonderful zone where
time stands still and all that exists is you, your
idea, and your medium.

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That’s why natural history museums have always
resonated with me. You can find so much inspiration
just by walking around. Weird, crazy ideas that you
could never dream up, ideas that could come only
from real life. And the American Museum of Natural
History in New York is one of the best.

I was in the Hall of African Peoples, which has all
these wonderful masks on the wall of different
sizes, colors, and shapes. Masks that hid the faces
of warriors, of medicine men, and of the dead as
they moved into the afterlife. I looked at them and
thought, How could I make these out of LEGO bricks?

And so I made Red Mask. The face is mine. Only a
heck of a lot bigger.

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133

SIMPLY
BEAUTIFUL
WOMAN
IN WHITE SIMPLY
BEAUTIFUL
WOMAN
IN WHITE

I struggle to create the female form out of
LEGO bricks. I want to push the edges of
creativity, the human form, storytelling, and
concepts of beauty. The result is this woman
made out of white bricks. She is one of the
first full female forms within my collection of
artwork. The Woman in White is pensive and
solemn. She loves, has lost love, and longs for
love. Her story offsets her sensuality.

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138

VICTOR’S WAR
IWO JIMA
REPLICA VICTOR’S WAR
IWO JIMA
REPLICA

Of the men who fought on Iwo Jima,
uncommon valor was a common virtue.
—Fleet Admiral Chester W. Nimitz

One of the unexpected, wonderful, and often
perplexing things about my journey as an artist
is that I am asked to do commissions. I usually
politely decline, but in 2006, I was honored to
be asked to re-create Joe Rosenthal’s famous
picture for the opening of the National Museum
of the Marine Corps in Quantico, Virginia. Like
most Americans, I’d seen the picture countless
times and had heard the story of Franklin
Sousley, Harlon Block, Michael Strank, John
Bradley, Rene Gagnon, and Ira Hayes, the six
servicemen depicted. When I began the project,
I was actually looking forward to immersing
myself in that famous American moment on
Mount Suribachi and learning a little more about
it. What I wasn’t expecting, however, was the
personal memories that it would trigger.

139

My father’s father, Victor Sawaya, owned and
ran a pool hall in Minot, North Dakota, when
the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. He was
driving when the news came over the radio, and
he immediately decided to close his business
and join the US Army. He served in the Pacific
Theatre in places like Guam and Okinawa but,
like many men of his generation, seldom spoke
of it upon his return. My father grew up knowing
that his father had served, but not a whole lot
more. His guess was that Victor wanted to put
the war behind him and devote his energies to
raising his family in peacetime.

When I began working on Iwo Jima, I suddenly
had this memory of my grandfather from when I
was 10 or 11. At this point in time he was quite
old and unwell. He couldn’t look after himself
anymore, and we’d had to move him out of
his home and into a VA hospital. As we were
clearing out some of his stuff in the house, my
father and I found a box. Within this box was
a series of smaller boxes containing Victor’s
military memorabilia. There were the sorts of
things that you might expect: military medals,
letters from home. Documents listed him as
serving in the 259th Ordnance Company and
being on the mailing list for the 74th Field
Hospital. But the thing that really hit my father
and I hard was a series of photographs from When I began working on Iwo Jima, I suddenly
had this memory of my grandfather from when I
was 10 or 11. At this point in time he was quite
old and unwell. He couldn’t look after himself
anymore, and we’d had to move him out of
his home and into a VA hospital. As we were
clearing out some of his stuff in the house, my
father and I found a box. Within this box was
a series of smaller boxes containing Victor’s
military memorabilia. There were the sorts of
things that you might expect: military medals,
letters from home. Documents listed him as
serving in the 259th Ordnance Company and
being on the mailing list for the 74th Field
Hospital. But the thing that really hit my father
and I hard was a series of photographs from
Victor’s time in the war.

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141

Victor’s time in the war. Some of them were of
him, taken in various places by other people. But
others were taken by him—graphic depictions
of wartime. Some of them showed dead bodies;
another showed skulls. The reality of war. Some of them were of him, taken in various places by other people. But others were taken by him—graphic depictions of wartime. Some of them showed dead bodies; another showed skulls. The reality of war.

It was a harrowing discovery for a young boy
to make, and I remember my father also being
quite shocked. His father had never mentioned
the existence of the box or its contents.
Unfortunately, Victor was by then no longer in a
state of mind for us to ask him about it. So we
never knew much more than the faint outline of
war that Vic’s photographs drew for us. When I
studied Rosenthal’s picture, I couldn’t help but
think of my grandfather’s box of lost memories
and of all the photographs that the millions
of other Americans who’d served had stashed
away in attics and trunks, unseen and perhaps
forgotten.

Of the six men who raised the flag on Iwo Jima,
three (Sousley, Block, and Strank) never made it
off the island, never made it home. PFC Sousley
was killed by a sniper’s bullet about a month
after the photograph was taken. Corporal Block
was killed by a mortar round three weeks before
that. Sergeant Strank, who served in the same
squad, died from a bullet wound the same day
as Block. Those who survived returned home as
heroes and celebrities, though all struggled with
their time at war. Corporal Hayes’s difficulties
were immortalized in a ballad sung by Johnny
Cash. Pharmacist’s Mate Second Class Bradley
reportedly barely spoke of his service, with his
family learning of his Navy Cross citation only
after his death. He only ever gave one recorded
interview.

Bradley’s reluctance reminded me of Victor, and
it was my grandfather whom I thought of most as
I was putting this piece together.

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145

HEROES
HAWK HEROES
HAWK

I consider skateboarding
an art form, a lifestyle, and a sport.
—Tony Hawk

As an artist, I have my heroes. Some of them
are also artists. I like the British artist Antony
Gormley a lot. He did this amazing installation,
Event Horizon, with life-size human figures
standing on the edges of buildings in London,
New York, and São Paulo. Wonderful.

I’ve carried a book on Tom Friedman’s art around
with me for decades. It’s been on every coffee
table of every apartment I’ve ever lived in. It
shows his fantastic art made out of bubblegum
and toothpicks and soap—whatever was around
him. In a way, seeing what Friedman did gave
me permission to take my own art seriously.
Here was a guy making legitimate art, shown in
legitimate museums, out of alternative media.
So why couldn’t I?

147

When I looked at that book, I’d begin to believe that
it could all be possible. When I looked at that book, I’d begin to believe that
it could all be possible.

Jim Lee, the comic-book artist and publisher, is
another hero. He has an amazing bank of properties
he can play with: Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman.
Although he didn’t create these characters, he has an
incredibly fresh take on familiar icons. Jim Lee, the comic-book artist and publisher, is
another hero. He has an amazing bank of properties
he can play with: Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman.
Although he didn’t create these characters, he has an
incredibly fresh take on familiar icons.

