I went to the Tate Modern's retrospective exhibition of Damien Hirst's work this past summer. It's definitely one that's stuck in my mind. As an art freak, who has foolishly banished herself to a small Scottish seaside town with little art, returning to London for breaks means storming numerous exhibitions to get my art fix. So, it's even more notable, that out of all of the exhibitions I've scuttled around, this is one that has remained with me for a while.
There are two things I took away from this exhibition - ideas about the artwork itself, and ideas about the status of artists.
Firstly, the work itself.
I approached the exhibition after having sat in several lectures about Hirst - aware of his controversial nature, and differing views about his work. Interestingly, the guy I was with did not have any pre-conceptions of Hirst, bar a few things I'd told him. He was my 'Damien Hirst Experiment' - I was interested to see the reaction of someone to his art who was not particularly aware of its controversy, and criticism of it. (As an art historian it's always fascinating to get someone with a fresh set of eyes to tell you what they think of something - I'm aware of being somewhat trained or given ideas by my course that can overshadow looking at something - it's hard not to turn on 'student mode'). We both reached similar conclusions by the end of the exhibition - conclusions I had not expected to make.
As this was a retrospective exhibition, the usual suspects were present - 'For the Love of God' (a diamond encrusted skull), 'Valley of Death' (a circular canvas covered in dead flies), 'Infinity' (drugs laid out across mirrored shelves), 'Mother and Child (Divided)' (a cow and calf each split in half and preserved in formaldehyde), 'Lapdancer' (surgical instruments laid out in rows in mirrored cabinets), 'A Hundred Years' (a glass case containing a cow's head and hundreds of flies - over the time of the exhibition the head decays) etc. So yes, not an exhibition to take especially squeamish people to...
From what I knew of Hirst's work I was expecting to be shocked. Surely a decaying cow's head would be an alarming thing to see? Well, whilst it was not the most pleasant experience, it actually did not feel that alarming. This was my feeling throughout the entire exhibition. I was standing amongst some rather unpleasant things, like dead animals, or subjects associated with negativity, such as drugs or medical equipment. But I did not feel the emotions usually associated with them - I felt neutral, almost calm. I'm not really sure as to why this was the case with the animals. Perhaps because I had seen photographs of the works and would have been more shocked if I didn't know what to expect? I think in the case of the drugs and medical equipment, the organisation and surroundings influenced me. In both cases, the objects were presented on clean mirrored surfaces, in large plain rooms. Things that are usually associated with fear and chaos were made manageable and calm. So, whilst there is usually upset over the disturbing nature of Hirst's work, I actually found it to be an almost peaceful experience. There is something unusual about being able to stand before all of these things you normally wouldn't be able to, for example, a tiger shark. Whilst Hirst is not my favourite artist, or even someone who springs to mind when people ask about art I like, this exhibition created a different notion of his work for me, taken at a simple level of just understanding the experience of standing before it.
Honestly, for me, my best experiences before art are when it makes me feel strongly. I thought I'd write a little something about standing before 'The Love of God'. Whenever I've seen it in articles, books etc. I'm pretty sure I've thought what many others have - 'How incredibly tacky'. It's a skull encrusted with real diamonds. Well, it's actually quite something to see. Let me tell you, that diamond skull is mesmerising (which makes me think of myself as a hideous little goblin ogling before the shiny thing). The skull was in the middle of a pitch black room with a single spotlight on it (effective, but meant I thought I was going to trip and knock it over). I'm definitely going to sound like a treasure crazed goblin now, but the way it shimmered in the dark made you forget that it was a skull at all.
Firstly, the work itself.
I approached the exhibition after having sat in several lectures about Hirst - aware of his controversial nature, and differing views about his work. Interestingly, the guy I was with did not have any pre-conceptions of Hirst, bar a few things I'd told him. He was my 'Damien Hirst Experiment' - I was interested to see the reaction of someone to his art who was not particularly aware of its controversy, and criticism of it. (As an art historian it's always fascinating to get someone with a fresh set of eyes to tell you what they think of something - I'm aware of being somewhat trained or given ideas by my course that can overshadow looking at something - it's hard not to turn on 'student mode'). We both reached similar conclusions by the end of the exhibition - conclusions I had not expected to make.
As this was a retrospective exhibition, the usual suspects were present - 'For the Love of God' (a diamond encrusted skull), 'Valley of Death' (a circular canvas covered in dead flies), 'Infinity' (drugs laid out across mirrored shelves), 'Mother and Child (Divided)' (a cow and calf each split in half and preserved in formaldehyde), 'Lapdancer' (surgical instruments laid out in rows in mirrored cabinets), 'A Hundred Years' (a glass case containing a cow's head and hundreds of flies - over the time of the exhibition the head decays) etc. So yes, not an exhibition to take especially squeamish people to...
