What does it mean to belong to space; and to be shaped by it?

For Yasmin Watts, this question anchors a practice that moves between sculpture, architecture and memory. She builds from the human impulse to dwell; to find form that reflects feeling and space that carries silence.

Her interest lies in how we inhabit environments; not just physically, but emotionally. Sculptures begin as micro-gestures: folded paper, torn edges, delicate structures built from cardboard or thread. These small beginnings grow into spaces that hold the unspeakable—grief, tenderness, longing.

Watts’ Zoroastrian roots and diasporic lineage shape the pulse of her work. This is not biography rendered literal, but inheritance made spatial—fire, dust, duality, resilience. Her figures lean and turn with restraint. They listen. They recall.

I was born from fire. Zoroastrian fire.
A memory of fire. A flame passed down.
Palm to palm. Mouth to mouth.
Still burning. I hold it.

Foot to stone. Stone to water.
I sway. I cross.
I miss. I land.
I keep moving.

She speaks in form: not grand symbols, but fragments, surfaces that breathe, edges that wait. Her installations resist dominance. They invite reflection. They build quiet worlds from tension and care.

Influences like Isamu Noguchi and Louise Nevelson echo in her approach—form as poetics, surface as memory, space as feeling. But her language is her own: drawn from contradiction, shaped by rhythm.

Through sculpture, Watts makes space not to display, but to dwell. She builds what the body knows—then forgets—then finds again.