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Jupigio-Artwork-Gallery
Rare - Unusual - Unforgettable
Creating Dante’s Inferno
How I Built Hell — One Circle at a Time
There are probably easier things to build than Hell.
But once I had read Dante’s Inferno, made my notes and divided his enormous journey into its individual circles, I had another problem:
How was I actually going to make it?
This wasn't going to be a series of straightforward paintings. I wanted Dante's descent to become physical—to move from one sculptural piece to another, taking the viewer from Mount Delectable, through the Gates of Hell and gradually down through the nine circles until we reached the centre.
That meant painting, sculpting, cutting, constructing and working with different materials to give each part of Hell its own identity, while somehow making all the individual pieces belong to the same journey.
And I needed people.
Lots of them.
Dante populated Hell with an extraordinary collection of tortured souls, monsters, demons and sinners, and I wanted real human bodies behind many of the figures I painted. That particular problem would eventually take me from volunteers at my local gym to a naturist campsite in Tauranga — but we'll get to that.
This gallery is the story behind the finished artwork: the sketches, materials, experiments and construction that gradually turned words on a page into my own three-dimensional interpretation of Hell.
This is how I built Dante’s Inferno.
It Always Starts With Notes
Before I begin making anything, I pull the story apart.
As I worked my way through Dante’s Inferno, I filled pages with notes about the imagery: the characters, creatures, landscapes, punishments and small details that caught my imagination. At this stage, everything feels important and I convince myself I’m going to include it all.
Inevitably, I don't.
Once I begin designing the actual artwork, space becomes precious. Some details disappear because they don't contribute enough to the overall narrative, while others suddenly become essential. If I can squeeze something in without overwhelming the piece, I usually will.
These notes are therefore not a blueprint. They're more like my first conversation with the story — pulling out its visual possibilities before deciding what will eventually make its way into my Hell.
As I worked my way through Dante’s Inferno, I filled pages with notes about the imagery: the characters, creatures, landscapes, punishments and small details that caught my imagination. At this stage, everything feels important and I convince myself I’m going to include it all.
Inevitably, I don't.
Once I begin designing the actual artwork, space becomes precious. Some details disappear because they don't contribute enough to the overall narrative, while others suddenly become essential. If I can squeeze something in without overwhelming the piece, I usually will.
These notes are therefore not a blueprint. They're more like my first conversation with the story — pulling out its visual possibilities before deciding what will eventually make its way into my Hell.
From Notes to First Sketches
Once I've pulled the story apart in my notes, I start turning those words into pictures.
Here I'm beginning to sketch ideas for Limbo and Minos, working directly from the imagery I'd picked out while reading. Minos fascinated me visually. He stands in judgement over the arriving souls, wrapping his great tail around his body to determine how far down into Hell each one must go.
This is where the artwork really starts to take shape. The notes tell me what needs to happen; the sketches allow me to begin imagining what my version of it might actually look like.
They're still rough working drawings rather than finished designs. I'm testing figures, positions and compositions, gradually deciding which pieces of Dante's enormous visual world will survive the journey from my notes into the finished sculpture.
Here I'm beginning to sketch ideas for Limbo and Minos, working directly from the imagery I'd picked out while reading. Minos fascinated me visually. He stands in judgement over the arriving souls, wrapping his great tail around his body to determine how far down into Hell each one must go.
This is where the artwork really starts to take shape. The notes tell me what needs to happen; the sketches allow me to begin imagining what my version of it might actually look like.
They're still rough working drawings rather than finished designs. I'm testing figures, positions and compositions, gradually deciding which pieces of Dante's enormous visual world will survive the journey from my notes into the finished sculpture.
Finding the Fury in Cerberus
Cerberus took some working out.
I didn't simply need a three-headed dog; I needed a creature that felt furious. He had to embody wrath, anger and aggression, as though all three heads were barely contained within the same body.
That took countless sketches.
The difficulty, of course, is that three-headed dogs don't exist, so there was no complete creature I could study. I had to work out for myself how three heads might grow from one body, how they would sit together and, most importantly, how to give the whole creature the energy I could see in my head.
I did, however, have a rather gracious model at home.
My own dog, who was part Rottweiler, became part of my inspiration for Cerberus. I could study a real dog's head, musculature, stance and expressions, then take those observations and push them into something far more monstrous.
I sketched Cerberus again and again, changing the heads, expressions and movement until he stopped looking like an imaginary three-headed dog and began to feel like the furious beast I wanted guarding my Third Circle of Hell.
Sometimes the drawing isn't about getting something anatomically possible.
It's about making the impossible feel possible.
I didn't simply need a three-headed dog; I needed a creature that felt furious. He had to embody wrath, anger and aggression, as though all three heads were barely contained within the same body.
That took countless sketches.
The difficulty, of course, is that three-headed dogs don't exist, so there was no complete creature I could study. I had to work out for myself how three heads might grow from one body, how they would sit together and, most importantly, how to give the whole creature the energy I could see in my head.
I did, however, have a rather gracious model at home.
My own dog, who was part Rottweiler, became part of my inspiration for Cerberus. I could study a real dog's head, musculature, stance and expressions, then take those observations and push them into something far more monstrous.
I sketched Cerberus again and again, changing the heads, expressions and movement until he stopped looking like an imaginary three-headed dog and began to feel like the furious beast I wanted guarding my Third Circle of Hell.
Sometimes the drawing isn't about getting something anatomically possible.
It's about making the impossible feel possible.
Engineering the Eighth Circle
By the time I reached the Eighth Circle of Hell, ordinary sketches weren't enough.
This page is less about what Hell should look like and much more about how on earth I was going to build it. I was experimenting with the structure, how the different sections might be assembled, what would connect to what and how I could turn Dante's extraordinary description into something that physically existed.
