Hidden in Plain Sight

Minneapolis sculpture artist Tyler Hoffart explores a bold path through grief.

October 13, 2023

Hidden in Plain Sight

Minneapolis sculpture artist Tyler Hoffart explores a bold path through grief.

Written By: Natalie Bardwell

Photography By: Amy Diep

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You’ve never heard of him.

His name is Tyler Hoffart. He landed in this world recently, just over a year and a half ago, when his hero was struck and killed by a drunk driver. His hero was Sam Hoffart. His dad. And in this new world, his dad is gone.

This story is dedicated to Sam.

Tyler is one part of Three Circle Shop, a sculpture studio in Northeast Minneapolis playing primarily with words, wool, wood, concrete, stone and steel. Soon after the tragedy, Tyler knew the shop’s next moves would be for dad. Alongside his partner Marah Harings and best friend Nick Smith, Tyler made a commitment to push on the edges of what Three Circle Shop could be. For dad. For themselves. For each other.

Since Dad left, OOO has been sculpting, weaving and transmuting grief and joy into their upcoming November art show: When The Moon Was Home. It’s a tribute to farmer and father, Sam Hoffart, a man who lived for his family. It’s a nod and wink to the process of love. It’s a sensual blend of movement and rhythm, begging you to play. Their show invites you to come touch, come feel, come witness the gravity of true one-of-one creations. It’s a show aimed for the middle of your heart.

When did woodworking become an interest to you?

Back in 2016 I was a 35-year-old man living in his dad’s basement. I had left Minneapolis and a great job in pursuit of some dream I had not yet found. While farming with my dad and brother, I began the side project of building my dad a sauna. I had no clue what I was doing, but that’s one of my specialties. As my skill set grew, so did my interest. The real hook was the scent of freshly sawed, aromatic western red cedar. Along with the smell of fresh-cut alfalfa, you should sniff it sometime.

Tell us about your team.

They are my family and the reason why everything is possible. They are magical, hyper-dimensional shape shifters of a new age. Marah is the love of my life. Her work belongs on superstars. She loves herself in a bold way. She’s the deep roots of the shop and her sheer will may alter earth’s orbital trajectory.

Mysteriously, Nick can solve deep math of complicated shapes with his heart. He is an unlikely scientist, whispering secrets to a blue heeler hunting flies. He is wildly talented, and if you want, could probably pick up your refrigerator.

We work well as a team because we avoid drawing hard lines. We stay open. We all yearn for a piece to take us where we need to go, not the other way around.

What do you want people to experience when they interact with your art?

A lump in their throat. People should walk in and see our work and ask for a glass of water. Less thinking, more reaching. They should run their fingers along the lines and feel the urge to call their mothers. I want them to sense a perfect gravity, a sweet spot between safety and fun, and I want them to catch themselves smiling. Maybe that’s too much to ask, but why not go for it? No one said this was going to be easy.

You lost your dad in a car accident last year, how does that grief influence your process?

Grief is joined in a circle by love and joy. As such, my process involves going round and round, slowly as I can, and viewing my work through the lenses of that circle. It also requires taking time to remember. Remember Dad and things worth fighting for. Remember that work can be an act of love, and that we are here to work together.

I also have to take the time to forget. Sometimes, I need to go out to the shop and let him go. To not think about how strong and sweet he was. To push down that ache for his voice on the other end of the line. Sometimes I need to be covered in sawdust and loud noises and too much work. Anything but sadness. I think most of us tend to bury ourselves in some form of obsessive thought. I’m no different. I’m just trying to find the sweet spot while sprinting as fast as I can in a mad dash for the finish line. But no matter my speed, there always comes a moment of memory. His voice on the phone, that slow, mid-deep baritone. I play him back, over and over, trying to count the syllables of weather reports and family news. I close my eyes and see an old farming monk carved from tall grass and silty loam and knee high by July.

One part of my process is realizing his love only grows. Another part is missing him. And that’s ok. I’ll let that in, let it sink and surround and circle, then get back to work. I know that’s what he would want, for me to get my ass back to work. And to call once in a while.

If you’re reading this, thank you. Now, call who you need to call. You know exactly who it is. Tell them what you’ve been meaning to say. Then, bring them to our show on November 11th. I’ll see you there.