Conversations with Augustus Dallabetta

Today we’d like to introduce you to Augustus Dallabetta.

Hi Augustus, can you start by introducing yourself? We’d love to learn more about how you got to where you are today?
I grew up in an art studio. My mom, Jane DeDecker, is a sculptor who raised my siblings and I while building her career, which meant we spent a lot of time in her workspace, surrounded by clay, bronze, and the steady rhythm of making. We would watch her hands work, help with molds, sweep floors, and make messes, I’m sure.
Art wasn’t just around us; it was the language of our home. It shaped how I see the world and taught me to pay attention to small moments—a quiet gesture, a shift in light, the way a material feels in your hand. Still, I didn’t always know I wanted to be an artist. It took stepping away to realize how much creating meant to me.
After leaving engineering school, I started painting in my room, stapling cheap canvases to a board and teaching myself how to work with oil paint. I wasn’t great, but it was the first time I felt fully focused, grounded by the simple act of making something.
A few years later, I moved back to Loveland and began working for my mom, becoming her apprentice in the same studio where I grew up. My Dad, aunts and uncle, who have worked alongside my mom for over 30 years, trained me to weld and metal chase, passing down the skills that have shaped their lives and now shape mine. Seeing how they built a life around art and family made me want to pursue this path, not just as a career but as a way of living.
For almost four years now, I have been a studio artist at Artworks: A Center for Contemporary Art while continuing my BFA at Colorado State University. Today, my practice encompasses both my own developing intermedia work and collaborative projects with my family—working alongside my mom and older brother to design furniture and develop new creative ventures that draw from our collective experience and different perspectives.

Can you talk to us a bit about the challenges and lessons you’ve learned along the way. Looking back would you say it’s been easy or smooth in retrospect?
Struggle has always been part of making art, and I’ve learned that’s not something to avoid but something to work with. Challenges come in many forms—sometimes personal, sometimes practical, sometimes rooted in doubts that arrive quietly and stay longer than you’d like. I was lucky to grow up in a family that showed me art could be a way forward, but even then, when I started making things at 20, I felt behind. It seemed like everyone else already knew what they were doing, and I was trying to catch up.
Looking back seven years later, I see how much of that was fear talking, and how much I learned by simply showing up to the work anyway. There have been moments when I questioned whether I was on the right path or if the work mattered, especially when progress felt slow or unseen. But what I’ve found is that making things—regardless of who is watching or whether it turns into something I want to share—has always been the antidote.
Staying active with my hands, shaping materials, paying attention to the process rather than just the outcome, has given me a sense of focus and clarity when other parts of life felt uncertain. It’s in these moments of making, even on the hard days, that I’m reminded why I chose this path and why I continue to choose it.

Can you tell our readers more about what you do and what you think sets you apart from others?
My work evolves through material conversations, but it centers around transforming the familiar into something unexpected. I’m drawn to sculpture because it’s physical and direct—it’s about weight, space, and presence. I work with materials like plaster, bricks, concrete, and latex balloons, exploring how these humble objects can transform when approached with curiosity and intent. Through this process, I’m constantly investigating form and shape—how a material’s inherent properties can be pushed, pulled, and reshaped to reveal new possibilities. The way plaster holds a curve, how concrete resists certain gestures while yielding to others, or how a balloon’s form is always in tension between expansion and collapse—these qualities become the language through which ideas take physical form.
I think often about how materials carry history and associations, and how those memories can be rearranged to tell new stories. A brick holds the weight of construction and protest alike, while a balloon carries both celebration and disposability in its thin skin. By working closely with these materials, I invite viewers to reconsider what they know about these objects and discover what they might become.
What drives me most in this practice is my commitment to working with my hands, to learning from the materials themselves, and to letting curiosity guide the process. There’s an elasticity to how I work—my practice bends and stretches to serve whatever idea is pulling at me. Sometimes that means pushing a material beyond its comfort zone, other times it means following a form as it emerges through the making process. This flexibility can even expand beyond sculpture into different mediums when an idea demands it—drawing, installation, or video might become the right vehicle for expression. This adaptability allows the work to breathe and respond, rather than forcing materials or concepts into predetermined shapes.
This balance of intent and experimentation excites me—using familiar materials to create work that is accessible yet layered, playful yet grounded, and always open to conversation. My practice remains rooted in the belief that transformation is possible, that the ordinary world around us holds endless potential for new meaning when approached with attention.

Risk taking is a topic that people have widely differing views on – we’d love to hear your thoughts.
Taking risks is necessary for artists. Putting yourself out there is a risk in itself—sharing something you’ve made, something you believe in, and not knowing how it will be received. Bringing an idea to life, especially one that feels personal or uncertain, takes a level of trust that isn’t always easy.
For me, choosing to go to art school was a major risk. I had already stepped away from engineering, and deciding to pursue art seriously meant committing to a path that doesn’t have clear guarantees. It meant choosing a life where the work isn’t always stable and where success can look different depending on the day.
I also believe that making art is inherently a risk. Every time you start a new piece, you’re stepping into something unknown. You’re risking your time, your energy, your resources, and sometimes your sense of confidence. But those risks are also what make the process worth it. They keep you engaged, asking questions, and pushing yourself to grow.
Taking risks doesn’t always have to mean something dramatic. Sometimes it’s as simple as trying a new material, following an idea that doesn’t quite make sense yet, or letting yourself keep going even when the outcome isn’t clear. It might mean working larger than you’re comfortable with or sharing work before it feels completely resolved. I’ve learned that these small, steady risks are what move the work forward—and they’re often the moments that teach you the most. Each risk builds on the last, creating a practice that stays alive and responsive rather than settling into comfortable patterns.

Contact Info:

• Website: https://Augustusdallabetta.com
• Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/augustus_dallabetta/

Image Credits
Brian Kane, Greta Simone