They're almost technical drawings — albeit rather crude Julia-style technical drawings.
At this point I didn't even know what material the final structure would be made from. Copper hadn't entered the equation yet. I was simply trying to solve the shape and construction first; the material would reveal itself later.
That's quite typical of the way I work. I don't necessarily begin with every problem solved. I know what I want something to do and roughly how I want it to feel, and then I work through the practical problems as the piece develops.
These scribbles, measurements and construction ideas are really me thinking on paper. They don't have to make much sense to anyone else. They only have to give me enough information to take the next step.
Eventually, these rather crude little drawings would evolve into one of the most ambitious structures in the entire work.
But at this point, I wasn't thinking about copper.
I was simply trying to work out how to engineer Hell.
This page is less about what Hell should look like and much more about how on earth I was going to build it. I was experimenting with the structure, how the different sections might be assembled, what would connect to what and how I could turn Dante's extraordinary description into something that physically existed.
They're almost technical drawings — albeit rather crude Julia-style technical drawings.
At this point I didn't even know what material the final structure would be made from. Copper hadn't entered the equation yet. I was simply trying to solve the shape and construction first; the material would reveal itself later.
That's quite typical of the way I work. I don't necessarily begin with every problem solved. I know what I want something to do and roughly how I want it to feel, and then I work through the practical problems as the piece develops.
These scribbles, measurements and construction ideas are really me thinking on paper. They don't have to make much sense to anyone else. They only have to give me enough information to take the next step.
Eventually, these rather crude little drawings would evolve into one of the most ambitious structures in the entire work.
But at this point, I wasn't thinking about copper.
I was simply trying to work out how to engineer Hell.
Designing in Layers
Once I had the rough ideas in place, the sketches became much more detailed.
This drawing returns to Minos, but now I wasn't only thinking about what the finished scene would look like. I needed to think about how I was actually going to construct the painting.
All of the paintings in Dante's Inferno are built using layered panels of steel, creating physical depth within the scenes. That meant my drawings had to become construction plans as well as compositions.
I needed to mark where one steel layer would sit in front of another, which figures belonged on which level, and how the different sections would eventually come together. I was essentially breaking a two-dimensional drawing apart so that I could rebuild it in three dimensions.
These more detailed sketches became my roadmap. Before I started cutting steel, I needed to know not only what I was going to paint, but where every part of Hell was going to sit.
The further I got into the project, the more the drawing, painting, sculpture and engineering began to merge into one process.
This drawing returns to Minos, but now I wasn't only thinking about what the finished scene would look like. I needed to think about how I was actually going to construct the painting.
All of the paintings in Dante's Inferno are built using layered panels of steel, creating physical depth within the scenes. That meant my drawings had to become construction plans as well as compositions.
I needed to mark where one steel layer would sit in front of another, which figures belonged on which level, and how the different sections would eventually come together. I was essentially breaking a two-dimensional drawing apart so that I could rebuild it in three dimensions.
These more detailed sketches became my roadmap. Before I started cutting steel, I needed to know not only what I was going to paint, but where every part of Hell was going to sit.
The further I got into the project, the more the drawing, painting, sculpture and engineering began to merge into one process.
Preparing the Steel for Hell
Before I could paint anything, every one of those steel layers had to be prepared.
But I didn't want the steel to look new.
I deliberately aged the metal first, encouraging a natural rust patina to develop. The variations and imperfections in the rust seemed perfect for Dante's Inferno — it gave the material an aged, decaying quality that already felt as though it belonged somewhere in Hell.
I kept this exposed patina on the backs of the panels, where the rust itself became part of the finished artwork. Once I had achieved the surface I wanted, I sealed it with a high-gloss varnish, protecting the patina while still allowing all those beautiful marks and variations in the steel to remain visible.
The fronts needed completely different treatment.
This was where my oil paintings would eventually appear, so first I coated the steel with rust protection. Over that came gesso, creating the prepared surface I needed for painting in oils.
So every panel effectively developed two identities: raw, aged and rusted steel on the back; a carefully prepared painting surface on the front.
Even before a single figure had been painted, the materials were already beginning to tell the story.
Hell was starting to acquire its own skin.
But I didn't want the steel to look new.
I deliberately aged the metal first, encouraging a natural rust patina to develop. The variations and imperfections in the rust seemed perfect for Dante's Inferno — it gave the material an aged, decaying quality that already felt as though it belonged somewhere in Hell.
I kept this exposed patina on the backs of the panels, where the rust itself became part of the finished artwork. Once I had achieved the surface I wanted, I sealed it with a high-gloss varnish, protecting the patina while still allowing all those beautiful marks and variations in the steel to remain visible.
The fronts needed completely different treatment.
This was where my oil paintings would eventually appear, so first I coated the steel with rust protection. Over that came gesso, creating the prepared surface I needed for painting in oils.
So every panel effectively developed two identities: raw, aged and rusted steel on the back; a carefully prepared painting surface on the front.
Even before a single figure had been painted, the materials were already beginning to tell the story.
Hell was starting to acquire its own skin.
Building Depth Into the Painting
Here you can see Mount Delectable separated into its two steel panels, which makes the layering much easier to understand.
Rather than painting the entire scene onto one flat surface, I divided the composition across separate pieces of steel. Each panel carries a different part of the imagery and, when they're brought together, one sits in front of the other to create real physical depth within the painting.
This is why those earlier detailed drawings were so important. I had to know exactly what belonged on each layer before I began cutting and painting the steel. Something that appears to be one complete image when assembled is actually made from several carefully planned components.
