From a converted 18th-century farmhouse in the green folds of Fartha, County Cork, Joseph Walsh has built one of the most quietly radical practices in contemporary design. A maker without formal training, he mastered woodworking by instinct, observation, visits to master makers across Europe and relentless experimentation, developing his own language of flowing, sculptural forms that seem to exist between nature, tradition and innovation. In his hands, wood is not a static material but a living medium—one that can be coaxed, bent and liberated into motion. Over three decades, his work has evolved from handmade furniture to large-scale installations and architectural interventions, each pushing the limits of what craft can express.
Walsh’s approach—poetic yet fiercely technical—redefines the relationship between maker, material and time. His signature technique of layering and laminating multiple thin veneers allows him to achieve curves of remarkable fluidity and strength, transforming rigid timber into sinuous, almost weightless forms that defy convention while retaining a sense of humility and touch. His latest monumental sculpture, “Magnus RINN”, embodies this synthesis. Originally commissioned for the Ireland Pavilion at Expo 2025 Osaka, the sweeping gilded bronze-and-oak work has found a new spiritual home at Kyoto’s Chion-in Temple, where it will remain for a year, resonating with the Japanese reverence for craft, nature and impermanence.
Representation by Tokyo gallery A Lighthouse called Kanata has extended Walsh’s reach in Asia, with presentations at West Bund Art & Design in Shanghai until November 16 and Art SG art fair in Singapore in January 2026. Closer to home, he is preparing an ambitious new 10.5-meter-tall outdoor sculpture for Adare Manor in Ireland, due to be unveiled in 2027 when it hosts the Ryder Cup, and a prototype for a “maker’s house”—a contemporary dwelling that embodies his philosophy of living and creating as one continuous act of making. Rooted in Cork yet global in vision, he continues to shape not only wood but the very idea of what it means to make. I sit down with him to discuss his beginnings and developing his voice.
What was it like growing up in rural Cork, and how did that shape your approach to making?
I grew up on a farm and I think I was lucky to see a world where people still just made things—that was just a normal thing to do. Ireland didn’t have an Industrial Age like Britain, so people still worked with the seasons, fixed things, made things. For us, when we were young, it was a luxury to buy something—the normal thing was to make it, and it wasn’t intimidating to make something. My mom was from Dublin, and when she came to the countryside, she made an extra effort to create a quality of life here. She had a vegetable garden, a cow dedicated to the house and she kept connections with craftspeople—a cobbler made all our schoolbags. We thought they were terribly unfashionable at the time, but she was holding on to something important. That world really shaped me.
Do you remember the first piece you made?
My grandfather gave me a fret saw when I was eight, and I used to spend hours cutting out little figures. The first real piece of furniture I made was a dresser when I was 12. My mum brought me to the timber yard, and we picked out the wood together. I went through her books on vernacular Irish furniture, picked details I liked, and combined them into my own version. Of course, I didn’t realize at the time that I’d mixed details from different provinces, which was sacrilegious in the tradition—but it gave me the sense that you could take what’s around you and transform it. It was an incredible feeling. Doing that young enough, succeeding at putting something together—it’s empowering and humbling all at once.
What was the work that made people take notice of you?
The Figure of Six chair was a big step. I had the idea of making a chair from a single plank of wood—cut it in half, slice it into layers, bend it into a configuration like a six, then triangulate it. I proposed it for a competition for the Irish Forestry Board, but the judges said a chair should have four legs and arms, so they dismissed it. But that piece led me to meet people who were excited by what I was trying to do. It pushed me to keep developing the idea, to build a vocabulary with bent wood. That was the beginning of a new language for me.
The curve has become a defining element of your work. Where does that come from?
There was a period when I became very focused on sharp, geometric forms. It was interesting for a while, but it started to feel too academic. The curves came back naturally—they’re simply the most natural thing to do. Nature is full of them. For me, it’s about balance and rhythm. The Enignum works came from that idea of freeing the material, of letting it move. Every piece is an exploration of how to release the natural energy that’s already in the wood.
Wood is central to your practice. What draws you so strongly to this material?
When I was young, wood was simply the material that was accessible, and I was allowed to use woodworking tools. By my late teens, I’d become competent—certainly not great—but able to make things. When I was 15, a neighbor gave me a gift of trees from his farm. He walked me across the land and said he’d known these trees all his life. They’d grown slowly because the soil was poor, and he told me the tight grain would make great furniture. That wood was like treasure to me. I knew each tree, each plank, because I was working on my own as a kid. Looking back, I’ve never had wood like it since, and it’s hard to replace that kind of profound early relationship with a material. We’ve expanded into other materials over the years, taking the approach we developed with wood into bronze, stone, marble—whatever feels right for the research and exploration. But nothing replaces the experience you have so young. And of course, I’ve built the studio’s infrastructure and core competencies around that primary material. Wood is wonderfully practical, natural, sustainable, lightweight. Other materials can be interesting in the right context, but wood remains incredible.
Time seems to play a big role in how you think about making.
People often say time is money, but for me, time is a free ingredient. If you let timber dry longer, it becomes better—and it costs nothing but patience. The more pressure you put on to shorten time, the more compromised the work becomes. The best projects take years. Sometimes you need to stop, let something sit and come back with fresh eyes. We even buy timber five to eight years ahead—the wood we’re buying now won’t be used until 2030. I think that’s what making really teaches you: patience, humility and respect for time.
What keeps you inspired after all these years of making?
I’m still fascinated by the act of making itself. Everyone has had that experience, even as a child, of creating something—and it’s a universal human experience. But making also shows us what human capability looks like at its best. When it’s done with purpose, with thought and with care, it becomes more than an object—it becomes a reflection of time, of hand and of spirit. That’s what keeps me going.