But the guy I’ve tried to model my career on isn’t
an artist at all. At least not one you’d find in a
museum. Tony Hawk and I first crossed paths when
we were both featured in an article about people
who had weird jobs. I was the LEGO guy; he was the
skateboarder who landed the 900 and sold millions
of video games. And then we crossed paths again
at a Google Zeitgeist event, and we were on a small
panel, so we got to spend some more time talking.
He eventually commissioned Hawk. But the guy I’ve tried to model my career on isn’t
an artist at all. At least not one you’d find in a
museum. Tony Hawk and I first crossed paths when
we were both featured in an article about people
who had weird jobs. I was the LEGO guy; he was the
skateboarder who landed the 900 and sold millions
of video games. And then we crossed paths again
at a Google Zeitgeist event, and we were on a small
panel, so we got to spend some more time talking.
He eventually commissioned Hawk.

Tony took something that wasn’t a job and made it
a career. Then he made it into an industry. He makes
giant leaps. He’s not afraid of falling short, or if he is,
he does a damn good job of hiding it. I look at him to
see what he’s doing next and say, Should I be doing
that? Because for me, he’s proof that you can make
yourself. Tony took something that wasn’t a job and made it
a career. Then he made it into an industry. He makes
giant leaps. He’s not afraid of falling short, or if he is,
he does a damn good job of hiding it. I look at him to
see what he’s doing next and say, Should I be doing
that? Because for me, he’s proof that you can make
yourself.

148

149

152

DRAWING
HANDS
BUILDING
YELLOW DRAWING
HANDS
BUILDING
YELLOW

I don’t grow up. In me is the
small child of my early days.
—M.C. Escher I don’t grow up. In me is the
small child of my early days.
—M.C. Escher

M.C. Escher was a strong influence on me as
a kid. His optical illusions made me think in
different ways. His iconic Drawing Hands is a
circular act of “creation by art.” It made me
think, If Escher’s hands could draw themselves,
could I create a sculpture that was building
itself—or possibly even taking itself apart? M.C. Escher was a strong influence on me as
a kid. His optical illusions made me think in
different ways. His iconic Drawing Hands is a
circular act of “creation by art.” It made me
think, If Escher’s hands could draw themselves,
could I create a sculpture that was building
itself—or possibly even taking itself apart?

My sculptures are created one brick at a time.
What if we saw the sculpture, during the creation
process, holding that one brick? The result is
Building Yellow, a self-made man. My sculptures are created one brick at a time.
What if we saw the sculpture, during the creation
process, holding that one brick? The result is
Building Yellow, a self-made man.

153

154

LETTERMAN
BIFF LETTERMAN
BIFF

I cannot sing, dance, or act; what else would I be
but a talk show host?—David Letterman I cannot sing, dance, or act; what else would I be
but a talk show host?—David Letterman

Back in 2005, David Letterman began bringing
on a series of artists to the Late Show to create
their own representations of Biff Henderson,
Dave’s stage manager and straight man. They
had someone sculpt Biff out of ice, someone
made Biff out of Post-it notes, and some poor
guy even got Biff tattooed on his leg. Then they
stumbled across this LEGO artist and asked,
“Can you build Biff out of LEGO bricks?” And
they wanted it to happen over the course of the
hour-long show. Back in 2005, David Letterman began bringing
on a series of artists to the Late Show to create
their own representations of Biff Henderson,
Dave’s stage manager and straight man. They
had someone sculpt Biff out of ice, someone
made Biff out of Post-it notes, and some poor
guy even got Biff tattooed on his leg. Then they
stumbled across this LEGO artist and asked,
“Can you build Biff out of LEGO bricks?” And
they wanted it to happen over the course of the
hour-long show.

Now, Letterman’s not live, but it is live-to-tape in
front of a studio audience. They don’t give you
extra time: an hour was an hour, no more. Most of Now, Letterman’s not live, but it is live-to-tape in
front of a studio audience. They don’t give you
extra time: an hour was an hour, no more. Most of
my sculptures take weeks or sometimes months,
so the only thing I figured I could do in an hour
was a mosaic portrait.

155

my sculptures take weeks or sometimes months,
so the only thing I figured I could do in an hour
was a mosaic portrait. So that’s what we did.
I was asked to arrive six hours early for rehearsal;
they graciously sent a car. The show is famously
filmed at the Ed Sullivan Theater on Broadway, so
I came straight from home downtown. I’d been
told to bring a few things that had already been
built, so I brought a globe, a rabbit, and a few
other sculptures built out of LEGO bricks. Some
of them were quite large, because I thought
“bigger” might work better on television. So that’s what we did. I was asked to arrive six hours early for rehearsal; they graciously sent a car. The show is famously filmed at the Ed Sullivan Theater on Broadway, so I came straight from home downtown. I’d been told to bring a few things that had already been built, so I brought a globe, a rabbit, and a few other sculptures built out of LEGO bricks. Some of them were quite large, because I thought “bigger” might work better on television.

I got out of the car at this very famous theater
where The Beatles first performed in the United
States, and all these people were lined up in
the street trying to get tickets. As the tourists
watched me alight, I wasn’t exactly looking
cool. I had these bulky boxes, which I dragged
behind me as I tried to get in the side door . . .
probably not the kind of celebrity spotting they
were hoping for. I sweated and cursed and
pulled my boxes inside until I found where I was
supposed to be. I got out of the car at this very famous theater
where The Beatles first performed in the United
States, and all these people were lined up in
the street trying to get tickets. As the tourists
watched me alight, I wasn’t exactly looking
cool. I had these bulky boxes, which I dragged
behind me as I tried to get in the side door . . .
probably not the kind of celebrity spotting they
were hoping for. I sweated and cursed and
pulled my boxes inside until I found where I was
supposed to be.

Rehearsal went fine, and then we launched into
actually taping the show. This was one of the
first times I was on TV, which helped me a lot. I
didn’t realize how nervous I should be. But I did
have that thought when I stepped out on stage:
“Wow. How am I here?” Rehearsal went fine, and then we launched into
actually taping the show. This was one of the
first times I was on TV, which helped me a lot. I
didn’t realize how nervous I should be. But I did
have that thought when I stepped out on stage:
“Wow. How am I here?”

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157

Letterman had two other guests that night, Ricky
Gervais and Rachael Ray. I hadn’t met either
before, and I didn’t meet them that day either.
I was kept in my dressing room, away from the
real stars. They were just down the hall, and you
could hear crowds of people in their dressing
rooms having what sounded like a great time. I
was just alone in my quiet room, hanging out. Letterman had two other guests that night, Ricky
Gervais and Rachael Ray. I hadn’t met either
before, and I didn’t meet them that day either.
I was kept in my dressing room, away from the
real stars. They were just down the hall, and you
could hear crowds of people in their dressing
rooms having what sounded like a great time. I
was just alone in my quiet room, hanging out.