Separating the panels like this reveals a part of the finished work that isn't immediately obvious: the depth isn't an illusion created only with paint — the painting itself has depth.
Once the individual layers are brought together, the separate pieces become one scene and Mount Delectable begins to emerge from the steel.
Rather than painting the entire scene onto one flat surface, I divided the composition across separate pieces of steel. Each panel carries a different part of the imagery and, when they're brought together, one sits in front of the other to create real physical depth within the painting.
This is why those earlier detailed drawings were so important. I had to know exactly what belonged on each layer before I began cutting and painting the steel. Something that appears to be one complete image when assembled is actually made from several carefully planned components.
Separating the panels like this reveals a part of the finished work that isn't immediately obvious: the depth isn't an illusion created only with paint — the painting itself has depth.
Once the individual layers are brought together, the separate pieces become one scene and Mount Delectable begins to emerge from the steel.
The Eighth Circle Begins to Take Shape
This is the Eighth Circle partially constructed, and it's a perfect example of the way I tend to work once an idea escapes from the sketchbook.
I experiment.
The structure is made from a whole host of different materials, because at this stage I'm far more interested in finding something that will create the shape and movement I want than worrying about whether those materials would traditionally belong together.
At the centre I created a copper coil, and around that I began constructing what can only really be described as a great clay abomination.
It wasn't elegant. It wasn't supposed to be.
I was building Hell.
Those earlier crude technical drawings had given me an idea of the structure, but once I started physically constructing it, the piece began dictating some of its own solutions. I could add, reshape and experiment, gradually turning the strange object in my imagination into something tangible.
This is also where you can see how differently I approach sculpture from painting. I don't always know exactly how I'm going to achieve something before I start. Sometimes I have to make, fiddle, alter, swear at it and make some more until the thing in front of me finally resembles the thing that's been living in my head.
And slowly, my clay abomination began turning into the Eighth Circle of Hell.
I experiment.
The structure is made from a whole host of different materials, because at this stage I'm far more interested in finding something that will create the shape and movement I want than worrying about whether those materials would traditionally belong together.
At the centre I created a copper coil, and around that I began constructing what can only really be described as a great clay abomination.
It wasn't elegant. It wasn't supposed to be.
I was building Hell.
Those earlier crude technical drawings had given me an idea of the structure, but once I started physically constructing it, the piece began dictating some of its own solutions. I could add, reshape and experiment, gradually turning the strange object in my imagination into something tangible.
This is also where you can see how differently I approach sculpture from painting. I don't always know exactly how I'm going to achieve something before I start. Sometimes I have to make, fiddle, alter, swear at it and make some more until the thing in front of me finally resembles the thing that's been living in my head.
And slowly, my clay abomination began turning into the Eighth Circle of Hell.
Six Weeks of Work… and It Was Awful
Here hangs my first attempt at the Eighth Circle of Hell.
And it was horrible.
It was heavy, clunky and wobbled far too much for comfort. Worse still, the clay began sweating salt. The whole thing felt unstable and unsafe, and although I'd managed to achieve the shape I wanted, I knew I couldn't use it.
There was just one particularly annoying detail.
It had taken me six weeks to make.
But six weeks of work isn't a good enough reason to keep something that isn't working. I could have convinced myself it would be fine, carried on and built the rest of the artwork around it.
No.
It was awful.
So back to the drawing board I went.
I started developing another idea using metal. Then, during a conversation with a local artist, came the suggestion that would completely change this part of the sculpture:
Why not make the structure out of copper?
Copper?
Could I?
Would I?
Yes, I bloody well would.
And so began one of the most extraordinary parts of building my Hell.
And it was horrible.
It was heavy, clunky and wobbled far too much for comfort. Worse still, the clay began sweating salt. The whole thing felt unstable and unsafe, and although I'd managed to achieve the shape I wanted, I knew I couldn't use it.
There was just one particularly annoying detail.
It had taken me six weeks to make.
But six weeks of work isn't a good enough reason to keep something that isn't working. I could have convinced myself it would be fine, carried on and built the rest of the artwork around it.
No.
It was awful.
So back to the drawing board I went.
I started developing another idea using metal. Then, during a conversation with a local artist, came the suggestion that would completely change this part of the sculpture:
Why not make the structure out of copper?
Copper?
Could I?
Would I?
Yes, I bloody well would.
And so began one of the most extraordinary parts of building my Hell.
I Had No Idea What I Was Doing
The failed construction now had a new purpose.
It became my template.
I began covering the form with the first pieces of copper, gradually working out how this completely different version of the Eighth Circle might be constructed.
Did I know what I was doing?
Absolutely not.
But I was doing it.
That's often how the most interesting parts of my work begin. I don't necessarily wait until I know exactly how to achieve something. I start experimenting, learn what the material will and won't allow me to do, solve one problem and then move on to the next.
Copper was completely changing what this structure could become. Instead of the heavy, clunky clay abomination hanging in my garage, I was beginning to create something lighter, stronger and far more intricate.
At this point, though, there was no guarantee it would work.
I just had some copper, a template and an idea of Hell in my head.
And that was enough to get started.
It became my template.
I began covering the form with the first pieces of copper, gradually working out how this completely different version of the Eighth Circle might be constructed.
Did I know what I was doing?
Absolutely not.
But I was doing it.
That's often how the most interesting parts of my work begin. I don't necessarily wait until I know exactly how to achieve something. I start experimenting, learn what the material will and won't allow me to do, solve one problem and then move on to the next.
Copper was completely changing what this structure could become. Instead of the heavy, clunky clay abomination hanging in my garage, I was beginning to create something lighter, stronger and far more intricate.
At this point, though, there was no guarantee it would work.
I just had some copper, a template and an idea of Hell in my head.
And that was enough to get started.
