Rain is falling on a slick, dark rock face in Scotland. A man with graying hair and a weathered jacket stands there, waiting. He isn't seeking shelter. Instead, Andy Goldsworthy lies down on the stone, letting the downpour soak his clothes and the earth around him. When he stands up, he leaves behind a dry "shadow" of himself—a fleeting, ghostly silhouette on the pavement that vanishes the moment the water creeps in to claim the space.
This is the quiet, persistent magic of the 2017 documentary Leaning into the Wind Andy Goldsworthy. It isn't just a movie about an artist. It’s a record of a man who has spent decades trying to understand the world by physically pushing against it.
Most people know Goldsworthy for those bright leaf collages or the perfectly balanced stone arches you see on Pinterest. You know the ones. They look peaceful. But Thomas Riedelsheimer’s film shows us something much grittier. It shows the labor. It shows the failure. It shows what happens when a person decides that their primary job in life is to negotiate with the weather.
The Physicality of Leaning Into the Wind
Watching Goldsworthy work is honestly kind of exhausting. He isn't just "painting" with nature; he’s wrestling it. In one of the most famous sequences from the film, Goldsworthy attempts to literally lean into a gale-force wind on a grassy hillside. He falls. He gets back up. He leans again, his body at a sharp, impossible angle, supported only by the invisible pressure of the air.
It’s a struggle.
The wind doesn't always hold him up. Sometimes it drops him flat on his face. This is the core of Leaning into the Wind Andy Goldsworthy. It’s about the friction between a human body and the planet. We spend so much of our modern lives trying to eliminate friction—faster internet, smoother roads, climate-controlled rooms—that we forget what it feels like to actually encounter the elements. Goldsworthy reminds us that there is a profound, almost spiritual depth found in that resistance.
He uses his own body as a tool more than in his earlier work, like Rivers and Tides (2001). In the years between these two films, his perspective shifted. He’s older. He feels the passage of time more acutely. You can see it in the way he climbs through hedges or walks through a heavy thicket in Brazil. He isn't looking for the "perfect shot." He’s looking for the feeling of the branch against his skin.
Working with the ephemeral
Goldsworthy’s art doesn't last. That’s the point. He creates these elaborate, difficult structures knowing full well that the tide will come in or the wind will blow them apart. In the film, he works with "blood" stone—iron-rich rocks that turn water a deep, startling red when ground together. He spits the red pigment into a stream, watching it swirl and disappear.
It’s gone in seconds.
Why bother? Because for Goldsworthy, the "art" isn't the finished object. It’s the moment of transition. It’s the process of the world reclaiming what he made. This flies in the face of everything we’re taught about success and legacy. We want to build monuments. He wants to build a shadow in the rain.
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Why His Process Matters to Non-Artists
You don’t have to be a sculptor to get something out of Leaning into the Wind Andy Goldsworthy. There is a lesson here about "staying with the trouble," a phrase often used by scholars like Donna Haraway. Goldsworthy doesn't leave when it starts to rain. He doesn't complain when a stone wall he spent days building collapses because of a slight tremor in the earth.
He just starts again.
Honestly, his patience is a bit terrifying. He’ll spend hours threading leaves together with thorns just to watch them float down a river for three minutes. In a world of five-second TikTok loops and instant gratification, this kind of slow, deliberate failure is a radical act. It’s a reminder that the effort itself has value, regardless of the "content" it produces.
The evolution of his sites
The film also follows him back to places he worked decades ago. We see how the trees have grown around his stone "eggs" or how walls have crumbled. He isn't precious about it. He talks about how the work "becomes" part of the place.
- The Sleeping Stones: In one segment, he works with massive granite slabs in New England.
- The Hedge Crawl: A strangely moving scene where he literally crawls through a line of hedges, his body becoming a part of the landscape’s architecture.
- The Urban Shifts: Unlike his earlier work, this film shows him working in cities—Edinburgh and San Francisco. He finds the "nature" in the cracks of the sidewalk and the way shadows fall across a building.
The transition from the wild Scottish moors to a bustling city street shows that Goldsworthy isn't a hermit. He’s a participant. He recognizes that "nature" isn't just a park you visit on the weekend; it’s the physical reality of the ground beneath your boots, even if that ground is paved with concrete.
