While Oil Prices Fall The Price Of Formaldehyde Rises.











When I looked at a picture of Damien Hirst, a chic nerd portrait in the Independent, I wondered if lying behind his expression, there was the smirk of a man who has just walked out of a shop with too much change.

Hirst is a rich man. He was a rich man the day he met art collector Charles Saatchi of Saatchi & Saatchi advertising. When someone like Charles Saatchi offers to give you whatever you need to produce your work the future is yours for the taking. Hirst took it. Money gave way for his artistic flow to gain notoriety. The rich get richer and rich artists get more prolific.

When I first saw Damien Hirst I thought of football violence, pints of beer and cocaine, and later, of the pop art dreams of London’s Groucho club kids, out to get rich kids. I wondered about it all. Wretched stained bed sheets. What could it all mean for the future of art.

I like the work of Hirst, I like what he does. I don’t care about how rich he is or how rich he wants to get, because I naturally, out of my own character, smile when ever I see his work. I can relate with it, I understand something about where he is coming from.
His freeze dried meat and horror wreaks of Francis Bacon as does the rest of his twisted works. He is the Victor Frankenstein of the art world, though where as Victor creates life, Hirst has a canny knack for creating a wonderful modernist air of death. Continued…






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