And Then the Riveting Bega
The original structure had done its job. It had given me the shape I needed, but I certainly wasn't going to entomb that horrible great thing inside copper.
It was time to move away from the template.
I began constructing the copper form independently, joining the individual pieces together and gradually allowing the new structure to support itself.
And then came the rivets.
Lots and lots of rivets.
This was the point where the experiment started becoming a piece of metalwork in its own right. Each piece of copper had to connect to the next while still following the complicated form I'd originally created.
I was learning as I went, working out how the copper behaved, where it needed strengthening and how I could persuade flat pieces of metal to become the strange three-dimensional structure I had imagined.
The failed clay version was slowly becoming redundant.
Hell was finally beginning to stand on its own.
It was time to move away from the template.
I began constructing the copper form independently, joining the individual pieces together and gradually allowing the new structure to support itself.
And then came the rivets.
Lots and lots of rivets.
This was the point where the experiment started becoming a piece of metalwork in its own right. Each piece of copper had to connect to the next while still following the complicated form I'd originally created.
I was learning as I went, working out how the copper behaved, where it needed strengthening and how I could persuade flat pieces of metal to become the strange three-dimensional structure I had imagined.
The failed clay version was slowly becoming redundant.
Hell was finally beginning to stand on its own.
Building Hell, One Level at a Time
By now, the new copper centre of Hell was getting considerably bigger — and considerably more complicated.
Everything you see was being made by hand. I formed the tiny windows, beat and shaped the stairways, and began constructing the ditches that would eventually define this extraordinary part of Dante's Hell. What had started as an experiment with a few pieces of copper was becoming architecture.
But copper alone wasn't going to support the growing structure.
A local metal artist helped me create an internal support using a steel rod running through the centre. As I completed each level, another steel rung was added to support the next, giving me the framework I needed to continue constructing the copper around it.
I should probably point something out here:
I don't weld.
Quite frankly, I'm afraid of welding.
But I do know how to construct, and I know when a piece needs skills beyond my own.
Over the years I've worked with welders, metal artists, glass artists and other craftspeople, and I make a point of finding people who are exceptionally good at what they do. I design the work, determine how I want it to function and construct the elements I can, then call upon someone with specialist skills when the artwork demands it.
For me, that's not handing over the making of the artwork. It's knowing exactly what I want to achieve and finding the right expertise to help me achieve it.
I don't need to know how to weld. I need to know what I want welded, where I want it and why.
And level by level, rivet by rivet — with a little expert welding along the way — Hell was growing.
Everything you see was being made by hand. I formed the tiny windows, beat and shaped the stairways, and began constructing the ditches that would eventually define this extraordinary part of Dante's Hell. What had started as an experiment with a few pieces of copper was becoming architecture.
But copper alone wasn't going to support the growing structure.
A local metal artist helped me create an internal support using a steel rod running through the centre. As I completed each level, another steel rung was added to support the next, giving me the framework I needed to continue constructing the copper around it.
I should probably point something out here:
I don't weld.
Quite frankly, I'm afraid of welding.
But I do know how to construct, and I know when a piece needs skills beyond my own.
Over the years I've worked with welders, metal artists, glass artists and other craftspeople, and I make a point of finding people who are exceptionally good at what they do. I design the work, determine how I want it to function and construct the elements I can, then call upon someone with specialist skills when the artwork demands it.
For me, that's not handing over the making of the artwork. It's knowing exactly what I want to achieve and finding the right expertise to help me achieve it.
I don't need to know how to weld. I need to know what I want welded, where I want it and why.
And level by level, rivet by rivet — with a little expert welding along the way — Hell was growing.
Three Thousand Rivets Later
By this stage, the copper structure was ready to be transported for assembly, and seeing it out of the workshop gives some idea of just how substantial it had become.
This piece alone took me two months to create.
I used three sheets of copper, each two metres long, all of which had to be cut by hand, shaped, bashed, beaten and quite literally manhandled into the structure you see here.
And then there were the rivets.
More than 3,000 copper rivets.
Every one played its part in joining this enormous coil together. My hands took an absolute beating making it.
Something else happened to the copper as I worked with it. Constant handling, hammering and shaping meant that the natural oils from my hands began affecting the surface, helping to create those beautiful variations in colour and patina across the finished structure.
And it wasn't only the oils from my hands that ended up on it.
There's some of my blood in there too.
Copper edges, thousands of rivets and two months of wrestling sheets of metal are not particularly kind to hands. But I rather like knowing that the surface carries evidence of its own making. Those colours weren't simply applied afterwards; they developed as I physically worked the copper into shape.
Two months. Three enormous sheets of copper. More than 3,000 rivets.
And a small amount of the artist.
As for the original clay abomination?
We buried it.
There was a ditch at the back of our garden that needed filling, so the whole horrible thing was put into it and covered over.
After six weeks of construction, sweating salt, wobbling ominously and ultimately being rejected from my Inferno, it received perhaps the most appropriate burial possible.
One day, I suppose, it will find its own way back to Hell.
This piece alone took me two months to create.
I used three sheets of copper, each two metres long, all of which had to be cut by hand, shaped, bashed, beaten and quite literally manhandled into the structure you see here.
And then there were the rivets.
More than 3,000 copper rivets.
Every one played its part in joining this enormous coil together. My hands took an absolute beating making it.
Something else happened to the copper as I worked with it. Constant handling, hammering and shaping meant that the natural oils from my hands began affecting the surface, helping to create those beautiful variations in colour and patina across the finished structure.
And it wasn't only the oils from my hands that ended up on it.
There's some of my blood in there too.
