I Nearly Ate My Words Between Sneezes: Richard Deacon at Tate Britain (5 FEBRUARY – 27 APRIL 2014)
AACHHOOO!! Trying to do anything when you’re ill requires ten-times more effort no matter the level of motivation you had when concocting the idea in good health. I am unfortunately ill, man flu, a cold, black plague, something, but after a succession of alarms, showers & self-promises I successful overcome the issue of drive & following the rigmarole of any travel in the city, arrive at my purpose for the morning. Sniff. The destination: Tate Britain, & standing on the front steps feels like meeting an old friend, the small but grand façade of empirical power & poise freed, having only been reopened as an entrance in mid-November after a £45 million renovation conducted by Caruso St John. Sniff. It is admittedly more than impressive, it creates awe without even presenting an artwork, but I’m a Tate cynic, more often than not these situations of space appreciation are more evident & inspiring than their shows & wears on offer and so I have, needless to say, become less receptive to the roaring undertone that ‘this is spectacular, the great awe you feel will only be repeated with every work you see’. Sniff. But this time, after descending the spiral staircase, weaving through the old new walls & what seemed the full primary school population of Lambeth, as I gaze with mournful sorrow at the loss of the random side-entrance cream-tea tables… I wonder if maybe I shouldn’t have totally disregarded Tate’s confidence.
For the coming three months Tate Britain has constructed a six room, chronological, display of works by artist Richard Deacon. Now it is easily considered & more than acceptable, if not necessary, to appreciate Deacon as one of Britain’s leading living sculptors, with forms that lead your mind outside the real, challenging & defying the common possibilities of the materials at his disposal. His works compel you to explore like a child once more, bring out the curiosity in you, force you to treat the sculptures as sculpture and beyond, taking its every angle as not just a new perspective but almost a new work. Weight, material, space & interaction changing with every small movement, empty voids suddenly appearing with solid weight, straight lines suddenly contorted. If not a welcome surprise to the show, his ‘technical drawings’ are on display, brining an interesting dynamic to the understanding of his use of space and form. Yet, they appear as artworks in their own right, just as quizzical and twisting in space as his sculptures, challenging with what appears to be no real intention, if being physically three dimensional is all it really means to be sculptural. Or are these even sculptures at all, but drawings from a draftsman’s dreams?
Deacon’s work is impressive, even considering my usually pessimistic view towards sculpture being on the inside. These could have been misconstrued (or rightly considered) as elements of nature and urban in opposition, rather than purely wondering in their own material presence and our own. If nothing else it’s a courteous consideration for their everlasting presence and our own comfort, visits dictated by rainclouds are never as relaxing. Nevertheless, this is as far as my pessimism can be held off, not given the internal space they truly need, the show fits Deacon’s works poorly. It feels unfinished and chucked around, works apparently slung on walls, possibly on nails that wouldn’t come out the wall from the last presentation, there just feels an uneasy bareness. It’s a shame, I was getting ready to eat my words, say Tate had finally impressed me as much as the artist in their presence. As the rooms role a confidence grows with the strength & the appeal of the contortions, but unfortunately smaller features feel left and dwarfed not necessarily by other works but by their placement in the set-up provided for them.
Leaving through his most recent day, I still really want the tea-tables to be there, maintain my little lift of the day with a cream cake. Sniff. The show is worth the time you spend, you can’t fault the work displayed but the show itself will not stand to any feet of excellence, many will surpass it as many have done so before & Tate Britain will stand still with great integrity than only organisers within its walls can maintain. Sniff. Outside away from those walls and rooms, Deacon’s craftsmanship still lingers in thought, in the seeing of trees and buildings making their way in the world in contortion and structure, the precise against the uncontrolled. As I pass on the Millbank Pier Clipper, I being to forget everything I had found disheartening in my day, the mystery of form stays with me, nothing can…AACHHOOO!!! Oh for goodness sake! Sniff.
AACHHOOO!! Trying to do anything when you’re ill requires ten-times more effort no matter the level of motivation you had when concocting the idea in good health. I am unfortunately ill, man flu, a cold, black plague, something, but after a succession of alarms, showers & self-promises I successful overcome the issue of drive & following the rigmarole of any travel in the city, arrive at my purpose for the morning. Sniff. The destination: Tate Britain, & standing on the front steps feels like meeting an old friend, the small but grand façade of empirical power & poise freed, having only been reopened as an entrance in mid-November after a £45 million renovation conducted by Caruso St John. Sniff. It is admittedly more than impressive, it creates awe without even presenting an artwork, but I’m a Tate cynic, more often than not these situations of space appreciation are more evident & inspiring than their shows & wears on offer and so I have, needless to say, become less receptive to the roaring undertone that ‘this is spectacular, the great awe you feel will only be repeated with every work you see’. Sniff. But this time, after descending the spiral staircase, weaving through the old new walls & what seemed the full primary school population of Lambeth, as I gaze with mournful sorrow at the loss of the random side-entrance cream-tea tables… I wonder if maybe I shouldn’t have totally disregarded Tate’s confidence.
For the coming three months Tate Britain has constructed a six room, chronological, display of works by artist Richard Deacon. Now it is easily considered & more than acceptable, if not necessary, to appreciate Deacon as one of Britain’s leading living sculptors, with forms that lead your mind outside the real, challenging & defying the common possibilities of the materials at his disposal. His works compel you to explore like a child once more, bring out the curiosity in you, force you to treat the sculptures as sculpture and beyond, taking its every angle as not just a new perspective but almost a new work. Weight, material, space & interaction changing with every small movement, empty voids suddenly appearing with solid weight, straight lines suddenly contorted. If not a welcome surprise to the show, his ‘technical drawings’ are on display, brining an interesting dynamic to the understanding of his use of space and form. Yet, they appear as artworks in their own right, just as quizzical and twisting in space as his sculptures, challenging with what appears to be no real intention, if being physically three dimensional is all it really means to be sculptural. Or are these even sculptures at all, but drawings from a draftsman’s dreams?
Deacon’s work is impressive, even considering my usually pessimistic view towards sculpture being on the inside. These could have been misconstrued (or rightly considered) as elements of nature and urban in opposition, rather than purely wondering in their own material presence and our own. If nothing else it’s a courteous consideration for their everlasting presence and our own comfort, visits dictated by rainclouds are never as relaxing. Nevertheless, this is as far as my pessimism can be held off, not given the internal space they truly need, the show fits Deacon’s works poorly. It feels unfinished and chucked around, works apparently slung on walls, possibly on nails that wouldn’t come out the wall from the last presentation, there just feels an uneasy bareness. It’s a shame, I was getting ready to eat my words, say Tate had finally impressed me as much as the artist in their presence. As the rooms role a confidence grows with the strength & the appeal of the contortions, but unfortunately smaller features feel left and dwarfed not necessarily by other works but by their placement in the set-up provided for them.
Leaving through his most recent day, I still really want the tea-tables to be there, maintain my little lift of the day with a cream cake. Sniff. The show is worth the time you spend, you can’t fault the work displayed but the show itself will not stand to any feet of excellence, many will surpass it as many have done so before & Tate Britain will stand still with great integrity than only organisers within its walls can maintain. Sniff. Outside away from those walls and rooms, Deacon’s craftsmanship still lingers in thought, in the seeing of trees and buildings making their way in the world in contortion and structure, the precise against the uncontrolled. As I pass on the Millbank Pier Clipper, I being to forget everything I had found disheartening in my day, the mystery of form stays with me, nothing can…AACHHOOO!!! Oh for goodness sake! Sniff.