AUSTIN, TX.- Patrick Dougherty, sculptor, and photographer James Florio present readers in Sticks with an awe-inspiring and contemplative exploration of art, location, and time. This wonderful volume, ranging in price from $70.00, is not simply a monograph—it is an exaltation of transient beauty, an exploration of collaboration, and an impassioned statement about the potential for natural material to become monumental imagination. At once visually stunning and emotionally evocative, Sticks documents Dougherty's singular artistry with saplings, even as it highlights Florio's reflective photography in luminous black-and-white.

Ephemeral Dreams Modeling

Patrick Dougherty's medium is nature. Using saplings and sticks as his materials, Dougherty constructs public sculptures that interweave fairytale shapes from natural materials. His sculptures have been repeatedly admired for their whimsy, proportions, and immersive feel—monuments that feel as if conjured from common memory. As Dougherty describes in Sticks, his sculptures evoke "childhood bivouacs, secret assignations, and spring strolls in the woods." The shapes grow directly from the ground, blurring the distinction between nature and human imagination.

The beauty of Dougherty's work is in its temporariness. From materials that can biodegrade, constructed in three weeks with aid from local populations, these sculptures are designed to erode, returning to nature. This temporal aspect is not restrictive but an open invitation: to live in the now, to cherish the tactile aesthetic beauty in raw material molded to such monumental proportions, and to relinquish it.



Capturing the Uncapturable

Enter James Florio, the Montana-based photographer whose poetic, black-and-white photographs form Sticks' lasting foundation. In documenting sixteen of Dougherty's installations throughout the U.S., Florio creates for them an extended lifespan that goes past their physical appearance. His patient, unhurried process returns to places informing us about the emotional terrain on which these sculptures exist. His images, richly soaked in shadow and texture, encapsulate the substance of Dougherty's work in a manner that is at once reverential and revelatory.

Florio's choice to shoot in black and white is clever. By removing color, he highlights form, rhythm, and motion. The intersecting lines in the sculptures, their thick textures, and playful shadows leap to life in these monochrome images. Florio's camera does not simply document Dougherty's work—it interprets it, providing new ways for observers to experience these transient masterworks.

As Dougherty himself confesses, “When I first saw [James’s] pictures from his year-long odyssey, I asked if I had ever even seen my own photographs.” This is the greatest compliment—high praise from one artist to another for unlocking an unforeseen truth. Florio's pictures, he goes on to say, "focus and prolong viewing in an excellent manner."



The Tippet Rise Connection

Much of Sticks rests on the work done by Dougherty and Florio at the Tippet Rise Art Center in Fishtail, Montana. The center, establishing by Cathy and Peter Halstead, is more than an exhibition site—it's an artists' refuge in an expansive, inspiring Montana landscape. In 2015, Dougherty first commissioned work there in creating Daydreams. In 2022, he again came to build Cursive Takes a Holiday, a companion installation that wraps a replica 19th-century schoolhouse in sweeping, looping scrolls of interlocked branches.

These two schoolhouse-like installations reflect Dougherty's sense of play and history. The structures look as if they breathe—filled with motion, myth, and memory. Tippet Rise, with its pristine land and community of creative visionaries, offered the ideal setting for this project. “The landscape is so stunning and inspiring,” says Dougherty. “The entire place is designed for excellence.”

A Dialogue Between Artist and Viewer

Throughout Sticks, there is an unobtrusive but potent dialogue that occurs not just between Florio and Dougherty, but also between artist and spectator. Dougherty's process is wonderfully open: he builds in plain sight, encouraging passersby to observe him while eating lunch or asking him questions, further erasing the line between making art and everyday existence. "It is hard to hate a sculpture if your neighbors are working on it," he quips, but the truth in it is deeper. These sculptures are communal, living works, formed by dozens of hands, dozens of stories.

This feeling of collaborative authorship is echoed throughout the book's essays and conversations. Poet Kate Farrell offers a rich essay, while an engrossing dialogue between Dougherty, Florio, and moderator Jean McLaughlin explores philosophical questions about recording temporary, location-specific work. The conversations bring depth and personal tone to photos, grounding the work in purpose and experience.