Copper edges, thousands of rivets and two months of wrestling sheets of metal are not particularly kind to hands. But I rather like knowing that the surface carries evidence of its own making. Those colours weren't simply applied afterwards; they developed as I physically worked the copper into shape.
Two months. Three enormous sheets of copper. More than 3,000 rivets.
And a small amount of the artist.
As for the original clay abomination?
We buried it.
There was a ditch at the back of our garden that needed filling, so the whole horrible thing was put into it and covered over.
After six weeks of construction, sweating salt, wobbling ominously and ultimately being rejected from my Inferno, it received perhaps the most appropriate burial possible.
One day, I suppose, it will find its own way back to Hell.
Pitchforks Holding Up Hell
The pitchforks supporting the Eighth Circle might look like decorative symbolism, but their construction was actually dictated by Hell itself.
Every pitchfork had to fit around the copper ditches I had already created. Because those ditches twisted and descended at different levels, no two supports could simply be made the same size or shape. Each one had to be designed individually to meet the structure exactly where I needed it.
Before the metal artist in Waihi could make them, I first had to create the templates.
I used metal rod, bending it by hand around the structure until I had the dimensions, angles and shapes right for each individual pitchfork.
And bending metal rod by hand is no easy thing.
Eventually I managed to wrestle each one into the shape I needed. Those rather laboriously constructed templates could then go to the metal artist, who created the finished pitchfork tops for me.
It's another example of the strange crossover between sculpture and engineering that happened throughout this piece. The pitchforks weren't added afterwards because Hell ought to have pitchforks.
The Eighth Circle genuinely needed structural supports — so naturally, I made them pitchforks.
Sometimes practicality hands you the perfect piece of symbolism.
Every pitchfork had to fit around the copper ditches I had already created. Because those ditches twisted and descended at different levels, no two supports could simply be made the same size or shape. Each one had to be designed individually to meet the structure exactly where I needed it.
Before the metal artist in Waihi could make them, I first had to create the templates.
I used metal rod, bending it by hand around the structure until I had the dimensions, angles and shapes right for each individual pitchfork.
And bending metal rod by hand is no easy thing.
Eventually I managed to wrestle each one into the shape I needed. Those rather laboriously constructed templates could then go to the metal artist, who created the finished pitchfork tops for me.
It's another example of the strange crossover between sculpture and engineering that happened throughout this piece. The pitchforks weren't added afterwards because Hell ought to have pitchforks.
The Eighth Circle genuinely needed structural supports — so naturally, I made them pitchforks.
Sometimes practicality hands you the perfect piece of symbolism.
The Centre of Hell Comes Together
And here it finally begins to make sense.
The great copper structure of the Eighth Circle is being assembled on its metal plinth, with the individually designed pitchforks positioned around it to support the ditches.
But those pitchforks weren't only a convenient way of holding everything up.
At the very bottom of this structure lies the Ninth Circle — the centre of Hell and the place where Lucifer resides. I designed the pitchforks so that they appear to rise upwards from Lucifer below, reaching into and supporting the twisted ditches of the Eighth Circle above.
So something that began as a structural problem became part of the story.
Lucifer is quite literally beneath it all.
Until this point, I'd been working on dozens of separate problems — the copper coil, thousands of rivets, handmade windows, beaten stairways, ditches, internal steel supports, pitchfork templates and the plinth itself. Here, all those individual elements were finally becoming one structure.
This is very much how my mind works when I'm constructing something.
It never really switches off.
How am I going to build this? What material could I use? How will I join it? Will it take the weight? What needs supporting? What could go wrong? And if it does go wrong, how am I going to fix it?
I'm constantly working several stages ahead in my head, anticipating problems while simultaneously solving the one sitting in front of me. Sometimes the answer comes quickly. Sometimes I have to experiment. And sometimes I spend six weeks building something only to decide it's awful and bury it in the garden.
That's all part of it.
This assembly was the moment I discovered whether all that measuring, bending and wrestling with metal rod had actually worked. Each pitchfork had been designed to meet a particular part of the irregular copper structure, so their different heights and shapes suddenly made sense when everything came together.
And visually, something even better happened.
The pitchforks seemed to rise from Lucifer at the bottom of Hell and carry the circles above him. The engineering had become symbolism.
That's one of the things I enjoy most about constructing work like this.
I'm not just making what I drew. I'm solving my way towards it — and sometimes the solution adds another layer to the story.
The great copper structure of the Eighth Circle is being assembled on its metal plinth, with the individually designed pitchforks positioned around it to support the ditches.
But those pitchforks weren't only a convenient way of holding everything up.
At the very bottom of this structure lies the Ninth Circle — the centre of Hell and the place where Lucifer resides. I designed the pitchforks so that they appear to rise upwards from Lucifer below, reaching into and supporting the twisted ditches of the Eighth Circle above.
So something that began as a structural problem became part of the story.
Lucifer is quite literally beneath it all.
Until this point, I'd been working on dozens of separate problems — the copper coil, thousands of rivets, handmade windows, beaten stairways, ditches, internal steel supports, pitchfork templates and the plinth itself. Here, all those individual elements were finally becoming one structure.
This is very much how my mind works when I'm constructing something.
It never really switches off.
How am I going to build this? What material could I use? How will I join it? Will it take the weight? What needs supporting? What could go wrong? And if it does go wrong, how am I going to fix it?
I'm constantly working several stages ahead in my head, anticipating problems while simultaneously solving the one sitting in front of me. Sometimes the answer comes quickly. Sometimes I have to experiment. And sometimes I spend six weeks building something only to decide it's awful and bury it in the garden.
That's all part of it.
This assembly was the moment I discovered whether all that measuring, bending and wrestling with metal rod had actually worked. Each pitchfork had been designed to meet a particular part of the irregular copper structure, so their different heights and shapes suddenly made sense when everything came together.
