From Star Wars to Alien: The Sci-Fi Films That Forged My Visual Imagination

Looking back, some of my deepest creative instincts were seeded not in galleries or studios, but on VHS tapes and flickering old TV screens. Before I ever touched steel or imagined building something tactile, I was quietly absorbing the visual grammar of science fiction and fantasy—mechanical beings, impossible morphing machines, and darkly lit visions of alternate futures.

One of the first moments that really lodged itself into my memory was watching Return of the Jedi. I was maybe seven or eight. My parents had a strict no-sci-fi policy before a certain age, so the moment I was finally allowed to see it felt like a rite of passage. What struck me most wasn’t the lightsabers or space battles—but those towering AT-AT walkers trudging across the landscape like massive steel camels. And then the two-legged “chicken bots” (AT-STs) skittering around them. They were clunky, yes, and even back then, part of me felt their geometry lacked elegance. But it didn’t matter—they were alive in a way only science fiction machines can be. Not just hardware. Something more.

Around the same time—this would have been 1990 or 1991—I was completely drawn into the animated Transformers series. The idea that a truck could suddenly unfold into a humanoid robot and then switch back with precision was mesmerizing. I didn’t have the vocabulary at the time, but I was already fascinated by the hidden geometry and internal logic of transformation.

But even then, I noticed something was off. The animation often froze mid-action, using those quick “cheat” tricks where a single frame would hang over a hyper-dynamic background. I remember feeling slightly betrayed by it. As if the story was too fast for its own form. I craved more depth—more believability—more weight in the mechanics. Looking back, this small disappointment may be one of the reasons why I now create sculptures that do carry weight—objects that are mechanical, but rooted in physicality.

Then came Terminator 2: Judgment Day. I still remember the shock of seeing the T-1000 liquefy through prison bars or form a blade from its own arm. This wasn’t just science fiction—it was visual sorcery. Liquid metal that could morph and reassemble—a concept that has haunted and inspired my thinking ever since. It was the first time I saw shape as a temporary state, not a fixed identity. That idea runs deep in my sculptural practice today.

As I got older and the age restrictions loosened, I finally saw Alien. The first film. And that was it. That was the sealing moment. Giger’s biomechanical design, the raw industrial terror of it all—it scratched an itch I didn’t know I had. It wasn’t glossy. It wasn’t clean. It was anatomical and otherworldly, like a fossil from a species that never existed.

If I had to trace a single line through all these early impressions—from the metal camels of Star Wars to the liquid shapeshifter of Judgment Day—it would be this: the fascination with form in flux. With machines that feel alive, that imply intelligence or threat or mystery. With the poetic potential of steel—how a cold, rigid material can be shaped into something that feels sentient.

That fascination is still with me today. It’s present in every piece I make—steel objects that resist easy categorization. They aren’t replicas from these films, but they do share a kindred DNA. They are informed by the same childhood awe, the same critical eye that once questioned the elegance of an AT-AT, and the same hunger for design that feels purposeful—never cheated.

Science fiction gave me a visual language long before I had tools in hand. And in some ways, I’ve been responding to those first impressions ever since—turning fleeting movie moments into lasting physical forms.