The Sculptor is a story which arose out of my own morbid fascination with medical waxworks. Many times I have stood in front of a statue in a museum and wondered who exactly I was looking at. When models in art aren't named we can imagine them as the artist’s loved one, but when I learned about these anatomical sculptures, which are carved with just as much detail and skill but serve a much more bloody purpose, I wondered who they could possibly be modelled after. As I am often reminded when I see pieces of my work brought to life on stage, a piece of art can frequently reveal more about the artist than it does the subject. When I was writing this play, I thought about what it means to capture your own passions in the likeness of someone else, and how the two of you suffer in the process - the artist from extracting their own demons and mangling them beyond recognition, and the subject from having their own identity hollowed out to make way for the artist’s baggage. Making art can be selfish, and self-serving, and ultimately devastating - once this essential piece of yourself is out in the world, there is no telling what people might do with it, and there is no telling whether they will pay all that much attention to where it came from. Throughout history women have made art and delivered it into the world uncredited, knowing that they won’t be recognised in their time and knowing that they have to do it anyway. The Sculptor gets at the heart of every artist’s ugly desire for recognition and perfection, and at the subject’s vital need to make their own voice heard before the artist seals them away in the work.