And visually, something even better happened.
The pitchforks seemed to rise from Lucifer at the bottom of Hell and carry the circles above him. The engineering had become symbolism.
That's one of the things I enjoy most about constructing work like this.
I'm not just making what I drew. I'm solving my way towards it — and sometimes the solution adds another layer to the story.
Putting the Imagery Back Into Hell
The copper ditches gave the Eighth Circle its extraordinary physical structure, but I still wanted Dante's imagery to remain at the heart of it.
Here you can see the ten individual painted images that I created to sit around the ditches. The copper might provide the architecture of Hell, but these paintings populate it, allowing me to bring the figures, punishments and narrative of the Eighth Circle back into the structure.
Of course, I then needed to work out how to attach them.
The solution came partly from something that might otherwise have ended up as scrap.
The metal artist in Waihi had a collection of metal spikes left over as offcuts that he no longer wanted, so he donated them to me. They turned out to be absolutely perfect for what I needed.
His unwanted metal fitted beautifully into Hell.
The paintings could be positioned around the copper ditches using the spikes, becoming part of the three-dimensional landscape rather than simply sitting alongside it.
Like so many parts of this sculpture, the system would continue to evolve. When Dante's Inferno eventually arrived in Wales, I developed a more complex fixing system to hold the paintings securely and stop them wiggling around.
That's another reality of making something like this: finished doesn't always mean never touched again. Once a sculpture has been assembled, moved, transported across the world and lived with, I can see where something needs improving — and I'll improve it.
Nothing is wasted either. Give me an interesting piece of unwanted metal and there's a reasonable chance I'll eventually find somewhere for it.
Especially in Hell.
Here you can see the ten individual painted images that I created to sit around the ditches. The copper might provide the architecture of Hell, but these paintings populate it, allowing me to bring the figures, punishments and narrative of the Eighth Circle back into the structure.
Of course, I then needed to work out how to attach them.
The solution came partly from something that might otherwise have ended up as scrap.
The metal artist in Waihi had a collection of metal spikes left over as offcuts that he no longer wanted, so he donated them to me. They turned out to be absolutely perfect for what I needed.
His unwanted metal fitted beautifully into Hell.
The paintings could be positioned around the copper ditches using the spikes, becoming part of the three-dimensional landscape rather than simply sitting alongside it.
Like so many parts of this sculpture, the system would continue to evolve. When Dante's Inferno eventually arrived in Wales, I developed a more complex fixing system to hold the paintings securely and stop them wiggling around.
That's another reality of making something like this: finished doesn't always mean never touched again. Once a sculpture has been assembled, moved, transported across the world and lived with, I can see where something needs improving — and I'll improve it.
Nothing is wasted either. Give me an interesting piece of unwanted metal and there's a reasonable chance I'll eventually find somewhere for it.
Especially in Hell.
Building Hell on a Piece of Church Organ
With the centre of Hell taking shape, I could turn my attention back to the seven surrounding plinths.
Here I'm arranging the wooden bases that would eventually carry the other stages of Dante's descent. All of this wood was donated to me, but its previous life makes it particularly wonderful.
It came from a church organ.
I couldn't resist the irony of that.
Wood that had once formed part of an instrument designed to fill a church with music was now being cut up and reconstructed to help me build Hell.
The plinths needed to be strong. I biscuit-jointed the timber together, then inlaid metal bars underneath to reinforce the bases and give them the structural support they needed.
From there, I needed a way of holding the layered steel paintings above them. For that I used hand-beaten steel rods, shaped and attached to the wooden bases so the paintings could be positioned as part of each three-dimensional scene.
Again, nothing was simply a stand. The plinth, supports and paintings all had to work together as one sculptural object.
And I rather love knowing what's underneath it all.
Dante's journey through Hell is quite literally supported by an old church organ.
Sometimes materials arrive with their own stories.
This one arrived with a sense of humour.
Here I'm arranging the wooden bases that would eventually carry the other stages of Dante's descent. All of this wood was donated to me, but its previous life makes it particularly wonderful.
It came from a church organ.
I couldn't resist the irony of that.
Wood that had once formed part of an instrument designed to fill a church with music was now being cut up and reconstructed to help me build Hell.
The plinths needed to be strong. I biscuit-jointed the timber together, then inlaid metal bars underneath to reinforce the bases and give them the structural support they needed.
From there, I needed a way of holding the layered steel paintings above them. For that I used hand-beaten steel rods, shaped and attached to the wooden bases so the paintings could be positioned as part of each three-dimensional scene.
Again, nothing was simply a stand. The plinth, supports and paintings all had to work together as one sculptural object.
And I rather love knowing what's underneath it all.
Dante's journey through Hell is quite literally supported by an old church organ.
Sometimes materials arrive with their own stories.
This one arrived with a sense of humour.
A Path Through Hell
I didn't want the plinths simply to support the paintings. Each plinth needed to tell part of the story too.
So every wooden base has its own unique carving, designed around the particular stage of Dante's journey it represents. Even beneath the paintings, there are details to discover.
I also created these little copper stepping stones.
They represent the journey itself.
The stones begin at the bottom and gradually make their way through the individual pieces, creating a pathway that leads Dante — and the viewer — from one stage of Hell to the next.
I liked the idea of having this small visual thread running through the entire collection. The sculptures may be separate physical pieces, but Dante's journey never stops. One circle leads to another, and the stepping stones quietly carry you onwards.
It's also typical of the way I like to construct narrative artwork. If there's a surface available, I don't really see it as somewhere to put the sculpture.
I see another opportunity to tell the story.