From what I knew of Hirst's work I was expecting to be shocked. Surely a decaying cow's head would be an alarming thing to see? Well, whilst it was not the most pleasant experience, it actually did not feel that alarming. This was my feeling throughout the entire exhibition. I was standing amongst some rather unpleasant things, like dead animals, or subjects associated with negativity, such as drugs or medical equipment. But I did not feel the emotions usually associated with them - I felt neutral, almost calm. I'm not really sure as to why this was the case with the animals. Perhaps because I had seen photographs of the works and would have been more shocked if I didn't know what to expect? I think in the case of the drugs and medical equipment, the organisation and surroundings influenced me. In both cases, the objects were presented on clean mirrored surfaces, in large plain rooms. Things that are usually associated with fear and chaos were made manageable and calm. So, whilst there is usually upset over the disturbing nature of Hirst's work, I actually found it to be an almost peaceful experience. There is something unusual about being able to stand before all of these things you normally wouldn't be able to, for example, a tiger shark. Whilst Hirst is not my favourite artist, or even someone who springs to mind when people ask about art I like, this exhibition created a different notion of his work for me, taken at a simple level of just understanding the experience of standing before it.
Honestly, for me, my best experiences before art are when it makes me feel strongly. I thought I'd write a little something about standing before 'The Love of God'. Whenever I've seen it in articles, books etc. I'm pretty sure I've thought what many others have - 'How incredibly tacky'. It's a skull encrusted with real diamonds. Well, it's actually quite something to see. Let me tell you, that diamond skull is mesmerising (which makes me think of myself as a hideous little goblin ogling before the shiny thing). The skull was in the middle of a pitch black room with a single spotlight on it (effective, but meant I thought I was going to trip and knock it over). I'm definitely going to sound like a treasure crazed goblin now, but the way it shimmered in the dark made you forget that it was a skull at all.
On a level beyond standing before the art, I started to think about Hirst in relation to long-standing notions of artistic genius and an artist's income. The two core things about Hirst that frustrate people (gory dead animals aside) are 1. That he has a workshop who create his artworks for him and 2. That he makes a colossal amount of money ('For the Love of God' sold for 50 million pounds - it's crazy on so many levels).
There is a longstanding romantic vision of the lonely penniless artist who produces art for art's sake (Van Gogh being the primary example of this - he was considered a massive loser by other artists and only sold one work in his lifetime but produced it en mass anyway). As wonderful as this mystical image is, I think it shoots a lot of artists in the foot. Why should an artist not have a workshop or make money?
Firstly, the workshop. Yes, Damien Hirst doesn't throw himself in to the sea, fight tiger sharks to the death and preserve them in formaldehyde all by himself. He has a team who does all this for him. For this reason he is frequently accused of not being 'an artist' because he has not 'created' his work. Initially upon hearing about his workshop I thought 'How isolating. How strange to stand next to your 'artwork' that you haven't had a creative hand in.' But when you think about it this isn't a new phenomenon. From the Renaissance there have been numerous Old Masters who had workshops producing their work with them. In these workshops young artists were trained in the style of the master's work and would produce certain aspects of a piece for them. For example, large portions of canvases (usually the boring parts like backgrounds or random body parts) would be painted by a master's workshop, and then he would add the finishing touches like facial features. There would be whole patches of canvas the master would not have touched. I feel like this is a part of art history that is conveniently ignored upon romantically contemplating the lone, suffering artist. Even contemporary artists have workshops like this - Ai WeiWei doesn't carry out the entire process for making his sculptures - there are casts his workshop works from.
Honestly, even when I argue about all of this, I'm not entirely sure where I stand on the definition of an 'artist' (which is a little worrying after having studied Art History for almost three years - but also probably a result of that). Must a true artist have physically created the work? Or could it actually be argued that the heart of an artist's practice lies in the generation of the creative idea? Surely the artwork (created through the physical process people attribute to being an artist) would not come to be without the thought that triggered it all to begin with?
Secondly, the amount of money Hirst makes. He makes colossal amounts of money - just look at the diamond covered jackets he wears in public. There has often been criticism that the amounts of money Hirst makes is ridiculous. Once again, I think there are aspects of history that have been overlooked. Artists have always had patrons and been commissioned for their work. Think of an individual like Goya who produced art for the Spanish Royal Family. Yes, he produced personal secret etchings, but he was also constantly making work for the Royal Family to make a living. Why should Hirst, or many other artists for that matter, not be allowed to make a profit from their artwork?