After David’s monologue, he brings me out as
the first guest. Not because I have top billing,
but because I need to build the whole length
of the show. Right before the curtains open up,
he’s supposed to give a little introduction: “He’s
a LEGO artist; he’s built this and that, and here
he is—Nathan Sawaya!” But David Letterman
cannot pronounce the name “Sawaya” to save
his life. He stops the tape every time and says,
“Nope, I gotta do that again, I gotta do that
again.” On the fourth take, he gets it right. So
when you’re watching the edited show and
Dave finally says “Nathan Sawaya!”, the crowd
goes crazy. In the final cut, it seems like I’m the
biggest star to ever hit the stage. After David’s monologue, he brings me out as
the first guest. Not because I have top billing,
but because I need to build the whole length
of the show. Right before the curtains open up,
he’s supposed to give a little introduction: “He’s
a LEGO artist; he’s built this and that, and here
he is—Nathan Sawaya!” But David Letterman
cannot pronounce the name “Sawaya” to save
his life. He stops the tape every time and says,
“Nope, I gotta do that again, I gotta do that
again.” On the fourth take, he gets it right. So
when you’re watching the edited show and
Dave finally says “Nathan Sawaya!”, the crowd
goes crazy. In the final cut, it seems like I’m the
biggest star to ever hit the stage.

So I start building the portrait of Biff when Dave
has this great idea. He says, “Nathan, can Biff
help you?” Of course, I play along, “Yeah, for So I start building the portrait of Biff when Dave
has this great idea. He says, “Nathan, can Biff
help you?” Of course, I play along, “Yeah, for
sure, Dave!” and Biff comes over.

158

sure, Dave!” and Biff comes over. He doesn’t
have a clue what he’s doing and just starts
adding bricks in whatever place. When Biff
leaves to do his other parts of the show, I have
to undo what he’s done. But he continues to
come back and “help” in this way throughout
the show, which just means it takes me more
time to get it right. He doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing and just starts adding bricks in whatever place. When Biff leaves to do his other parts of the show, I have to undo what he’s done. But he continues to come back and “help” in this way throughout the show, which just means it takes me more time to get it right.

I was on stage for the entire show, so whenever
a joke would fall flat, David throws to me: “How’s
it going over there, Nathan? How’re you doin’?” I was on stage for the entire show, so whenever
a joke would fall flat, David throws to me: “How’s
it going over there, Nathan? How’re you doin’?”

And then Rachael is done, and so Dave says,
“Okay, we’re about to wrap it up,” and asks
“How’s it going, Nathan?” Just as he says that,
I’m snapping in the final brick. Biff is finished. And then Rachael is done, and so Dave says,
“Okay, we’re about to wrap it up,” and asks
“How’s it going, Nathan?” Just as he says that,
I’m snapping in the final brick. Biff is finished.

The show ends. I’m pumped because I got it
done, and people are coming up because they
want to see the work. The band comes over
because they want to see it too. The guitarist
nudges me hard and says, “You should probably
look up.” So I look up and it’s David looking
straight at me, coming to thank me and say a
few words, and for the first time it hits me: I’m
on Letterman! I’m on Letterman! The show ends. I’m pumped because I got it
done, and people are coming up because they
want to see the work. The band comes over
because they want to see it too. The guitarist
nudges me hard and says, “You should probably
look up.” So I look up and it’s David looking
straight at me, coming to thank me and say a
few words, and for the first time it hits me: I’m
on Letterman! I’m on Letterman!

159

160

TALK SHOW
STEPHEN

They say the only people who tell the truth are
drunkards and children. Guess which one I am.
—Stephen Colbert They say the only people who tell the truth are
drunkards and children. Guess which one I am.
—Stephen Colbert

The Colbert Report was different from the Late
Show. They shipped the art themselves, the
rehearsal went really smooth, and I just sat in the
audience and watched Stephen Colbert go. He
was so quick-witted that it made me nervous.

When I went back to my dressing room after
rehearsal, I was sitting there, and he walked in
alone and said, “Hey, I just wanted to introduce
myself. I’m a fan of your stuff. But just so you
know, my character Stephen Colbert, he thinks
your art is kinda weird, he thinks you’re kinda
strange, he thinks art in general is kinda pointless.
So good luck!”

But I thought that I held my own, despite Colbert
spitting out his water when I told him how much
people have paid for a single piece. In the end,
I shared my own sculpture of Stephen with him,
and he seemed to finally understand the real
value of my work.

161

162

THE FLAMING C
CONAN THE FLAMING C
CONAN

When all else fails, there’s al ways delusion.
—Conan O’Brien When all else fails, there’s al ways delusion.
—Conan O’Brien

Conan O’Brien has reached out to me twice to
build statues of him. One was a simple promotion
for the debut of his new show Conan on TBS. For
that I didn’t even meet with Conan; I worked off a
still photo.

He reached out again after he had developed
a character called The Flaming C with Warner
Bros. animator Bruce Timm. Now, Bruce is just
about as big a name as you will find in comic-
book art, having been responsible for some of
the best interpretations of Batman, Superman,
Justice League, and the Green Lantern. But
Conan’s brief to Bruce was very . . . well, very
Conan.

163

“I want a belt that has this thing for my
BlackBerry on it . . . a stylized C, maybe with
flames coming off it . . . and a Star of David
behind it. Oven mitts, with some steam coming
off the mitts . . . and maybe a jai alai glove on
the other one. You know, I would like to be
the first guy wearing shoes, like loafers, and
socks. Like an old man’s socks with garters.
And fishnets.”

Conan’s Flaming C quickly gathered a life of its
own and generated a whole lot of fan art. So
Conan decided to exhibit the best of this fan
art in a gallery during the 2011 Comic-Con in
San Diego. They asked me to build a life-size
sculpture of Bruce and Conan’s creation out of
LEGO bricks for the window of the gallery.

I got it finished and went down to San Diego
for the opening, and Conan’s there with his TV
crew, walking through the gallery filming, and
he comes up to me and says, “So I hear you
did this.”

Me: “Yeah, yeah, that’s me.”
Conan: “So how long did it take you?”
Me: “Ten days nonstop. I worked soooo hard on
this . . . ”

164

165

Conan: “Well, what’s the big
deal? If you weren’t building this,
you’d just be in your basement
building Chewbacca.”

Everyone laughed, and that
was my big Conan moment.
But what a nice guy. After they
had finished taping, he hung
around, just chatting. He comes
across in life just as he does on
television, a super hero.

168

MOVING
FORWARD
RED MAN
CRAWLING MOVING
FORWARD
RED MAN
CRAWLING

If you can’t fly then run, if you can’t run then
walk, if you can’t walk then crawl, but whatever
you do, you have to keep moving forward.
—Martin Luther King Jr.

Crawling is first. We learn to crawl before
everything else. The desire to get down on
the floor and crawl is fleeting in adulthood. My
childlike instincts sometimes urge me to get on
the floor and crawl. Sometimes I am looking
for a dropped brick. And when I’m down there,
it feels very infant-like, like I’m a child with
absolutely no cares in the world. Except that
I am not that child. My childlike innocence is
missing.

169

170

MEDITATION
AND CONTEM-
PLATION
BLUE
CROSS-
LEGGED MEDITATION
AND CONTEM-
PLATION
BLUE
CROSS-
LEGGED

It takes me days and days to create a sculpture.
I have been told that I almost go into a trance
while I am working. For the most part, I work
alone in my studio. I sit, unmoving, for hours on
end as I place brick after brick. One brick at a
time. One brick on top of another. Brick by brick.
It is my form of meditation. This figure comes
from those moments of contemplating life, one
brick at a time.