So the plinths became part of Hell too — carved with their own imagery and connected by a little copper pathway descending ever deeper towards the centre.
So every wooden base has its own unique carving, designed around the particular stage of Dante's journey it represents. Even beneath the paintings, there are details to discover.
I also created these little copper stepping stones.
They represent the journey itself.
The stones begin at the bottom and gradually make their way through the individual pieces, creating a pathway that leads Dante — and the viewer — from one stage of Hell to the next.
I liked the idea of having this small visual thread running through the entire collection. The sculptures may be separate physical pieces, but Dante's journey never stops. One circle leads to another, and the stepping stones quietly carry you onwards.
It's also typical of the way I like to construct narrative artwork. If there's a surface available, I don't really see it as somewhere to put the sculpture.
I see another opportunity to tell the story.
So the plinths became part of Hell too — carved with their own imagery and connected by a little copper pathway descending ever deeper towards the centre.
Recruiting a Husband for Hell
When you need bodies for Hell, sometimes you don't have to look very far.
Here is my husband Pat, upside down with his legs in the air, posing for one of the ten paintings that would eventually sit around the ditches of the Eighth Circle.
I needed a reference for one of the wonderfully strange punishments where the souls are buried headfirst in holes with only their legs and feet protruding. Rather than trying to invent the position, I wanted to see what a real body actually did when turned upside down.
So Pat was recruited.
This is quite typical of how I work. If I need an unusual pose, I'll find a willing victim — husband, friend, gym member or, as you'll discover shortly, an entire naturist community — and photograph the body in the position I need.
It gives me things imagination alone doesn't: the way the weight shifts, how the limbs fall, where clothing or skin creases and all those little anatomical details that make an otherwise impossible scene feel believable.
And Pat has been dragged into my artwork on more than one occasion.
On this particular day, his contribution to art was simply to put his legs in the air and become a soul in Hell.
Here is my husband Pat, upside down with his legs in the air, posing for one of the ten paintings that would eventually sit around the ditches of the Eighth Circle.
I needed a reference for one of the wonderfully strange punishments where the souls are buried headfirst in holes with only their legs and feet protruding. Rather than trying to invent the position, I wanted to see what a real body actually did when turned upside down.
So Pat was recruited.
This is quite typical of how I work. If I need an unusual pose, I'll find a willing victim — husband, friend, gym member or, as you'll discover shortly, an entire naturist community — and photograph the body in the position I need.
It gives me things imagination alone doesn't: the way the weight shifts, how the limbs fall, where clothing or skin creases and all those little anatomical details that make an otherwise impossible scene feel believable.
And Pat has been dragged into my artwork on more than one occasion.
On this particular day, his contribution to art was simply to put his legs in the air and become a soul in Hell.
When I Can't See It in My Head
Some of Dante's imagery was relatively straightforward to translate into a drawing. Other parts were much harder.
This wheel of human bodies was one of them.
I have aphantasia, which means I can't simply close my eyes and visualise a complicated arrangement like this in my mind. I can understand what I want to create, but when several bodies have to twist, overlap and interact in an unusual way, I sometimes need something physical in front of me before I can work out how it all fits together.
So out came those silly little plastic action-pose figures.
I physically arranged them into the strange wheel of bodies I needed, moving arms, legs and torsos around until the composition began to make sense. Once I had something tangible in front of me, I could study the relationships between the figures and translate that structure into my drawing and eventually the painting.
It's one of the practical ways I've learnt to work with aphantasia rather than against it. If I can't visualise something, I build myself something I can see.
And Dante gave me plenty of occasions when that was necessary.
Hell is full of bodies doing things that bodies don't normally do, so sometimes a handful of ridiculous little plastic people became an unexpectedly useful part of creating it.
This wheel of human bodies was one of them.
I have aphantasia, which means I can't simply close my eyes and visualise a complicated arrangement like this in my mind. I can understand what I want to create, but when several bodies have to twist, overlap and interact in an unusual way, I sometimes need something physical in front of me before I can work out how it all fits together.
So out came those silly little plastic action-pose figures.
I physically arranged them into the strange wheel of bodies I needed, moving arms, legs and torsos around until the composition began to make sense. Once I had something tangible in front of me, I could study the relationships between the figures and translate that structure into my drawing and eventually the painting.
It's one of the practical ways I've learnt to work with aphantasia rather than against it. If I can't visualise something, I build myself something I can see.
And Dante gave me plenty of occasions when that was necessary.
Hell is full of bodies doing things that bodies don't normally do, so sometimes a handful of ridiculous little plastic people became an unexpectedly useful part of creating it.
Cats Have No Respect for Art
And then there was Obe.
Obe was our very loveable cat in New Zealand, named after Oberon, King of the Fairies — not Star Wars, I might add.
Here he is sitting quite comfortably on one of my paintings while I was working on Dante's Inferno, demonstrating something every artist who owns a cat eventually discovers:
Cats have absolutely no respect for what you're doing.
It didn't matter how many hours I'd spent planning, preparing steel, painting figures or constructing Hell. If Obe decided that a particular piece of artwork looked like a comfortable place to sit, then apparently that was what it was for.
I rather like photographs like this amongst all the serious construction images. These enormous pieces weren't created in some pristine artist's studio. They were made in the middle of ordinary life, with family members being recruited as models, materials taking over the garage and a cat occasionally deciding that Hell belonged to him.
Given that he was named after the King of the Fairies, perhaps I should have expected a certain amount of entitlement.
Obe was our very loveable cat in New Zealand, named after Oberon, King of the Fairies — not Star Wars, I might add.
Here he is sitting quite comfortably on one of my paintings while I was working on Dante's Inferno, demonstrating something every artist who owns a cat eventually discovers:
Cats have absolutely no respect for what you're doing.
