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.
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…