171

172

AMBOY
SHOTGUN
CLOUD AMBOY
SHOTGUN
CLOUD

Clouds come floating into my life, no longer
to carry rain or usher storm, but to add color
to my sunset sky. —Rabindranath Tagore

My sometimes-collaborator Dean West is
obsessed with clouds. For the most part, it’s
a nice obsession to have because it’s very
innocent. Clouds are beautiful; there’s nothing
nasty or dangerous about them. When we were
out on the road making the In Pieces show, we
were always having to pull over. Why? “Cloud.
I’ve gotta get a photo of it.” Dean just loves
clouds. And when he sees a good-looking cloud,
he takes a photo. He’s got stocks and stocks of
clouds that he can just drop into photos when he
needs them.

173

174

It was in the Mojave Desert that Dean’s cloud
thing got us both into trouble. We’d been
driving around, trying to find abandoned-
looking buildings suitable for a particular
shoot. In Twentynine Palms we’d talked to
someone who said, “You should check out
Amboy.”

Amboy’s not completely desolate: The 2000
census put the population at four, though it was
difficult to see where they were living. There were
no houses I could see, and the entire town, if
you could call it that, consisted of a church (with
no congregation), a school (with no students), a
gas station (with extortionate prices), and what
we thought was an abandoned motel. Amboy
was something of a destination in the Route 66
heyday, but in the ’70s, a new highway bypassed
the town, and it fell into its current funk.

Apparently the town was purchased in 2007 by
an eccentric gentleman, Albert Okura, who was
going to rebuild and make it something, restore
Amboy to its former glory. At the time we visited,
Okura had reopened the gas station, but much of
the rest of the town still lay in disrepair.

178

Nevertheless, Amboy had just what we were
looking for: a desolate motel framed by
mountains, with a nice little layer of made-to-
order clouds on top. Nobody had stayed in the
motel for years, and there were tired-looking
weeds growing out of cracks everywhere. We
looked around and couldn’t find anybody; the
office was long abandoned. So we figured we
were okay to shoot photography.

We had no scaffolding or cranes or anything
to get any elevation. But there was this gigantic
tower, a radio tower that went maybe 100 feet in
the air, that looked right over the motel. It had a
ladder, so Dean grabbed his camera and started
climbing. He was up so high, maybe 10 yards
up in the sky, with one arm hooked around the
ladder and the other holding his camera. But he
couldn’t hold on and get both his hands close
enough to operate the camera. And that’s when
we had our little problem. We were yelling at
each other. He shouted, “I can’t get my arm out!”
and I yelled back, “Well, why dontcha hold it like
this . . . ?” like I knew what to do.

179

It was our yelling that brought out a gentleman
with his dog and his gun. It seems he was living
in a little trailer off to the side of the motel. I
can’t remember if he said he was the caretaker or
what kind of official role he had, but he had some
kind of claim to the motel. Most importantly,
he didn’t take kindly to the idea that we were
photographing it. So we have this guy with this
gun, waving it in the general direction of an
untethered photographer 30 feet up a radio
tower, and me on the ground, with nobody really
qualified to deal with the situation. Eventually
I convinced the man of our good intentions,
Dean climbed down from the tower for a late
introduction, and we got the pictures we needed.

When I was building the clouds, I had to
experiment a lot. Anytime you try to build
curves with bricks, it’s a challenge. I was
approaching them like a series of oval spheres
coming together, but when they curve up, the
bricks don’t always connect properly. So the
bottom of the cloud might look awesome, but
the top of the cloud just isn’t working. So you
chip away, chisel away, and start the thing all
over again. It just took awhile. Particularly when
you’re working with a guy who’s obsessed with
clouds, you’ve got to get it just right.

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ART REFEREES
INCOMPLETE ART REFEREES
INCOMPLETE

You don’t notice the referee during the game unless
he makes a bad call. —Drew Curtis

Incomplete was one in a series of pieces I made
for a small exhibition in Florida toward the end
of 2013. They were all explorations of the human
form; there was one sitting cross-legged like a
Buddha, and another on all fours with a great
empty hole in his torso.

Before the show, I had a crazy few weeks; I was
running behind schedule as usual. While I was
working, the British graffiti artist Banksy came to
New York and was conducting his self-appointed
residency of the city, called Better Out Than In.
I’d always liked the way Banksy brought his art
to people in a completely different way, and
especially the trail of flummoxed authorities
and art commentators he left behind. Banksy
unveiled a new event every day, including one
in which he set up a small stall in Central Park
and sold original pieces for $60 each.

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One lucky (or insightful) customer bought a few
and was no doubt delighted to discover that
they were worth about $100,000 each. But it was
the street art, the large-scale pieces painted on
buildings and in alleys, that garnered the most
attention. By the middle of the month, New York
Mayor Michael Bloomberg was so infuriated that
he announced that any Banksy work discovered
on city property would be destroyed. “You
running up to somebody’s property and defacing
it is not my definition of art,” Bloomberg said.

That set me off. My philosophy is that there are
no rules to art. And I really, really hate it when
people say, “This is art and that is not art.” It’s the
most tired conversation of all time.

What is art? I base my opinion on intention: if you
want it to be, it is. I’ve had years of people telling
me that what I do is not art. Or that the way I do
it is not art. People even tell me the fact that I’m
gluing bricks is breaking a rule, because LEGO
bricks are supposed to hold together with friction
alone; if you glue it together, that’s cheating. How
can it be cheating? There are no referees in art.

At my exhibitions, I have an area where kids can
build with bricks: who’s to say that what they are
doing is not art?

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A lot of reporters ask: how does your art fit into
contemporary art? And I can’t answer. If you really
think it’s a question that needs an answer, ask an
art critic or an art student, not a working artist.

When I started, I had a very narrow view of
what the art world looked like. It wasn’t very
accurate. My goal was simply to get my art sold
in contemporary galleries. I naively believed that
the high point of art was to put it in a small room
in Chelsea where two or three people would
walk through every day. If Banksy’s New York
residency is art for everybody, then surely the
gallery system is art for the few.

I like to think I’ve learned a little bit since then.
And I try to worry less about people telling me
that what I do isn’t art. I’m particularly proud
of the museum shows we do around the world
where people can come and have a great
experience for the price of a movie ticket. For a
lot of them, it’s the only art show they see all year.

These were the sorts of things that were swirling
inside my head while I was building Incomplete. I
loved the way Banksy kept pushing his own work
further and further, to the point where he had
a whole city chasing after him. And that was an
indicator to me that my own journey as an artist,
and a human being, remained unfinished. I had,
and have, a lot more to do.

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STRAWBERRY
FIELDS
FOREVER
JOHN LENNON
TRIBUTE STRAWBERRY
FIELDS
FOREVER
JOHN LENNON
TRIBUTE

Time you enjoy wasting was not wasted.
—John Lennon

For the first few years after moving to New
York, I would go to the gatherings at Strawberry
Fields in Central Park on the anniversary of John
Lennon’s death on December 8. Strawberry
Fields is a landscaped area with a memorial
mosaic right across Central Park West from
the Dakota building, where John lived and
was murdered in 1980. I’m not sure why I was
so drawn to it. Like tens of millions of people
before and since, I “discovered” The Beatles at
the age of 16, roughly 20 years after the band
had broken up.

