William Schaaf’s art is rooted in something deeper than aesthetics. At 80 years old, he isn’t just reflecting on a long career—he’s still working, still connected to the same energy that first drew him to the equine form over sixty years ago. For Schaaf, horses are more than a subject. They’re vessels for healing, myth, and personal truth. His paintings and sculptures are shaped by a reverence for the natural world and a spiritual link to Indigenous traditions—especially the Zuni and Navajo fetish and doll makers, whose influence has guided much of his work. Schaaf’s life in art has been one of healing—not just for himself, but for the people who encounter his work. Whether in bronze, oil, or clay, his pieces invite quiet reflection. They ask us to slow down, to feel, and to consider what it means to make meaning through form.
In Schaaf’s world, a horse isn’t just a horse. Take Tantra Gurl, a 36-inch bronze sculpture that’s found homes in three Florida museums. To Schaaf, she’s a “power” horse—a fertility fetish scaled up. More than that, she’s a medicine object, carved with intention and patinated in hues that call to mind jade and turquoise. The finish is chemical, yes, but the feel is spiritual. Schaaf compares it to watercoloring with fire and metal.
That connection to healing stones is not accidental. Tantra Gurl was invited, as he puts it, to “visit” a Kentucky breeding barn. She became a kind of talisman, a presence. When she was on exhibit at the Harn Museum of Art in Gainesville, viewers were so drawn to her they kept reaching out to touch her. Schaaf encouraged it—he even suggested they wear cotton gloves and polish the bronze with their hands. For him, that physical connection between art and viewer is essential. But someone must have taken issue with the sculpture’s erotic energy. Tantra Gurl was quietly moved to the museum basement, where she spent most of the next three decades in storage.
Her story almost ended before it began. The original clay version was made to fit a specific kiln—custom built—but the process nearly fell apart. Schaaf used too much water in forming her, and during a rare Florida freeze, he and his team wrapped the piece in electric blankets for three nights straight just to keep her from cracking. Even so, an explosion destroyed the kiln and nearly took the sculpture with it. The buyer who originally commissioned her walked away, calling the damaged clay “flawed.” But someone else—someone watching the whole ordeal—offered to cast her in bronze, along with two others. Schaaf still calls that moment Fortunata. Lucky.
The companion painting, River Horse, stays in the same emotional and symbolic territory. It’s oil on canvas, owned by Schaaf himself, though it’s also held in the collection of the Orlando Museum of Art. The painting holds a quieter energy. It feels like a meditation. Where Tantra Gurl is embodied and tactile, River Horse is spectral—like a dream flickering just out of reach. Schaaf never tries to pin the horse down with realism. That’s not the point. His horses are felt before they are understood.
Schaaf’s work, especially in recent years, leans into the idea of medicine. Not as cure, exactly, but as balm. He doesn’t shy away from the erotic, the spiritual, or the broken. Instead, he brings them together. His bronzes carry the spirit of fetish objects, touched and venerated. His paintings feel more private, but no less sacred. Both serve as part of his own healing and as offerings to others.
His connection to Indigenous art isn’t aesthetic imitation—it’s respect. He honors the energy, intention, and ritual behind the objects that inspire him. He’s careful with it. There’s no irony or trendiness here. Schaaf’s been walking this path for decades, and his art reflects that consistency.
At 80, he’s not interested in wrapping things up. There’s no grand finale, no resting place. His studio remains active. His materials—bronze, oil, clay—are still alive in his hands. His horses, too, remain present: not only as symbols but as companions. Each one carries a story. Each one holds space. And that’s the work—holding space. For healing. For grief. For touch. For memory. And maybe, in the quiet between those things, for a little bit of magic too.