Reflection, Repetition, and Rhythm

Through the sixteen sculptures included here, recurring motifs and formal developments emerge. Dougherty has collaborated with museums, gardens, art centers, and individual collectors, and all projects bear witness to spontaneity, problem-solving, and organic development. From sourcing saplings to working with volunteers, to surviving the vagaries of nature—"snakes, bees, and no-see-ums"—every project is an intersection of spontaneity and precision.

His technique is drawn from drawing: larger sticks curved and tied in to create an armature, smaller saplings woven in to create texture and shine. “Not just do the saplings suggest the wood, but they also contain lines on which to draw,” Dougherty says. What ensues is an iconography of gesture—tapered lines, sweeping curves—that resembles water, air, other natural forces.

This is one such graphic image that Florio captures with sensitivity. His photographs allow one to “linger in those details,” in Dougherty's terms, creating pop-up memories of “a path in the woods that leads to a glen where one rests and can just converse with all those other animals.”



Keeping the Spirit

Ultimately, Sticks is not just a record of sculptures—it is an act of preserving spirit. For those who will never see in person, this book is not merely an introduction, but an opening. The union of word and image offers depth for reflection—and revisitings. Readers can visit again and again, finding new things on every visit. Dougherty's humility as an artist, along with Florio's poetic eye as photographer, leads to a work of permanent value. "I am delighted at the chance that the spirit of my work has been captured, preserved, and can be savored over years by an extended world," reassesses Dougherty. Sticks succeeds in doing just that—it preserves the transitory.

Q & A with Patrick Dougherty

The book "Sticks" directly addresses the paradox of documenting ephemeral, site-specific sculptures through photography. As an artist who creates these temporary monumental works, what are your thoughts on the role of James Florio's black and white photographs in preserving and communicating the essence of your creations to a wider audience beyond their physical location and lifespan?

My forty-year career has been based on making large public sculptures from saplings, often gathered near the worksite. Shadowing the lifespan of sticks themselves, my work has been temporary. Throughout, I have tried to organize branches in a way that would call out to passersby and conjure memories of childhood bivouacs, secret trysts, and springtime walks in the woods.

As luck would have it, Cathy and Peter Halstead, who founded Tippet Rise Art Center, decided to sponsor James Florio to travel around the United States and document sixteen of my recent project. James was convinced that black and white photos could bring out the drawing quality of the work and enhance the sense of mystery and exploration.

All my projects have a three-week build time and the work is completed at breakneck speed in order to move on to next month's site. My pleasure is usually the thrill of creation and the hurrah of the finished sculpture. .James, on the other hand, is all about the saturated view. When I first reviewed his photos from his yearlong journey, I wondered if I had ever actually seen my own work. He managed to capture line and volume and the repetition so integral to the impact of the work. Sometimes my viewers will return again and again, but often the experience is one time viewing. Generally they explore and are caught in an imaginative moment. Sprung on details, James’s photos concentrate and extend the viewing in a wonderful way. A reader can saunter forward a few pages and at will turn back for another look tomorrow. I am thrilled with the possibility that the essence of my work has been captured, stored, and can be enjoyed over time by a wider world.



Your collaboration with James Florio at Tippet Rise Art Center has clearly been significant, inspiring this book. Can you share insights into the process of working with James? How did his photographic approach, particularly his black and white aesthetic and his focus on understanding a place through repeated visits, influence your perspective on your own sculptures?

As the idea of a book began to have growing pains, I think both James and I were nervous about the project. It meant travel for James and intellectual submersion, while for me, the work was already made, and I imagined myself fidgeting on the sidelines. But James is a very considerate and thoughtful guy. He is dedicated to his craft and to seeing a project through. Soon enough, I became enthusiastic and anticipatory. Our paths crossed a number of times as he did his work.

For example, I was working on a new sculpture at Alnoba in Kensington, NH, when James came to photograph Wildwood, my sculpture there from a previous era. I realized that being a photographer has its frustrations. As wind and rain blustered around him, he stalwartly set his ladders again and again working toward the perfect shot. I am impressed that he takes the time to cogitate and dig for the meaning of what he sees as he revisits each site. He can frame, focus, and explore light, and, much as I do in the physical world, he compels the viewer to explore.