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I was never a fanatic, but I still found Strawberry
Fields profoundly moving, especially the first
time I went.

Let me set the scene. You’re in Central Park in
the most famous city in the world, surrounded
by trees, the buildings and Christmas lights
twinkling in the background. All around you
are strangers, many of whom, like you, are a
long way from home. It’s winter, so it’s dark and
cold and you should really be indoors getting
warm. Instead, you’re out under the sky, heavens
above you, singing songs that you all learned
in different places and that mean something
different to each person singing. There is an
amazing universality to the gathering, something
reassuringly and unbreakably human about it.
There is hope, too, as if by coming together and
singing, you can bring John a little closer. Years
later, when I was starting to make a name for
myself as an artist, I found myself thinking about
him and the impact of his art a lot more.

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I took the self-portrait he’d done in 1968, which
ended up on the cover of “Imagine,” and did this
very simple piece. I played around with the color
and made it a shadow work to give the flat drawing
some depth. I then suspended the pieces on near-
invisible strings to give the illusion that John’s face
is floating. I felt this made John more reachable, a
little bit like the nights in Strawberry Fields did. You
can actually put your arm through his portrait, and
almost figuratively pass through John.

By coincidence, after I made this piece, I
happened to be sitting across a hotel breakfast
table from writer David Sheff. David used to work
for Playboy in its pomp and was the last person
to interview John before he died. David got some
unique access to John and was still close to Yoko
Ono. I was talking to someone about my LEGO
art, and David was considering writing a book
about LEGO building at the time, so he introduced
himself and we started talking. I told him about
the Lennon piece, and he asked for a picture of it
and if he could send it to Yoko. So here I was, this
young budding artist, and my art is being shown to
Yoko Ono. She emailed me and said it was really
beautiful. It was so encouraging, so mind-blowing,
first, that she had even seen it, and second, that
she would take the time to respond to it. If ever
I’m feeling down, I can still go to Strawberry Fields,
stand there, take a look around, and then return
home with a spring in my step.

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CONNECTIONS
MY BOY CONNECTIONS
MY BOY

Art is not what you see, but what you
make others see. —Edgar Degas Art is not what you see, but what you
make others see. —Edgar Degas

For a long time I didn’t like to answer questions
about My Boy, because the reactions to it were
so strong, and its inspirations seem so prosaic in
retrospect. I was simply inspired by a novel I was
reading.

The way this work affects people is powerful,
and the response actually scared me the first
few times it was on exhibit. More so than with
perhaps any other piece, people stop and stare.
On several occasions I have seen people crying
in front of it at the show.

For a long time I didn’t like to answer questions
about My Boy, because the reactions to it were
so strong, and its inspirations seem so prosaic in
retrospect. I was simply inspired by a novel I was
reading.

The way this work affects people is powerful,
and the response actually scared me the first
few times it was on exhibit. More so than with
perhaps any other piece, people stop and stare.
On several occasions I have seen people crying
in front of it at the show.

197

On rare occasions, I’ve had moms and dads
who lost a child reach out to me by letter or
email to request a commission of a headstone
or coffin. I’ve always declined these requests; it
just doesn’t feel right.

I don’t have a son myself, though I did have a
big impact on Will, Courtney’s son, from a young
age. I imagined someone’s loss while creating
this piece, but it’s simply that: imagined.

When I first showed this piece, these reactions
made me uncomfortable. After some time and
reflection, I’ve made my peace with it. I believe
that maybe what My Boy does is help people
reconnect in some way, to remember.

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BOTTLE CAPS
TOYS FOR TOTS BOTTLE CAPS
TOYS FOR TOTS

After I’d become a full-time artist but still wasn’t
making quite enough to pay the bills, I got a
call from Coca-Cola, who asked if I would create
art for them out of bottle caps. One was a big
portrait of their polar bear. It was giant: six feet
tall and a couple of yards across. When they
hung it up in the Coca-Cola museum, it replaced
the Andy Warhol Coca-Cola art. I smiled at that:
a Sawaya replacing a Warhol. That one was
straightforward enough and came out great.

Coca-Cola’s other request was a gigantic,
30-foot-long train made from bottle caps. It
was for Toys for Tots, an organization run by
the US Marine Corps Reserve that collects
and distributes toys for the underprivileged
at Christmas. Coca-Cola was a supporter of
Toys for Tots and wanted to open the program
at a holiday event at the Coca-Cola museum
in Atlanta.

The train was for a great cause, but I went
through a special kind of hell to make it. To
begin with, I was living in New York City,

Coca-Cola’s other request was a gigantic,
30-foot-long train made from bottle caps. It
was for Toys for Tots, an organization run by
the US Marine Corps Reserve that collects
and distributes toys for the underprivileged
at Christmas. Coca-Cola was a supporter of
Toys for Tots and wanted to open the program
at a holiday event at the Coca-Cola museum
in Atlanta.

The train was for a great cause, but I went
through a special kind of hell to make it. To
begin with, I was living in New York City,
in an apartment where I could make LEGO
sculptures.

201

in an apartment where I could make LEGO
sculptures. But a 30-foot train? There was no
way I was going to pull that off in New York,
so where would I go? As luck would have it,
my aunt and uncle had just bought a farm in
Decorah, Iowa, in the middle of the country,
and they had a gigantic barn. Coca-Cola
wanted this train there before Thanksgiving, so
I spent a month over October and November in
a freezing Iowa barn with 100,000 bottle caps. But a 30-foot train? There was no way I was going to pull that off in New York, so where would I go? As luck would have it, my aunt and uncle had just bought a farm in Decorah, Iowa, in the middle of the country, and they had a gigantic barn. Coca-Cola wanted this train there before Thanksgiving, so I spent a month over October and November in a freezing Iowa barn with 100,000 bottle caps.

Before building, I did all this math and science,
trying to figure out all the surface areas, all the
angles. I thought I did a pretty thorough job.
For the project, however, Coke supplied all the
bottle caps, unused and brand-new. Which was
fine, but I hadn’t considered one thing: When
a bottle cap comes from the factory, it still has
that little ring attached, the one you break off
when you open the cap. So that adds 2 or 3
millimeters to every bottle cap. And with over
44,000 bottle caps, which is how many I ended
up using, that’s a big difference. So there was a
lot of adjusting going on among the mice and
chickens in that large, cold Iowa barn.

When I was finished with the train, I had to go
back to New York. So I left it in my uncle’s barn;
Coca-Cola’s event agency was going to send
someone to pick it up. I explained to Coke’s
people that it’s a piece of art, it’s made of bottle When I was finished with the train, I had to go
back to New York. So I left it in my uncle’s barn;
Coca-Cola’s event agency was going to send
someone to pick it up. I explained to Coke’s
people that it’s a piece of art, it’s made of bottle
caps, and they had to be careful.

