The sculptor Jim Sanborn lives and works on a small island off the coast of Maryland, down where the state’s long fingers reach into the Chesapeake Bay. It’s called Jimmy Island, though he told me that he didn’t name it.

His compound is hidden behind tall trees, protected by a gate and serious-looking No-Trespassing signs; a security camera surveils its long, winding driveway. The property is occupied by structures of Sanborn’s design and construction, including a large studio and a modernist house. The studio looks like a military installation, and the house is clad in lovely green copper. Farther back is a private beach and personal archery range.

Sanborn himself is a giant of a man, with particularly enormous hands. He is 79 years old, and his hair and beard are white. His body cranes forward, the price of a long career working with metal and stone. His back and legs trouble him; standing and walking are burdensome chores. When I entered his cavernous studio, he loomed in hiking boots, shorts and a shirt with the sleeves rolled up.