The book features sixteen of your projects from across the US. Looking back at these diverse installations, what overarching themes or evolutions in your artistic practice do you see reflected in the selection presented in "Sticks"? Are there particular projects that hold special significance for you in this collection?

I have worked with all kinds of organizations - museums, art centers, botanical gardens, and private individuals, and, when I look over the sixteen projects featured, I see a lifetime of problem solving. Generally I make a site visit up to a year before the sculpture is built and work to identity a worthy site and to resolve all the issues. I identify a place to gather saplings, work out logistics, and arrange for volunteers to help with the installation. Still, on the spot problem solving means dealing with snakes, bees, and no-see-ums; it means helping volunteers help me; and it means helping the sponsors to explain away large piles of sticks stacked in the front yard. As I view these sixteen projects through James’s eyes, I am proud to be part of recorded history. I feel his photographic details capture a lifetime of my intentions, the happy results of all that problem solving.

One of the underpinnings of my work has been to develop a natural drawing style. Akin to building a canvas and then drawing on it, all my work has a substructure of larger sticks, actually small trees, which are bent into the desired shape. This is accomplished by pulling against scaffolding, which functions as of exoskeleton set around it. After the structural phase comes the aesthetic effort to build a luxurious surface. Not only do the saplings I use hint of the forest, but they also are lines with which to draw. I use many of conventional drawing techniques to add a sense of presence and movement to the sculpture. In a drawing the pencil strokes are tapered lines, starting with one weight and finishing off with another. Sticks are tapered, and so, when organized in certain ways, they convey a sense of motion - a feeling that suggests water, wind, and other natural phenomena. Finally, there is the cosmetic phase, which involves polishing the sculpture. This is accomplished by erasing blemishes and any inconsistencies with an overlay of smaller sticks.

I have always believed that a conversation between the viewer and the maker is essential, and this interaction has been so productive for me as an artist. All my work is done in full public view with no barriers, and passersby have been invited to step up and talk while I work. In some respects seeing something built is as much fun as experiencing the final sculpture. I always say, “It is hard to hate a sculpture, if your neighbors are working it.” Of course, the hubbub comes to an end, and that is where the appeal for this book begins. Sponsors and volunteers will want a copy and maybe the excitement of the build will continue in a way.



The description mentions the conversation in the book moderated by Jean McLaughlin, which delves into the experience of site-specific sculpture through images. For those who may never have the chance to encounter your stick sculptures in person, what do you hope viewers will gain from experiencing them through the photographs in "Sticks"? What aspects of the work do you feel are best conveyed through this medium?

During the construction of a sculpture I am a bit of a sitting duck: people tell me stories about themselves and about what they imagine while they explore. I have heard about Big Mr. Twister, a favorite childhood tree, kisses under the lilac bush, about favorite tree-lined place, bird phenomena that viewers remember. Sometimes the sculptures seem transformative; they cause fashionably dressed city people to turn to each other and say, “We could live here.” I feel that James's detailed views extend that pleasure. I think a reader can linger in those details and find pop-up memories of landscape with bird’s nest and beaver dam, remember a path in the woods which leads to a glen where one can relax and just talk with all the other animals.

Your work at Tippet Rise, particularly the two schoolhouse-inspired pieces, seems to hold a central place in the book. Could you elaborate on your connection to Tippet Rise and what it is about that specific environment and its artistic community that resonates with your creative process and inspired these unique structures?

I was invited to meet Peter and Cathy Halstead during their first forays of building a cultural oasis in Montana. They are a bit zany and were willing to consider my request to move an old schoolhouse that sat on hill several miles from Tippet Rise so I could use it as entanglement for a sculpture. Ultimately, they decided that moving a local icon, even a rundown one, might inflame the neighbors. So instead they built an exact replica of that well-worn schoolhouse, down to the detail of light pouring through a missing roof element. (The subtle use of Plexiglas made it possible). The schoolhouse was a wonderful foil for my sculptures.

As to Tippet Rise as a place for creativity, I have to say, it is over the top. The landscape is so breathtaking and inspiring. The whole place is geared for excellence. James is lodged there for good reason, and I can’t say enough positive things about Peter and Cathy Halstead.