Beyond the Walls: Richard Hunt’s First European Retrospective at White Cube

With “Metamorphosis – A Retrospective,” White Cube Bermondsey presents the first major European exhibition and posthumous survey dedicated to the visionary American sculptor Richard Hunt (1935–2023),on view through June 29. Spanning nearly seventy years of practice, the exhibition offers an unprecedented opportunity to encounter Hunt’s lyrical, welded sculptures—works that arc, ascend, and breathe with the tension of history, resistance, and transformation.

Hunt occupies a foundational place within the canon of postwar American sculpture. Over the course of his prolific career, he produced more than 160 public commissions—more than any artist in U.S. history—integrating modernist abstraction into civic space on an unparalleled scale. His works are held in over 125 institutional collections, including the Museum of Modern Art, where he became, in 1971, the first African American sculptor to receive a solo retrospective. Rooted in the legacy of welded sculpture pioneered by Julio González and David Smith, Hunt developed a singular sculptural language that fused biomorphic abstraction, constructivist syntax, and gestural form, while addressing the political and spiritual dimensions of the African American experience.

A Curatorial Vision Shaped by Sukanya Rajaratnam

At the heart of the exhibition is a curatorial vision shaped by Sukanya Rajaratnam, in close dialogue with the wider White Cube team and Hunt’s estate. Rajaratnam, who knew Hunt personally during the final years of his life, brings a unique understanding of the artist’s character and convictions. Her approach to the retrospective is quiet yet profound—designed to let Hunt’s voice speak through the works themselves.

In the following conversation, we explore the poetics of material, the weight of historical memory, and the enduring presence of Hunt’s legacy. From Hero’s Head (1956), a welded tribute to Emmett Till, to Reaching Up (2022), a bronze form aspiring heavenward, Rajaratnam reflects on the arc of an artist whose practice redefined the possibilities of American sculpture—rooted in classical lineage, African diasporic aesthetics, and a lifelong pursuit of spiritual and civic freedom.

WHITEWALL: I was truly moved by your tour of the exhibition and the depth of your insights. The way you shaped the space was extraordinary—completely immersive of Richard’s practice. He’s such a seminal figure, especially with his 1971 MoMA retrospective as the first African American artist to receive that honor.

My first question is about your curatorial vision: In organizing “Metamorphosis – A Retrospective,” how did you select works that reflect Hunt’s range—technically, thematically, and spiritually—across such a transformative career?

SUKANYA RAJARATNAM: There were a few things I was considering—and I’d actually like to begin with a poem by Mary Oliver. Do you know her? One of your later questions made me think of her poem Praying, which ends: “This is a doorway into thanks, and a silence in which another voice may speak.”

PRAYING
It doesn’t have to be the blue iris
it could be weeds in a vacant lot
or a few small stones
just pay attention,
then patch a few words together and don’t try to make them elaborate
this isn’t a contest
but the doorway into thanks
and a silence in which another voice may speak.

When I was curating the show, I wanted my voice to be silent—so that Richard’s voice could emerge, however it chose to. That was what I hoped people would hear. I began with a large selection and gradually pared it down so that, even in a more minimal version, you could feel Richard’s presence.

There were two key criteria. I wanted the exhibition to span seventy years, from 1955 to 2023, and I wanted it to feel poetic—both in how visitors moved through the space and in how the works spoke to one another.

Those sculptural bases form pathways around the works. But ultimately, it couldn’t feel overwhelming. Richard was a quiet, delicate person, yet his presence was unmistakable. I wanted that feeling to permeate the exhibition. And I think it’s there.

“Richard was a quiet, delicate person, yet his presence was unmistakable,”

Sukanya Rajaratnam

WW: I completely agree. The show holds a remarkable atmosphere—elegant, contemplative, and full of presence. There’s a spiritual dimension to the work that feels both ephemeral and eternal. As you move from room to room, the different phases of his career unfold like inner landscapes.

SR: I structured the show roughly chronologically, but also by material. I wanted it to feel like a journey—so that walking through it meant walking through Richard’s life. But it had to remain intuitive, never didactic. He was a poetic soul, and I wanted the exhibition to carry that energy.

The Personal and Artistic Narrative of Richard Hunt

WW: I believe you captured that beautifully. Who was Richard Hunt to you?

SR: He was deeply rooted. He studied literature, classics, music. He hosted concerts in his studio. He was passionate about all art forms. And he had a rare quality: a deep sense of goodness. That’s hard to articulate—but he had it. And I wanted that to come through in the show.

