What makes Ewing's work especially compelling is that collecting driftwood is as much a part of the artwork as assembling it. Long before a sculpture reaches the studio, countless hours have already been spent hiking remote beaches, studying tides, searching forests, and carrying home hundreds of pounds of naturally fallen wood. To better understand the philosophy behind his extraordinary creations, we asked Bennett to share more about the process, the challenges, and the ideas that continue to shape his work.
Although driftwood may seem like an inexpensive material, Ewing says that assumption couldn't be further from reality. "People think the materials are free," he explained in the interview with Bored Panda, "but free isn't always free." What begins as a day of beachcombing often becomes hours of driving, hiking, organizing, transporting, and storing wood before a single sculpture can even begin. He estimates spending several days each week searching for materials, viewing every expedition as an investment in future possibilities rather than an immediate artwork.
That relationship with nature has shaped not only Ewing's artistic process but also his environmental values. Since studying at Prescott College in Arizona, the artist has followed a strict "leave no trace" philosophy, collecting only naturally fallen or weathered wood rather than cutting living trees. He sees himself less as someone who reshapes nature than as someone collaborating with it. "I like to think of my work as personifications of nature itself," Ewing said, hoping that giving forests and coastlines human expressions might encourage viewers to feel a deeper connection with, and responsibility toward, the natural world.
Perhaps the most unusual aspect of his process is that Ewing rarely begins with a finished image in mind. Instead, each sculpture develops organically as different pieces of driftwood suggest unexpected connections. He compares the experience to improvising jazz or following the movement of an Ouija board, never fully controlling the outcome, but trusting instinct to reveal it. "I let the wood guide me instinctively," the artist explained. "When it feels right, I know the move ought to be permanent."
Even naming a sculpture follows a similar philosophy. Rather than deciding on titles in advance, Ewing waits until a piece is nearly complete before what he describes as the right name simply "comes through" him. Sometimes several possibilities compete for attention before one finally feels inevitable. He even jokes that many sculptures have a hidden "secret name," a runner-up title that remains personally meaningful even if another is ultimately chosen for exhibition.
For the artist, every weathered branch carries more than interesting texture, it carries history. Pieces shaped by tides, storms, insects, and time become the foundation for faces that seem ancient yet familiar, blurring the line between portrait, landscape, and myth. By allowing nature to remain visible in every sculpture instead of disguising it, his work invites viewers to look at driftwood not as debris washed ashore, but as the beginning of an entirely new story.
