Damien Hirst’s For the Love of God (AKA the diamond-encrusted skull) in the Turbine Hall at Tate Modern. An overhyped, pointless object that was made by a canny half-wit charlatan, the art industry’s village idiot cowering inside a small, mean, dingy hut built at the heart of an immense void. Missing every point there is to miss, and then missing some that nobody else even thought possible. Obviously they were aiming to awe but instead they accidentally ended up with the perfect quasi-Nietzschean metaphor for art as an empty commodity, for the spiritual and moral vacuum at the heart of the YBA ethos and practice, and for Hirst’s life, career and work itself.
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Either I just succumbed to some kind of reading disorder, or the reliably daft e-artnow list has delivered another payload of grade-A twaddle.
Ten international galleries want you, like a vampire bat wants sleeping cattle.
Hello darlings, mwah mwah mwah, thank you so much for coming– I thought you were still in Dubai for the arms fair! Art collector and spender of her husband’s dirty money Anita Zabludowicz has excelled herself recently with her Art Diary [sic] about a trip to India.
Hello everybody, my name is DJ Artistair and when I’m not DJing at the coolest Chilean clubs (I specialise in Monkstep, but you won’t have heard of it yet because I’m cooler than you), or testing out new men’s hair products, or having laser eye surgery or posing for generic stock photography, I Exhibit & Sell [sic] my art, which consists of TV test cards and small obsolete racing cars. Because “cards” and “cars” sound almost the same, so my work is interrogating the po(li/e)tics of homonymy.
In case there remained some doubt that any artist’s work can be recuperated and assimilated by the masters of capitalism, I present the Barbie Collector Museum Edition which has found a whole new way to exploit dead artists.