WW: Hunt often drew on mythological, historical, and personal narratives. How do you see these threads interacting in works like Hero’s Head and Reaching Up? And how did you frame these pieces within the exhibition’s narrative?

SR: They’re almost bookends of his career. Hero’s Head is from 1956—one of his earliest works. Reaching Up is from 2023. Hero’s Head responds to the murder of Emmett Till—a young boy tortured and shot. Reaching Up is about the branches of a tree stretching toward the heavens. It’s a metaphor for the African American journey toward freedom.

Those two works chart a powerful arc—from trauma to transcendence. Richard famously said, “I’m an artist who happens to be Black. I’m not a Black artist.” He didn’t mean to reject his identity, but to express that his pursuit of freedom was universal. He cared deeply about global injustice—apartheid, oppression, displacement. His work speaks to all of it.

“He cared deeply about global injustice—apartheid, oppression, displacement,”

Sukanya Rajaratnam

WW: It’s clear he approached narrative on a universal level. Given Hunt’s foundational role in public sculpture and his engagement with African American histories, how did you consider the cultural and political resonance of his work for European audiences—especially those encountering it for the first time?

SR: That was a challenge. Many in Europe don’t know who Emmett Till was. And Hero’s Head is about that pivotal moment that ignited the Civil Rights Movement.

This was the first time White Cube included a chronology wall. It was important to me that visitors understood the historical backdrop, so they could read the works within that context. Richard was unique—his political consciousness and artistic mastery met at that moment.

He was nineteen when Till was murdered. Until then, he was experimenting—making elegant wire sculptures. But after Till’s death, the first major work he created was Hero’s Head. It’s so assured—his own version of Guernica, which he had seen as a student.

You simply can’t separate his work from the politics of its time. European audiences needed that framework. That’s why we placed that wall text—to help deepen their experience.

WW: Absolutely. With over 160 public sculptures in the U.S., his legacy is monumental. Yet his presence in Europe is still emerging. This exhibition powerfully introduces that global relevance.

SR: One thing I want to stress: Richard’s work is deeply connected to European traditions—Greco-Roman and twentieth-century modernism. His welding language comes directly from González and Picasso. He was studying them—just as he looked at Giacometti, Fausto Melotti, and others. His practice was never isolated from European sculpture—it’s in constant dialogue with it.

WW: Thank you. I also recall during the tour you mentioned that Hunt began sculpting at a very young age, and that his mother was particularly supportive. Could you speak to that early context?

SR: He started sculpting as a child. His mother was a librarian—one of the reasons he was so well-read. She loved opera and took him to performances. She loved dance. She exposed him to a great deal and had a natural affinity for the arts.

Richard showed talent early—he was under ten when he began making clay figures. At thirteen, he won a scholarship to the Junior School of the Art Institute of Chicago. Later, he received another scholarship to the full Art Institute, where he spent eight or nine years. His father was a barber and allowed Richard to use the basement as his studio. I think both parents understood early on that their son was a prodigy—and they supported him.

The Curator’s Journey in Shaping the Artist’s Legacy

WW: That’s a powerful foundation—and it offers important context for readers. Was there a particularly surprising or poignant moment for you while preparing this exhibition—perhaps something that surfaced during your research or while reflecting on Hunt’s legacy after his passing?

SR: I had already done most of the curatorial work, but Hero’s Head wasn’t initially included. It was on loan to the Abraham Lincoln Presidential Library and Museum in Springfield, Illinois. We’d shown it in New York, so I thought, “Okay, we’ll do without it.”

But a few weeks before the opening, I kept thinking about the layout. I called the estate and said, “I think we made a mistake. We need this piece.” It was my decision—I felt strongly about it.

They spoke to the museum, and we arranged to have it hand-carried. It didn’t travel with the other works—it flew in a suitcase. It arrived on a Tuesday, and the press opening was Wednesday.

Then came the challenge of where to place it. It was small—easily lost among the early works. And then I had this idea, which Jay loved: we could position it at the end of the corridor, so visitors would approach it the way people approached Emmett Till’s coffin. His mother insisted on an open casket so the world could see what had been done to him. Over 100,000 people filed through the church to bear witness.

I thought we could evoke a similarly solemn gesture. Visitors would read the chronology wall, then walk the full length of the corridor to reach this small, luminous work. All of that was unfolding in my mind even as we were arranging to get it to London.

