San Francisco

William Tucker

Gallery Paule Anglim

William Tucker’s recent sculptures are stark, heavy, freestanding cast-bronze chunks, each with a mutable image. As you move around them, tracking successive profile views, their roughly modeled masses slip from one directional emphasis to another, from flexing, truncated anatomical hints to broadly sloping topographic sensations, and back again. Such perceptual episodes modify and hide one another. Meanwhile, the monolithic shape that is their integer stays unperturbed, though constantly elusive, and the big abstract scale is consistent throughout. Then there is the sculptures’ gravitational pull, the way they compel you—imaginatively, bodily—to experience them up close. Their energies are not projective so much as contagious. Face to face with these things, you get an inkling of the sculptor’s impetuousness, like that of a rock-climber, in scrambling together their plaster prototypes.

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