Dealing with the Heavy Stuff
The film doesn't shy away from the fact that Goldsworthy’s life hasn't been all sunshine and pretty leaves. There’s a palpable sense of grief and mortality woven into the footage. Since his previous documentary, he has dealt with the death of his former wife and the reality of his own aging body.
He’s stiffer now.
When he leans into the wind, you can see the effort in his joints. This adds a layer of vulnerability that wasn't as present in his younger years. The art has become a way to process change. He talks about "the fold"—the places where things meet, collapse, or tuck away. It’s a metaphor for how we handle the transitions in our own lives. Sometimes you have to fold. Sometimes you have to let the wind knock you over before you can figure out how to stand.
The technical side of the film
Thomas Riedelsheimer, the director, deserves a lot of credit for the "human quality" of this documentary. The cinematography is breathtaking, but it isn't "slick." It feels handheld and intimate. The sound design is incredible. You hear every crunch of a leaf, every splash of water, and every labored breath.
It’s an immersive experience. If you watch it on a small phone screen, you’re doing it a disservice. You need the scale. You need to see the tiny details of the yellow elm leaves against the dark mud to truly understand the obsession driving this man.
Misconceptions about Goldsworthy’s Work
A lot of people think Goldsworthy’s work is just "pretty." They see a picture of a spiral made of rocks and think, "Oh, how Zen."
But the reality is much more chaotic.
His work is often cold, wet, and physically painful. He deals with stinging nettles, freezing water, and heavy lifting that would break most people. Leaning into the Wind Andy Goldsworthy corrects the record. It shows that his art isn't about peace; it’s about engagement. It’s about being awake to the world even when the world is uncomfortable.
There’s also this idea that he’s "fixing" nature. He isn't. He’s collaborating. He often mentions that he doesn't want to leave a permanent mark. He wants to participate in a conversation that was happening long before he got there and will continue long after he’s gone. This humility is rare in the high-stakes, ego-driven world of fine art.
Actionable Lessons from the Film
If you’re feeling burnt out or disconnected, there are actual, practical ways to apply the philosophy of Goldsworthy to your daily life. It sounds "artsy," but it’s actually very grounded.
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1. Practice Negative Capability
This is a term from the poet John Keats—the ability to be in "uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason." When Goldsworthy’s work falls apart, he doesn't get "irritable." He observes. Next time something goes wrong at work or home, try to just observe the "falling apart" for a second before rushing to fix it.
2. Find the "Edge" of Your Environment
You don’t need a Scottish moor. Go outside and find where the grass meets the sidewalk. Look at how the rain pools in a specific spot. Goldsworthy’s work teaches us to look at the micro-transitions. Stop looking at the "view" and start looking at the "textures."
3. Embrace the Temporary
Do something that won't last. Cook a beautiful meal that will be eaten in ten minutes. Build a sandcastle. Write a message in the frost on your car window. Remind yourself that the value of an action isn't tied to its permanence.
4. Physically Engage
Put your phone down. Go for a walk in the wind. Don't fight it—lean into it. Feel the resistance. There is a specific kind of mental clarity that only comes from physical exertion against the elements.
Where to start with Goldsworthy
If you haven't seen the film, find a quiet evening to watch it. Don't multi-task. Don't scroll while you watch. Let the slow pace of the movie recalibrate your brain. It’s a meditative experience that asks you to slow down your heart rate and just... be.
Start by looking up his work at the Storm King Art Center or his "Spire" in the Presidio of San Francisco. Seeing the scale of these works in person helps you realize the sheer physical grit required to be "Andy Goldsworthy." He isn't just an artist; he's a laborer of the landscape.
Ultimately, the film teaches us that the world is always moving. It’s always changing, eroding, and blowing away. You can either hide from that change, or you can do what Andy does.
You can lean in.
To truly understand the impact of his work, visit a local natural space and try to create something using only what you find on the ground—no glue, no string, no tools. Observe how long it takes for your creation to return to the earth, and use that time to reflect on the transience of your own daily stresses. For a deeper dive, compare the visual language of Leaning into the Wind with his earlier film Rivers and Tides to see how his relationship with his own mortality has evolved his artistic choices.