And when I saw it in place—I got goosebumps. From the entrance, you don’t quite know what it is. But it gleams. We lit it deliberately. Your eye is drawn toward it. And when you finally arrive—whether or not you know the full story—it’s a profoundly moving piece. The misshapen face, the hole in the back of the skull where the bullet entered… it’s unbelievably powerful.

You can plan everything in your head, but there’s nothing like seeing it realized. It was absolutely the right decision. Even though it was a last-minute scramble—it was worth it. We couldn’t have told the story without it.

“You can plan everything in your head, but there’s nothing like seeing it realized,”

Sukanya Rajaratnam

WW: I agree—it’s the most powerful piece in the exhibition. The symbolism, the placement, the material presence. It touches something deep—you feel as if you might have known him. And with that work anchoring the narrative, everything else in the show resonates differently. Hunt’s practice bridges so many traditions—European, yes, but also Dogon art, right?

SR: Yes, absolutely. He drew on Dogon art as well. It’s extraordinary how he moves between eras and geographies. It feels profoundly relevant—especially now.

WW: In what ways do you hope “Metamorphosis – A Retrospective” will shape the understanding of Richard Hunt’s legacy for new audiences—particularly younger artists and curators, both within and beyond the institutional art world?

SR: If we were to take a linear view of art history—which, of course, is no longer the prevailing lens, but for the sake of clarity—you’d begin with González and Picasso in the late 1920s exploring welded sculpture. Then, in postwar America, David Smith made it distinctly his own in the late 1940s. And by the end of that decade, Richard Hunt enters the story—picking up that tradition and evolving it.

With González, Picasso, and Smith, each is grounded in the physicality of their materials. That’s not a critique—they were revolutionary. But there’s a kind of weight, a static quality. David Smith’s works, for instance, are often planar and structurally anchored. They don’t suggest motion.

Richard, by contrast, had a rare technical virtuosity. He could bend metal like Vulcan at the forge—creating sculptures that move, lift, arc. They’re like drawings in space—calligraphic, fluid. There’s velocity in them. Lightness.

“Richard, by contrast, had a rare technical virtuosity,”

Sukanya Rajaratnam

That’s what I hope people will begin to see: that Hunt is the next chapter in that lineage of welded sculpture. He belongs squarely in that narrative. Institutions like MoMA have long presented a canonized view of sculpture—he’s not in it yet. But he should be.

Even in the U.S., that integration hasn’t fully happened. His early works resonate with Abstract Expressionism—the line, the gesture—it’s akin to surrealist drawing. Think Pollock’s drips, de Kooning’s brushstrokes. Richard understood that language and transposed it into sculpture.

When the Royal Academy mounted its 2016 Abstract Expressionism exhibition, only one sculptor was included: David Smith. In future shows like that, I hope we’ll see more voices included. Richard should absolutely be among them.

WW: I completely agree. His practice is visionary, and his legacy deserves to be fully acknowledged.

SR: It may take time. But I hope this show helps lay the groundwork—for audiences and institutions to see the whole of him, and to place him firmly within twentieth-century art history.

WW: I found the timeline at the start of the exhibition so powerful. It offers vital historical context—and invites the viewer to ask why Hunt hasn’t already been written into the chronology of modern and contemporary sculpture. Thank you again. I know how busy you are, and I’m deeply grateful for your time.

SR: You may want to revisit that Mary Oliver poem I mentioned—it’s called Praying.

WW: Thank you. It’s a beautiful poem.

SR: I’ve known it for a long time, but when I was thinking through this show, that’s the one that stayed with me.

WW: I remember you also mentioned that you knew Richard personally. May I ask—how long did you know him?

SR: A collector—now a close friend—Pamela Joyner introduced me to him after COVID. She’s on the board of SFMOMA and MoMA, and she’s been a leading voice in collecting African American art long before it was widely recognized.

Pamela and I had a great deal of overlap with artists. She took me to Richard’s studio, and from that point I began visiting—with a show already in mind. It took a while to bring together, but I knew from the start. That was around two to three years before he passed.

WW: Your understanding of him is so intimate—something no one could access without knowing him personally. It’s moving to see how you’ve given voice to his legacy.

SR: That was always the goal—to make space for his voice. I hope that’s what people experience in the exhibition.

“That was always the goal—to make space for his voice,”

Sukanya Rajaratnam