Sculpture, traditionally defined by force and monumental presence, has long been shaped by the dynamics of gender and history. Early on, the medium was dominated by male sculptors whose works were vast, muscular, and heroic—forms built with brute strength that often reflected the social and physical realities of their time. Yet, amidst this patriarchal landscape, women sculptors have continually redefined the medium in subtle, profound ways.
Camille Claudel, a pioneering French sculptor, challenged academic traditions and gender norms. Her work, marked by intimacy and psychological depth, highlights the powerful contributions women have made to sculpture. Though often overshadowed by her relationship with Rodin, Claudel's legacy speaks to the transformative connection between artist and material, influencing sculptors today.
Turning to contemporary female artists, we see practices that engage with this lineage while pushing the boundaries of what sculpture can achieve. Their works assert a strength in material, form, and narrative, much like the groundbreaking efforts of past female sculptors such as Ruth Asawa and Niki de Saint Phalle.
Among contemporary artists, French sculptor Clémentine de Chabaneix brings together her diverse artistic talents—such as drawing, painting, and engraving—in her delicate ceramic sculptures, creating a poetic and visionary body of work. With a playful and purist approach, she crafts a universe rich in imagination, focusing on forms, stories, and intricate details.
Clémentine Bal uses sculpture to breathe life into imaginary characters, blending shapes inspired by nature. The clean lines, meditative expressions, and delicate postures of these creatures imbue them with a softness that is both captivating and serene. Bal envisions spirits in everything, allowing faces to emerge on volcanoes, objects, and plants, where inert materials come to life, layer by layer.
Moe Nakamura’s figures, hand-carved from blocks of camphor wood, speak softly yet profoundly. Their rounded forms and inward gazes capture a kind of interiority rarely afforded to sculpture—intimate, dreamlike, and deeply human. Nakamura’s work exemplifies the emotive power embedded in East Asian wood traditions, where carving is not merely technical but spiritual—a slow excavation of being.
Chishi Morimura’s approach feels almost archaeological, as though she is uncovering remnants of ancient memory.
Her exquisitely detailed and evocative paintings draw from the Japanese concept of wabi-sabi, which embraces the beauty of imperfection and the transience of life. Often featuring animals, plants, and dreamlike landscapes, her works are imbued with a sense of whimsy and quiet magic.
The driftwood on which she paints becomes the narrator of a story—its natural form providing a foundation upon which Chishi layers her delicate figures, rendered with shell powder and natural pigments.
Juli About works with porcelain, a precious and fragile material, pairing it with a poetic exploration of the body, intimacy, and the surrounding space. Her research investigates the boundary between body and landscape, focusing on skin as a sensitive interface, revealing the invisible dialogue between inner and outer worlds.
Deeply engaged with themes of femininity, Juli creates works that give voice to female experience and supports anti-violence campaigns through emotionally resonant pieces.
Aya Kakeda is an internationally acclaimed illustrator and ceramic artist, known for her enchanting worlds inhabited by surreal, dreamlike creatures. Her work blends playful imagination with intricate detail, transforming childhood memories and literary influences into vivid, whimsical narratives. Continuously exploring new materials and forms, she brings her boundless creativity to life across both two and three dimensions.
Similarly, three artists who have recently been presented at Dorothy Circus Gallery in Rome and London—Lei Xiaohan, Ai Haibara, and Kanako Ozawa—celebrate the intricacy of this medium. Both Lei Xiaohan and Ai Haibara bring a tactile sensitivity to surface and form, creating works that hover between object and presence, while Kanako Ozawa’s pieces emerge as delicate meditations on fragility and permanence
The sculptural practices of these three female artists offer profound meditations on memory, materiality, and spiritual presence.