202

caps, and they had to be careful. Naturally, they
said, yeah, yeah, we’ve got professionals; no
problem. But they ended up hiring a couple of
local guys who were more used to moving farm
equipment. My aunt called at one point and
said, “Well, the guys are here, but Uncle Fred’s
really concerned; they’re handling the train really
rough.” Naturally, they said, yeah, yeah, we’ve got professionals; no problem. But they ended up hiring a couple of local guys who were more used to moving farm equipment. My aunt called at one point and said, “Well, the guys are here, but Uncle Fred’s really concerned; they’re handling the train really rough.”

204

I got to Atlanta the night before the opening,
and I hadn’t even opened the crate yet. I
unpacked it, and when I saw the wreckage
I thought, Oh my God. One of the cars had
collapsed in on itself. I spent six hours that night
trying to fix it, repairing all these bottle caps
that had broken off. There was a little pressure
because the president of Coke and all these
Coca-Cola executives and media were coming.
But I got it done, and then happily went back
to my LEGO bricks in my warm apartment in
New York.

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206

PRESIDENTS
RUSHMORE PRESIDENTS
RUSHMORE

This memorial will crown the height of land between
the Rocky Mountains and the Atlantic Seaboard,
where coming generations may view it for all time.
—President Calvin Coolidge, at the opening of
work on Mount Rush more

It’s possible that I have spent more time in the
Mount Rushmore gift shop than any American
artist alive. When my mother’s father, Jack, retired
from his career as a television newsman in the
late 1970s, he and my grandmother moved into
a log cabin in the Black Hills of South Dakota,
almost at the feet of presidents Washington,
Jefferson, Roosevelt, and Lincoln.

Theirs was a real log cabin, the Abraham Lincoln
kind with the logs stacked on top of one another.
It was a modest cabin on the edge of a pine
forest, and it overlooked a lake, like something
right out of a postcard. I stayed in a loft upstairs Theirs was a real log cabin, the Abraham Lincoln
kind with the logs stacked on top of one another.
It was a modest cabin on the edge of a pine
forest, and it overlooked a lake, like something
right out of a postcard. I stayed in a loft upstairs
that you could get to only by climbing a ladder.

207

that you could get to only by climbing a ladder.
There wasn’t a lot of headroom in the loft—you
couldn’t stand up there—but when you’re eight
years old, it’s plenty of space. There wasn’t a lot of headroom in the loft—you
couldn’t stand up there—but when you’re eight
years old, it’s plenty of space.

My grandparents were members of the National
Memorial, meaning that they could go and look
at the presidents whenever they liked. You could
catch a glimpse of Washington from the highway
for free, but if you wanted to see the other three,
you had to do as all the other good citizens
did and pay your park fees. My grandparents’
pass also meant that whenever we visited them,
which was often, we would go too.

I must have seen Mount Rushmore dozens of
times. I don’t know why my parents also felt
the need to keep going back, but they did, and
we went with them often. We would go and
admire it (who knew that one day I would be
a sculptor?), and I have a lot of photos of it,
from every conceivable angle. The authorities
were also pretty innovative when it came to
finding new ways for visitors to experience
Mount Rushmore. They had fireworks, laser
shows, brunches, and midnight concerts. And
I experienced them all, at least once.

The thing that you first notice about Mount
Rushmore is that it’s not as big as you thought it
would be. It’s enormous, of course; each face is The thing that you first notice about Mount
Rushmore is that it’s not as big as you thought it
would be. It’s enormous, of course; each face is
60 feet high.

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60 feet high. But the surrounding
mountains have a tendency to dwarf
anything created by man. But the surrounding mountains have a tendency to dwarf anything created by man.

Perhaps that’s simply a matter of
the original plan. The father-and-
son sculpting team of Gutzon and
Lincoln Borglum intended to depict
the presidents to the waist but
were limited by funding.

The other thing you notice about
Mount Rushmore while visiting is
the number of tchotchkes you can
put Mount Rushmore on. I was often
left to wander the gift shop alone
as my parents and grandparents
indulged their passion for looking at
the presidents, and I was fascinated.

210

I mean, it was more than the usual
tea towels and magnets. You can
get several kinds of baseballs with
Mount Rushmore on them. A shot
glass with the presidents that glows
happily in the dark. A sipper cup
big enough for a supersized soda,
or travel mugs that keep your coffee
warm in the car. Each president had
his own bobble head, of course,
while the sewing fraternity could I mean, it was more than the usual
tea towels and magnets. You can
get several kinds of baseballs with
Mount Rushmore on them. A shot
glass with the presidents that glows
happily in the dark. A sipper cup
big enough for a supersized soda,
or travel mugs that keep your coffee
warm in the car. Each president had
his own bobble head, of course,
while the sewing fraternity could
protect its thumbs with a Mount
Rushmore pewter thimble.

protect its thumbs with a Mount
Rushmore pewter thimble.

Years later, I ran a competition
on my blog called “What Should
Nathan Make?” The most popular
entry after all the voting was a
“famous landmark.” And when it
came to choosing the landmark,
it was no contest. I built it almost
entirely from memory!

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212

THE ARC
ASCENSION THE ARC
ASCENSION

Art must be an expression of love, or it is nothing.
—Marc Chagall

Sometimes the meaning of a piece of art
changes with time, and that’s certainly the
case with Ascension. Originally it was the final
piece in a series I created for the Agora Gallery
in New York at the end of 2010. Each piece
was a human figure going through some kind
of emotional turbulence. The figures began
in poses of entrapment and containment,
before themes of love and freedom began
to emerge. The penultimate piece is of two
figures engaged in a kiss before the last piece,
Ascension. The figures were laid out in an arc
in the gallery space so that viewers were led
through the story in sequence.

213

What most people who went to the show didn’t
know was that the protagonist in each piece was
me, and the story being told was that of my love
with Courtney. In fact, she didn’t know it was
about us until just before the show opened and
I walked her through the exhibition, just the two
of us. Ascension was my way of saying that she
had released me through love and that I was
rising up to be the man I could be.

For reasons that I never intended, people
immediately read spiritual undertones into the
cycle. In fact, the director of that gallery was
going to purchase Ascension but at the last
minute declined and apologized, saying it was
“too religious-y.” And Ascension has never sold.
Being raised Catholic, I heard the phrase “as he
ascended into heaven” quite a lot, so I suppose
that’s what people related to. For me, Ascension
is just about trying to rise above the fray.

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215

Now, Ascension tours without its companion
pieces around the world and, like Yellow, is
seen and understood as a standalone work
rather than as part of a series. Now even I look
at it differently. I see the way the feet are close
together and the toes and legs point down;
it does look an awful lot like a crucifix. This
positioning was originally done for far more
prosaic reasons: I couldn’t hang anything from
the ceiling in the first gallery, so I needed to
keep the feet and legs together tightly so that
the piece would sit on the metal pole that
held it up. In my most recent New York show,
we displayed it hanging; if I had been able to
do that from the start, perhaps the feet might
have been a little more separate, and the same
analogies may not have been drawn.

As an artist, you don’t always have to be perfectly
understood. In fact, it’s nice to see people dive
into the art and see something that you never
intended, something that was there all along,
but you did not know it.

