Lost in space | 19 November 2015

In a converted barn in Dorset, not far from the rural studio where she made many of her greatest sculptures, Elisabeth Frink’s son Lin is showing me his incredible collection of his mother’s work. More than 20 years since his mother died, he’s kept the vast bulk of it together. ‘I owe it to mum,’ he tells me. ‘I’ve been very close to her.’ We’re surrounded by maquettes and plaster casts — shelves and shelves of them. Enormous figures loom over us, like Easter Island statues. Drawings and paintings (many never before seen in public) are stacked against the walls. There’s a bust of Alec Guinness — a portrayal of immense power and clarity — and several busts of Frink herself, a robust and handsome woman as forceful as the primeval figures in her sculptures. With her square jaw and severe gaze, she looks like an ancient warrior. ‘Her work is so strong,’ says Lin.