In London, Small Livings in Our Daily Life, a solo exhibition by Japanese artist Kanako Ozawa, presents a series of mixed-media works that fluidly traverse the boundaries between two and three dimensions. Her delicate, minimalist compositions evoke a subtle animistic sensibility, conjuring faceless, spirit-like forms that inhabit the negative spaces of daily existence. To better understand her work, we share with you the artist's latest interview released by Dorothy Circus:
INTERVIEW WITH KANAKO OZAWA
1) Your sculptures and paintings seem to exist in dialogue with each other. When developing a new piece, do you begin with form, texture, or an abstract sensation? How does your process shift between two-dimensional and three-dimensional work?
When I create a work of art, I often start with the painting. Sometimes the movement of signs comes to me in an everyday scene, and sometimes I see the poses of the characters first. I continue to observe their actions under my breath in order to know what thoughts, feelings, hopes, and impulses are contained in the world thus revealed. When I look back at the completed works, I get a stronger sense that the characters in the paintings seem to move more freely than in the drawings.
On the other hand, the three-dimensional works seem to have the impression of quietly moving bulges caused by breathing and the body warmth of “living creatures” more than the paintings, which I find interesting. Currently, I am conscious of the presence of “healthy breathing” in my works, In the future, I would like to gradually work on works that have a sense of “reality” that only three-dimensional works can provide.
2) The concept of ‘ma’—the beauty of negative space—is central to Japanese aesthetics. How do you consciously incorporate this into your compositions, and what role does it play in shaping the emotional impact of your work?
In Japanese art, “ma” is not simply an empty space, but a meaningful interval imbued with spiritual tension and stillness.
I myself do not work with a strong awareness of trying to create a perfect “ma” from beginning to end. However, there are certain compositions, margins, and stillness that feel natural to me when I am painting, and I value these very much.
When I think back on my various memories, I feel that there was a sense in every scene that “something that exists” cannot exist without a kind of “ma”. However, this is only because I came to know the concept of “ma” as an adult and was able to explain it in this way, but even before I was taught, I naturally viewed things with an element of “ma” from childhood.
I believe that there are two kinds of “ma” in art: natural negative spaces that are unintentionally created, and negative spaces that are intentionally arranged.
Of course, both are interesting, but I feel that the former reflects more strongly the “breathing” of the artist's own spirit, and the appearance of such “ma” in my work is due to the fact that I have my own “ma”. I think the reason why such “ma” appear in my works is because I myself am rooted in Japanese rhythms and spirituality.
I would like to answer some of your questions about the role of “ma” in my work.
1) The absence of information that is assertive makes it easier for the viewer to face first the work itself and then his or her own inner self.
I feel that the existence of the blank space slowly affects the viewer later on, and begins to provide room for various imaginings.
2) For example, just as in music, rests make the sound stand out, “ma” in a work of art also create a visual rhythm.
The “ma” in a work also creates a visual rhythm: stillness, tension, or anticipation. I believe that these pauses can be a mechanism for the viewer to feel a kind of “narrative” and evoke an emotional response.
3) The “ma” allows the viewer to stay quietly and slowly in the world of the work.
As the viewer spends time in this way, he or she gradually begins to feel something like “the presence of something.
However, I believe that this is something that appears only when there is a “heart willing to face it” or “room in the heart” inside of the viewer.
Some people may feel that simple works are not easy to enjoy in the sense of “deciphering something.
However, I believe that it is precisely because of this blank space that there are things that we can notice.
In fact, there are times when I myself cannot feel anything in the “ma”.
At such times, I realize, “Oh, I don't have enough room in my head right now”.
In this way, the “ma” is like a mirror that reflects my state of mind, and it is also a guideline for me.
(There are many other effects of “ma,” but I have chosen to focus on a few this time.)
Simultaneously in Rome, the gallery hosts a dual solo exhibition by Ai Haibara and Lei Xiaohan—two contemporary sculptors whose shared devotion to wood as a primary medium yields divergent yet deeply resonant explorations of identity, nature, and interiority. Haibara’s meticulously painted carvings reflect a harmony between the human and natural worlds, while Lei’s emotionally charged tableaux transform childhood into a mythopoetic realm of heightened perception. To better understand their work, we share with you the artists' latest interviews with Dorothy Circus.