I accept that it is a struggle to ascribe monetary value to the result of a creative process. Upon discussing my future (Pah, future! I'm an art history student - I have no future!) with people working in an auction house they said to me 'You'll have to instantly lose any of your romantic ideas about art. You have to think of all of it in terms of money.' That was certainly something I struggled to hear. How could anyone say why one piece of art is worth, say, £20,000, more than another? But does this mean artists should not gain financially from their work at all? If actors or musicians producing their 'art' get paid such colossal amounts why should an artist be any different? I think it certainly is questionable as to why Hirst makes so much money out of his work, but the fact that he makes any at all should not be an issue.
I hope this post has triggered some food for thought - What defines 'art'? How much money should artists make? Can a diamond encrusted skull really be that captivating?
Debates about Hirst can be extremely intense and go on for hours. Just enter his name in to google and you can find endless articles arguing about his work.
Overall, I think one of the most important things I learn from taking the time to actually see Hirst's work for myself, was just that - the importance of seeing it. It's incredibly easy to voice an opinion about it (or any artwork for that matter) just from looking at images in books or online and reading articles about it. However, when I stood before it I gained an entirely different experience.
There is a longstanding romantic vision of the lonely penniless artist who produces art for art's sake (Van Gogh being the primary example of this - he was considered a massive loser by other artists and only sold one work in his lifetime but produced it en mass anyway). As wonderful as this mystical image is, I think it shoots a lot of artists in the foot. Why should an artist not have a workshop or make money?
Firstly, the workshop. Yes, Damien Hirst doesn't throw himself in to the sea, fight tiger sharks to the death and preserve them in formaldehyde all by himself. He has a team who does all this for him. For this reason he is frequently accused of not being 'an artist' because he has not 'created' his work. Initially upon hearing about his workshop I thought 'How isolating. How strange to stand next to your 'artwork' that you haven't had a creative hand in.' But when you think about it this isn't a new phenomenon. From the Renaissance there have been numerous Old Masters who had workshops producing their work with them. In these workshops young artists were trained in the style of the master's work and would produce certain aspects of a piece for them. For example, large portions of canvases (usually the boring parts like backgrounds or random body parts) would be painted by a master's workshop, and then he would add the finishing touches like facial features. There would be whole patches of canvas the master would not have touched. I feel like this is a part of art history that is conveniently ignored upon romantically contemplating the lone, suffering artist. Even contemporary artists have workshops like this - Ai WeiWei doesn't carry out the entire process for making his sculptures - there are casts his workshop works from.
Honestly, even when I argue about all of this, I'm not entirely sure where I stand on the definition of an 'artist' (which is a little worrying after having studied Art History for almost three years - but also probably a result of that). Must a true artist have physically created the work? Or could it actually be argued that the heart of an artist's practice lies in the generation of the creative idea? Surely the artwork (created through the physical process people attribute to being an artist) would not come to be without the thought that triggered it all to begin with?
Secondly, the amount of money Hirst makes. He makes colossal amounts of money - just look at the diamond covered jackets he wears in public. There has often been criticism that the amounts of money Hirst makes is ridiculous. Once again, I think there are aspects of history that have been overlooked. Artists have always had patrons and been commissioned for their work. Think of an individual like Goya who produced art for the Spanish Royal Family. Yes, he produced personal secret etchings, but he was also constantly making work for the Royal Family to make a living. Why should Hirst, or many other artists for that matter, not be allowed to make a profit from their artwork?
I accept that it is a struggle to ascribe monetary value to the result of a creative process. Upon discussing my future (Pah, future! I'm an art history student - I have no future!) with people working in an auction house they said to me 'You'll have to instantly lose any of your romantic ideas about art. You have to think of all of it in terms of money.' That was certainly something I struggled to hear. How could anyone say why one piece of art is worth, say, £20,000, more than another? But does this mean artists should not gain financially from their work at all? If actors or musicians producing their 'art' get paid such colossal amounts why should an artist be any different? I think it certainly is questionable as to why Hirst makes so much money out of his work, but the fact that he makes any at all should not be an issue.
I hope this post has triggered some food for thought - What defines 'art'? How much money should artists make? Can a diamond encrusted skull really be that captivating?
Debates about Hirst can be extremely intense and go on for hours. Just enter his name in to google and you can find endless articles arguing about his work.
Overall, I think one of the most important things I learn from taking the time to actually see Hirst's work for myself, was just that - the importance of seeing it. It's incredibly easy to voice an opinion about it (or any artwork for that matter) just from looking at images in books or online and reading articles about it. However, when I stood before it I gained an entirely different experience.
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