One Saturday morning, I got a text message saying 'Richard Deacon at Lisson. Ceramics. Last day. You should see it.' I had an hour to spare and the gallery was only a short train ride away, so I went. I had seen Deacon's work before: large forms made from bent and stretched wood or metal that evoked for me a sense of volume, expansion, and a feeling of movement created by the relationship between the structure and the interior hollow of the sculptures. But I wasn't familiar with his ceramic work, and what I encountered befuddled me because it didn't evoke anything I was expecting from Deacon.
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