Review: Damien Hirst, Tate Modern

A smidge of what I fancy

Someone once told me a great story about Damien Hirst. Having been at a party, the man himself had been working the room, asking guests to put their hands in his pocket and guess what was in there. The mischievous artist later revealed to his audience that it was in fact his penis, threaded through a hole in the lining of his pocket, that they had been touching.

Love him or hate him, he certainly engages the tongues of the chattering classes.

As I arrived at the entrance of the Tate Modern’s Turbine Hall for the preview of Hirst’s retrospective, a smallgroup of protestors, from an artists’ community that went by the name Magma, were decrying self-promotion in the art world.

The 18th century painter Sir Joshua Reynolds courted the upper classes, painting the ‘celebrities’ of the period; the Dadaists provoked society through controversial stunts and…

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Three more blushing pears

Lemon a day

size 8in x 6in  20cm x 15cm

Wonders will never cease to flow across the barren landscape of my existence…lovely aunt has a good report from the doctor, DIY dad has done a tip run, the town councillors don’t like the sound of new neighbours monster house development, and the thin  practice nurse’s dire predictions for me turn out to be unfounded as yet, in other words I am not particually unhealthy just rather tubby.

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