INTEVIEW WITH LEI XIAOHAN
1) You use a variety of techniques and materials that are quite different from one another to create your works, skillfully transitioning from drawing to painting to sculpture. Is there a medium that feels particularly your own? If so, which one and why?
Natural materials—clay and wood—they’re raw yet full of life. On paper, I prefer pencils and colored pencils. I love shaping forms with lines, and I like how erasures still leave traces, much like every moment that once existed.
2) The creatures you bring to life in your works are enchanting and transport us into a dreamlike world. They are often accompanied by animals that seem to be their companions on a journey or adventure. How do these figures emerge in your imagination? Do you plan and study them beforehand, or do they take shape spontaneously during the creative process?
In daily life, images and stories constantly play in my mind like an endless animated film. When a figure or movement strikes me as interesting, I immediately sketch it out in messy lines. For sculptures, I refine the shapes as I work, sometimes referencing real animals. Occasionally, I’ll make a small clay maquette first to test if the form feels engaging. The emotions of these characters gradually clarify throughout the process.
3) Was there a moment or event in your life that played a meaningful role in shaping you—both as a person and as an artist—or perhaps even led you to become one? If so, would you be open to sharing that part of your journey with us?
My grandfather was an ordinary working man, yet he carried an enduring passion for art. After retirement, he began making clay sculptures, filling a small room in his house with these handmade sculptures . When I was a child, I often played with clay in this room. When I applied to major in sculpture at university, he was extremely happy. But unfortunately, shortly after I started university, he left me. When he lay on the hospital bed, completely unable to recognize who I was, I showed him the clumsy little sculptures I had made, and he still nodded happily. Many times when I create sculptures, I am memorializing those people I can never see again, the times that can never return, and venting emotions that have nowhere to be expressed.
I never thought of becoming a professional artist until I was about to graduate. Then I met a teacher who valued me very much. She thought I had the sensibility to be an artist. So I spent a summer vacation in their studio. During that time, I got to know many different professional artists. The life and working style that was free and focused on self-expression made me yearn for it. I was determined to face my life and creation with such an attitude no matter what the future held.
INTERVIEW WITH AI HAIBARA
1) Could you tell us how your passion for art began, and in particular, how you developed an interest in creating works in wood? What was the journey that led you to choose this form of expression?
I was depressed during my adolescence and decided at the age of 15 to live my life doing only what I liked, not complying with society. At the time, there were many works of manga, pictures, and novels that expressed the worldview I wanted to express, but there were no works of sculpture, so I decided to create three-dimensional works. But there were none in sculpture, so I decided to create three-dimensional works.
If there were no works (worldviews) that I wanted to see (or wanted), I would make them myself! That's how it all started. I wanted to have my own world. I wanted to make sculptures that were softer, lighter, and had an atmosphere that melted into the air (like the atmosphere of a picture book). I wanted to create a space with works that would create such an atmosphere.
2) Natural elements such as flowers, plants, water, and air often appear in your sculptures. Is there a particular element you feel especially connected to or consider fundamental to your work? If so, which one and why?
Animism is deeply rooted in Japanese life, and I think my works are influenced by it. I am interested in various phenomena such as nature, and the shapes and actions of animals and plants. I also want to somehow express the formless (fire, water, clouds, light, air) and invisible (spirituality, emotions, atmosphere, etc.) in my sculptures, and I make a variety of objects, but I most want to express the atmosphere that they have.
3) What is the connection you feel between yourself and the material you use in your works? What does wood represent for you, and how does it influence your artistic practice?
I work with wood because I like plants, but also because it is the most suitable material to express the atmosphere of the work I want to create. It is not too hard like stone or too soft like clay, but it has just the right amount of hardness and warmth for my work. Also, wood can live for thousands of years at most. Since the tree came to me after it was cut down, I hope it will live another thousand years as a work of art.
Together, these exhibitions draw attention to the nuanced perspectives of women working in contemporary sculpture and exemplify the gallery’s ongoing curatorial commitment to fostering cross-cultural dialogues and elevating poetic voices within the global art landscape.