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218

THE WORLD
OF PRESIDENT
CLINTON
GLOBE THE WORLD
OF PRESIDENT
CLINTON
GLOBE

If you live long enough, you’ll make mistakes.
But if you learn from them, you’ll be a better person.
It’s how you handle adversity, not how it affects you.
The main thing is never quit, never quit, never quit.
—President Bill Clinton If you live long enough, you’ll make mistakes.
But if you learn from them, you’ll be a better person.
It’s how you handle adversity, not how it affects you.
The main thing is never quit, never quit, never quit.
—President Bill Clinton

In 2011 and 2012, I had my art on display at the
Clinton Presidential Library in Little Rock, Arkansas. I
was thrilled enough to have an exhibition at such an
amazing venue, but a few months later I got a call from
the Clinton camp, saying, “If you can find the time, the
president would like to meet you.” You’re not asked
to meet a president every day, so Courtney and I flew
back to Little Rock. I’d heard that President Clinton
collected globes, so I made him one and put it in my
carry-on.

219

We arrived at the library, and they said that I would
literally have two minutes with him to just say hi and
take a picture, and that would be it. I was more than
happy with that. Of course, things seemed to get
even more frantic, and a staffer simply asked us to
meet him as he was getting out of the elevator, for a
quick hello before he vanished for a press conference.
Well, President Clinton came out of the elevator, and I
was completely starstruck.

Being an ex-lawyer, I’m pretty good at talking, but the
whole leader-of-the-free-world thing really got the
better of me. Fortunately, Courtney was there to help
me find my words.

We presented the globe, and President Clinton was
so nice and very complimentary about my work.
Then he said, “Why don’t you come into this press
conference with me?” So he pulled us into this room,
and he introduced us to all these amazing people
who are lined up, waiting to talk to him. He spoke
about getting arts into education, and about the Thea
Foundation. He finished his press conference and
we’re still by his side, and there are more people to
meet, when a little boy comes up and says, “I want
to get my picture with you.” President Clinton says,
“Of course, of course, right here, son,” and the boy
replies, “No, not you! With the LEGO guy!”

The president laughed louder than anyone.

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224

THE MASTERS
OF CREATIVITY
CIRCLE,
TRIANGLE,
AND SQUARE THE MASTERS
OF CREATIVITY
CIRCLE,
TRIANGLE,
AND SQUARE

Creativity is allowing yourself to make
mistakes. Art is knowing which ones to keep.
—Scott Adams

These three sculptures are in the three primary
colors: red, yellow, and blue. All other colors
come from mixing these three colors together.
These figures also bear the primary shapes,
the building blocks that are used to make
up everything in the universe: the circle, the
triangle, and the square.

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226

THUMBS UP
TATTOO THUMBS UP
TATTOO

My body is my journal, and my tattoos are my story.
—Johnny Depp

The tattoo? I felt like I needed something
permanent. LEGO art had become a part of
me, so I thought I might as well make it formal.
I’m also quite proud of what I do. The idea of a
LEGO artist didn’t exist 10 years ago!

When I’m at an airport going through
customs and have to fill out that “What’s
your employment?” form, I always put
“LEGO artist.” When I’m questioned further
(and I’m always questioned further), I pull out
a catalog of my work, everyone gets a good
laugh, and then I go on to where I have to be.
By this point, I pretty much always carry a copy
of my portfolio, just to prove I’m legit!

227

I meet other LEGO artists from time to time,
and when I do, it’s half Band of Brothers and
half turf-fight. When someone says, “Hi, I’m a
LEGO artist,” it’s something like saying, “I’m
an astronaut,” because nobody becomes a
LEGO artist. It’s so foreign as a job, but there
is a bond. Because when you use this medium,
you know things about it that other people just
don’t understand. You know what it takes to
build something, the patience you have to have,
the struggle that you have with glue or shipping
or other everyday LEGO-artist things. Almost
nobody on the planet would know about that
except this person you have a connection with.
Because you’ve been there. I was in Israel with
this guy, and he was excited to have his work on
exhibit; when one of his little structures broke,
boy, was I feeling his pain.

I’m sure other artists have that feeling: “All art
is temporary, after all.” But there’s something
different about LEGO bricks because of the way
they’re designed to fall apart.

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230

Originally I had a LEGO tattoo on my thumb. I
use my thumb all day to press down the bricks,
so I get an impression of the little bumps on
them. The idea was to formalize that into a
tattoo. So I was in Vegas (where else?), and
the tattoo artist said, “You want what?” After
explaining, I actually had to pull out my book
again and show him: “This is what I do.” And
then he got it. It was only three months, with all
the wear and tear that I put my thumb through,
before the tattoo was completely rubbed off. I
learned subsequently that the thumb regenerates
its skin very fast, almost faster than any other part
of the body. Originally I had a LEGO tattoo on my thumb. I
use my thumb all day to press down the bricks,
so I get an impression of the little bumps on
them. The idea was to formalize that into a
tattoo. So I was in Vegas (where else?), and
the tattoo artist said, “You want what?” After
explaining, I actually had to pull out my book
again and show him: “This is what I do.” And
then he got it. It was only three months, with all
the wear and tear that I put my thumb through,
before the tattoo was completely rubbed off. I
learned subsequently that the thumb regenerates
its skin very fast, almost faster than any other part
of the body.

Now knowing that my thumb was not the best
place for a brick tattoo, I decided to put a
replacement one on my wrist. I went to another
tattoo shop and took a 2×4 brick, pressed it into
the underside of my wrist, and told the artist,
“Just fill it in.” Now knowing that my thumb was not the best
place for a brick tattoo, I decided to put a
replacement one on my wrist. I went to another
tattoo shop and took a 2×4 brick, pressed it into
the underside of my wrist, and told the artist,
“Just fill it in.”

231

LEARNING
SOMETHING
THE REBIRTH
OF NEW
ORLEANS LEARNING
SOMETHING
THE REBIRTH
OF NEW
ORLEANS

As bad as it is here, it’s better than being
some where else.—Chris Rose

I think most adult Americans can remember
where they were when Hurricane Katrina roared
out of the Gulf of Mexico and into the heart of
New Orleans. Most of us can remember watching
and wondering, How could this possibly happen
in this country? And then, in the aftermath, I think
most of us can remember thinking, How are we
ever going to fix this? Few of us, I think, knew
even where to begin. I think most adult Americans can remember
where they were when Hurricane Katrina roared
out of the Gulf of Mexico and into the heart of
New Orleans. Most of us can remember watching
and wondering, How could this possibly happen
in this country? And then, in the aftermath, I think
most of us can remember thinking, How are we
ever going to fix this? Few of us, I think, knew
even where to begin.

