Michael Dean’s new sculptures are like magnets dragged through city streets, constantly accumulating rubbish, torn paper, dirt and fluids. The first of the four sculptures here by the former Turner Prize-nominee is like a wrecked air vent, limb-like and frozen by rigor mortis, the rest like paving stones. Each is covered in casts of tightly coiled fists, shredded books, deformed drink cans. There’s police tape saying ‘sorry’ around a column, stomped cans on the floor, a takeaway menu on the wall, a book stretched around a lamppost outside.
It all feels like the vicious tension of the city cast into clay. It’s throwaway, aggressive, rushed, poetic, filled with temper – it feels so angry it’s almost silly. Which is a pretty neat way of summing up living in London at the best of times, really.
@eddyfrankel