Swimmers

My first sculpture, Catalina, was made in 1981. At the time, I was exploring the human body through sensual small fragments and how a single part could suggest an entire person. Catalina began that way, but she also marked the beginning of my long conversation with the body through sculpture. The idea came when I was at the beach and saw a girl coming out of the water. I identified with her immediately. Catalina was not a literal self-portrait, but she expressed something I understood from within.

I began making swimmers because I wanted to understand how water changes the body. Water supports us, but it also makes us vulnerable. It offers freedom while demanding strength, control, and trust. I was drawn to that contradiction and began to see the swimmer as an image of both the human condition and my own life. Polyester resin allowed me to shape the body as though it were responding to water—turning a torso, extending a leg, or reaching forward—while remaining solid and grounded. The painted surface suggested skin, moisture, reflected light, and the difference between a submerged body and one emerging from the water. It also allowed me to move between realism and interpretation.

Some swimmers were fragmented, while others were complete. Some had faces, while others did not. A fragment invited the viewer to imagine what was missing, while a full figure could express emotion through posture, balance, and movement. A swimmer is never completely still. 

Making the swimmers also taught me to move between intention and discovery. I began with an idea, but the material had its own resistance and possibilities. The figure had to be shaped, cast, finished, and painted before it became a physical presence. In that way, sculpture was like swimming: purposeful, but responsive to the environment.

I am still making swimmers. Through them, I can express what it means to be vulnerable without being weak, determined without being certain, and hopeful without knowing the outcome.