233

However, the New Orleans Public Library had
a brilliant idea: Don’t ask America’s grown-
ups; ask the children. The library launched a
campaign, asking children from all across the
country to draw and write about what they
felt was important for the rebuilding of New
Orleans. Then I was lucky enough to be asked
to represent these thoughts and ideas in a
sculpture. There were thousands of pictures to
sort through, but I soon noticed that no matter
where the drawing or painting came from, all
the kids had very similar ideas about what was
important for a city. It would need a fire station,
a hospital, schools, and a park. They were drawn
in different styles and colors, but I saw the same
themes repeated again and again. Other ideas
included hotels, houses, and libraries. I really
wanted to capture the look of the drawings by
making the buildings brightly colored, slightly
crooked or slanted in places, and with windows
that didn’t always line up. However, the New Orleans Public Library had
a brilliant idea: Don’t ask America’s grown-
ups; ask the children. The library launched a
campaign, asking children from all across the
country to draw and write about what they
felt was important for the rebuilding of New
Orleans. Then I was lucky enough to be asked
to represent these thoughts and ideas in a
sculpture. There were thousands of pictures to
sort through, but I soon noticed that no matter
where the drawing or painting came from, all
the kids had very similar ideas about what was
important for a city. It would need a fire station,
a hospital, schools, and a park. They were drawn
in different styles and colors, but I saw the same
themes repeated again and again. Other ideas
included hotels, houses, and libraries. I really
wanted to capture the look of the drawings by
making the buildings brightly colored, slightly
crooked or slanted in places, and with windows
that didn’t always line up.

234

235

236

The unveiling of the piece was to be my first
press conference ever. But my anxiety fell away
as we flew into New Orleans and I saw just
how many houses were still covered in tarps
12 months after the storm. The unveiling of the piece was to be my first
press conference ever. But my anxiety fell away
as we flew into New Orleans and I saw just
how many houses were still covered in tarps
12 months after the storm.

I’d been in the city for the first time the year
before the hurricane and had what you might
call a typical Bourbon Street experience with
friends. I’d seen the city so full of life, and now
those same downtown streets were deserted
still. It shook me up coming face-to-face with
it. At the press conference, though, filled with
bright, whip-smart third graders, it seemed to
me that in the children’s vision and enthusiasm
were all the answers New Orleans needed. I’d been in the city for the first time the year
before the hurricane and had what you might
call a typical Bourbon Street experience with
friends. I’d seen the city so full of life, and now
those same downtown streets were deserted
still. It shook me up coming face-to-face with
it. At the press conference, though, filled with
bright, whip-smart third graders, it seemed to
me that in the children’s vision and enthusiasm
were all the answers New Orleans needed.

237

238

LOVE LETTER
TO NEW YORK
LIBERTY LOVE LETTER
TO NEW YORK
LIBERTY

Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses
yearning to be free. —Emma Lazarus Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses
yearning to be free. —Emma Lazarus

On September 11, 2001, I was living in an
apartment near Gramercy Park, about three
miles from the World Trade Center. I worked
uptown, right near Grand Central Station, but
my girlfriend at the time worked for a firm in the
South Tower. At 8:46 on most mornings, she’d
generally be at her desk or somewhere near it,
70 or so stories above the ground. On September 11, 2001, I was living in an
apartment near Gramercy Park, about three
miles from the World Trade Center. I worked
uptown, right near Grand Central Station, but
my girlfriend at the time worked for a firm in the
South Tower. At 8:46 on most mornings, she’d
generally be at her desk or somewhere near it,
70 or so stories above the ground.

239

But at 8:46 this particular morning, she wasn’t.
She’d been working long hours and had worked
until one in the morning that particular day,
and we hadn’t seen too much of each other. So
when she found me eating my bowl of Froot
Loops in the kitchen, I said, “Why don’t you
have breakfast?” She never ate breakfast, but
for some reason she said, “They look good,”
put down her bag and keys, and decided to
join me. She still jokes to this day that Froot
Loops saved her life.

The TV was on, but we were talking and not
really watching. But when we saw the breaking
news, we ran up to the roof of my apartment
building, which had a clear view of the Twin
Towers. And that’s where we were when the
second plane hit the South Tower, just a few
floors above her law firm.

240

241

Normal days have a particular rhythm to them,
where time knows how to move around you.
The tick of the clock tells you when to rise, when
to eat, when to work, when to stop, when to
socialize, and when to rest. But that day, time
wasn’t working at all. It just stopped at 8:46
and spent the rest of the daylight hours in a
suspended state, spinning around itself. You
didn’t know whether to stand or sit, laugh or
cry, talk or be silent.

They closed down the Brooklyn Bridge, and I
had a lot of people from the other side of the
river stay at my apartment because they just
couldn’t get home. We sat in shock, watching
TV all day and thinking how close we were to
losing her.

For native New Yorkers, on most days, the
Statue of Liberty is an unremarkable part of the
furniture. A brushstroke in the backdrop to 20
million busy, complicated lives. If you’ve ever
caught the Staten Island Ferry, you’ll know what
I mean. While the tourists go crazy taking photos
and videos, New Yorkers don’t even look up
from their newspapers or phones as they pass
right by her. But in the days after 9/11, New
Yorkers saw Liberty as the rest of the world
does: a symbol of hope and proof that whatever
happens, compassion and love will endure.

243

New York had its heart torn open that day,
and Liberty helped all of us understand that
there would always be better days ahead—just
as she helped millions of immigrants like my
grandparents understand that there would always
be better days ahead. People are remarkably
resilient and resourceful creatures; we always
seem to find a way to pick up the pieces of life
and put them back in a way that’s better
than before.

244

Nearly 12 years after 9/11, my first big show
in New York was just a few weeks away from
opening. The venue in Times Square had been
secured, the posters had been printed, floor
plans had been drawn, revised, and finalized.
Artworks had been flown from various points
around the world. Everything was ready. Except
that it wasn’t. There was something missing. I
realized that I needed to make something for the
city that has let me call it “home.” Something
that showed what I had learned about her. So
we moved everything around to make a space,
and almost as the first people came through the
museum door, I placed the last brick on Liberty.

245

246

POINT IN TIME
COURTNEY
IN BLACK POINT IN TIME
COURTNEY
IN BLACK

I never put much stock in love at first sight,
but when I saw Courtney for the first time, I
knew I wanted to be with her for the rest of
my life. It would be a long while before we
would actually go out on a date, but when we
finally did, we ended up at a French restaurant
(I tried to keep it fancy). At first, we were both
nervous, studying our menus in silence. But the
conversation warmed up, and by the time our
food came, we were talking as if we’d known
each for years. We didn’t eat a bite.

The restaurant was in a mall (okay, so not that
fancy), and I walked her out to her car. She
looked up at the sky and closed her eyes, lit
by a flickering light from the stark parking lot.
Sometimes it’s not about the perfect location. It’s
not about the perfect meal. But sometimes it still
can be the perfect moment.

247

Photo Credits
All copyrights retained by the individual copyright holders.

Jim Herrington: Front cover, 134-135
Erica Anne Photography: 8, 11, 14, 17, 34, 84, 92-93, 106, 109, 110-111, 122-123, 196, 210-211, 218
Dean West: Back cover, 26-27, 36, 39, 40-41, 42-43, 44-45, 56, 59, 60-61, 62-63, 78-79, 80-81, 90,
102-103, 172, 174-175, 176-177, 178, 181
Mitch Haddad: 46, 49, 68, 73, 94, 130, 137, 152, 168, 170, 182, 185, 186, 199, 216, 224
Suzanne Bauer: 200
Nelson Chenault: 222-223