It didn't matter how many hours I'd spent planning, preparing steel, painting figures or constructing Hell. If Obe decided that a particular piece of artwork looked like a comfortable place to sit, then apparently that was what it was for.
I rather like photographs like this amongst all the serious construction images. These enormous pieces weren't created in some pristine artist's studio. They were made in the middle of ordinary life, with family members being recruited as models, materials taking over the garage and a cat occasionally deciding that Hell belonged to him.
Given that he was named after the King of the Fairies, perhaps I should have expected a certain amount of entitlement.
Orchestrating the Descent
And here it is.
All of Hell together.
Seeing the individual pieces assembled reveals something that isn't nearly as obvious when they're viewed separately: the height of the plinths is part of the narrative.
As Dante travels deeper into Hell, each plinth gradually rises higher than the one before it. The journey becomes more intense, the punishments more disturbing and the physical sculpture itself builds with them, until everything reaches its great crescendo at the Eighth Circle and that enormous copper structure.
Then something changes.
From the Eighth Circle, the journey descends into the Ninth, dropping towards the very centre of Hell and Lucifer himself.
That rise and fall was deliberate.
I wanted the entire installation to have a rhythm, almost like a piece of music. Each sculpture adds another layer, another circle, another degree of intensity. The scale builds and builds until the Eighth Circle becomes the visual crescendo — and then we fall.
In many ways, I orchestrated Hell.
The paintings, carved plinths, copper stepping stones, steel supports and changing heights all guide you through the same journey. Even when someone doesn't consciously notice why one piece sits higher than another, I wanted them to feel that escalation as their eye travels towards the centre.
After all the notes, sketches, steel, rust, oil paint, wood, carvings, models, failed experiments, specialist metalwork, three sheets of copper, more than 3,000 rivets — and one clay abomination buried in the garden — the thing I'd originally encountered as words on a page was finally standing in front of me.
I had built Hell.
All of Hell together.
Seeing the individual pieces assembled reveals something that isn't nearly as obvious when they're viewed separately: the height of the plinths is part of the narrative.
As Dante travels deeper into Hell, each plinth gradually rises higher than the one before it. The journey becomes more intense, the punishments more disturbing and the physical sculpture itself builds with them, until everything reaches its great crescendo at the Eighth Circle and that enormous copper structure.
Then something changes.
From the Eighth Circle, the journey descends into the Ninth, dropping towards the very centre of Hell and Lucifer himself.
That rise and fall was deliberate.
I wanted the entire installation to have a rhythm, almost like a piece of music. Each sculpture adds another layer, another circle, another degree of intensity. The scale builds and builds until the Eighth Circle becomes the visual crescendo — and then we fall.
In many ways, I orchestrated Hell.
The paintings, carved plinths, copper stepping stones, steel supports and changing heights all guide you through the same journey. Even when someone doesn't consciously notice why one piece sits higher than another, I wanted them to feel that escalation as their eye travels towards the centre.
After all the notes, sketches, steel, rust, oil paint, wood, carvings, models, failed experiments, specialist metalwork, three sheets of copper, more than 3,000 rivets — and one clay abomination buried in the garden — the thing I'd originally encountered as words on a page was finally standing in front of me.
I had built Hell.
But Where Did All Those Souls Come From?
There was one part of building Hell that couldn't be made from copper, steel or wood.
I needed people.
Lots of them.
I wanted the bodies throughout the paintings to feel real. Dante's Hell is filled with souls twisting, falling, fighting and suffering in some very strange positions, and I didn't want to simply guess what a human body would look like.
A few willing volunteers from my local gym posed for me, which gave me a good start.
But I needed considerably more souls.
So I contacted a naturist community in Tauranga and explained that I was creating Dante's Inferno and needed people willing to pose for the paintings.
To my delight, they agreed.
I arrived at their campsite to find everyone sitting around quite happily in hats and jandals. I'd brought wine and beer as a thank-you, and what followed was one of the more unusual afternoons of reference gathering I've ever had.
I had people posing in all sorts of positions and scenarios for me to photograph. One gentleman really threw himself into the role and started jumping off boxes so I could capture the human body in motion.
It was enormous fun.
They were a lovely bunch of people who completely entered into the spirit of what I was trying to create. By the end of the afternoon, they even invited me to stay.
I didn't.
But I did leave with something extremely useful.
Souls for Hell.
Many of the bodies you see scattered throughout my Dante's Inferno paintings therefore began with real people who generously twisted, contorted, crouched, leapt and generally did their very best impression of the damned for my camera one afternoon in Tauranga.
A lovely bunch of people.
They contributed remarkably well to Hell.
Hell Was Built. Now Come Inside.
Building Dante's Inferno was one thing.
Understanding everything I put into it is another.
Every creature, punishment, carving, figure and strange little detail came from somewhere. Some were drawn directly from Dante's extraordinary descriptions; others developed as I interpreted his world through my own imagination and worked out how to turn it into something physical.
You've now seen how I built Hell.
Next, I want to show you why it looks the way it does.
In my Artist Journal, we'll begin with Dante before the Gates of Hell and follow him and Virgil through the descent, circle by circle. We'll meet the creatures, sinners and monsters along the way, explore the punishments and symbolism, and eventually descend through those great copper ditches towards Lucifer at the very centre.
And I'll show you the details you might otherwise walk straight past.
Because with my work, seeing it is only half the story.
READ THE ART
The Artist Journals
Now descend into the artwork itself.
Follow Dante and Virgil through the Gates of Hell and down through the nine circles as I unravel the creatures, punishments, symbolism and tiny details hidden throughout the work — all the way to Lucifer at the centre.
BEGIN THE DESCENT →
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