Vale Dion Horstmans

The Local Project’s James Lyall Smith pays tribute to the late Sydney artist Dion Horstmans.

There’s a quiet, aching irony in the life of an artist – that the work endures long after its maker is gone. However, in the case of Dion Horstmans, who passed away unexpectedly in February, aged 57, the sculptures he leaves behind feel like only a fragment of his legacy. It was Dion the man – magnetic, unfiltered, impossibly alive – who left the deepest impression on those who knew him.

Towering in stature, beard like a bolt of static, he greeted me with a grin that gave way to the kind of conversation you don’t forget.

I first met Dion in late 2020, arriving at his Leichhardt studio for what was meant to be a straightforward interview. What unfolded was anything but. Towering in stature, beard like a bolt of static, he greeted me with a grin that gave way to the kind of conversation you don’t forget. “Fuck the gallery system,” he said within minutes, the kind of throwaway line we both knew would never make print – and yet said everything. Then, without missing a beat, “I make expensive objects that people don’t need to hang on the walls of rich people’s houses.”

That candour, paired with a disarming warmth, made it clear: this wasn’t going to be a transactional relationship – we were going to be mates.

A twisted fragment of sea sponge sparked something – a quiet beginning to a lifelong devotion to form, shadow and steel.

Born between the waves of the Pacific and raised between the Cook Islands and New Zealand, Dion’s early life was defined by movement – a kinetic energy that never truly left him. By 18, he’d set off island-hopping across French Polynesia, living on fish, coconuts and the sheer thrill of exploration. What followed was a tapestry of experiences stitched together by instinct and curiosity: sailing the Australian coast, working club doors by night and sculpting by day, travelling through Papua New Guinea collecting artefacts, and eventually carving a place for himself in the booming film industry. For 12 years, he worked as a prop maker – a rigorous, fast-paced apprenticeship that would later become the foundation of his sculptural practice.

But it wasn’t until 1996, while walking a high-tide line with a newborn daughter at home, that Dion found the medium which would define him. A twisted fragment of sea sponge sparked something – a quiet beginning to a lifelong devotion to form, shadow and steel. His early works were roly-poly and figurative, evolving over time into the sharp, geometric silhouettes that cast mesmerising shadows across countless walls. Dion spoke often of the beauty in light’s absence – how the true power of a piece was found not in its materiality, but in the shifting ephemera left in its wake.

One of Dion’s most commanding public works, Supersonic, stands as a testament to his fascination with velocity, form and the interplay between structure and shadow.

For Dion, creativity wasn’t a pursuit – it was a state of being. He was up at dawn, swimming in the Pacific before most had stirred, then headed to the studio, where the sparks would fly, literally. His was a mind in constant motion – obsessive, vibrant, relentless. And yet beneath the bravado and physical intensity was a kind and thoughtful neighbour, a proud father and a man fuelled by community, connection and the simple, humbling privilege of making something with his hands.

One of Dion’s most commanding public works, Supersonic, stands as a testament to his fascination with velocity, form and the interplay between structure and shadow. Installed in Melbourne’s Collins Square precinct, the sculpture stretches an astonishing 80 metres – one-and-a-half Olympic swimming pools – and comprises more than 100 welded steel components. Painted in a vivid yellow, which Dion described as “the colour of speed,” the piece draws inspiration from the explosive force of an F-18 jet breaking the sound barrier.

In the months since Dion’s passing, many have shared memories of the man he was – generous, unapologetic, fiercely loyal. But one description has lingered with me the most: the sort of bloke who’d give you the shirt off his back. It brought to mind the end of our very first meeting, when – as a casual thank-you for the day – he turned to me and my friend, photographer Pablo Veiga (who’d been documenting the visit) and said, “Just chuck a piece in your backpack.” We later realised the work he gifted us was worth more than a month’s wages. That was Dion. Unfiltered, uncalculated, the sort of bloke who’d do anything for his mates and never make a point of it.

As I write this, I’m reminded of something else Dion said to me that day in his studio: “The life of an artist is a lonely one, James. We don’t have colleagues in this profession – most of what I do is done in the dark.” The words return now with a particular weight, as I sit watching the sun rise over Bondi Beach, surrounded by thousands who’ve gathered in the early cold to say goodbye. There’s a stillness to the crowd, a reverence that speaks louder than words ever could. And in this moment – light breaking over the Pacific, salt in the air, memories thick – I can’t help but think Dion was wrong. He was never truly alone. He belonged to a community that saw him, celebrated him and now carries him forward in shadow and light.

Explore more of the man and his work in The Local Project’s Art of the Maker video, here.

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