In an article in the Guardian shortly before last week's Sotheby's auction of Hirst's work, cranky art critic Robert Hughes wrote this critique:
Despite dark economic clouds heading toward Wall Street while Hurricane Ike was stomping Galveston, Hirst's auction at Sotheby's raked in a reported $200 million. I understand that the really high bids were taken over the phone, presumably because flagrantly flaunting one's fat finances has become unseemly."[The] the presence of a Hirst in a collection is a sure sign of dullness of taste ... No wonder so many business big-shots go for Hirst: his work is both simple-minded and sensationalist, just the ticket for newbie collectors who are, to put it mildly, connoisseurship-challenged and resonance-free. Where you see Hirsts you will also see Jeff Koons's balloons, Jean-Michel Basquiat's stoned scribbles, Richard Prince's feeble jokes and pin-ups of nurses and, inevitably, scads of really bad, really late Warhols. Such works of art are bound to hang out together, a uniform message from our fin-de-siècle decadence."
I'm not trying to start of fist fight over whether Hirst is an important artist. I'm more fascinated by questions of how the marketplace values the arts-- or, for that matter, financial instruments, or real estate, or black tulips, or the menu at Portland's new top-end restaurant Lucier (where I hope the "Troll Caught Turbot" is actually caught by a troll).
In the most basic of economic theory, "value" is defined by what the market is willing to pay for a service or product. Thus, a pickled shark is worth $17 million because one collector is willing to write a check for that amount. Better cash it quickly Damien! By the way, here's a Hirst shark done in Legos:
Where am I going with this? Jeez, I don't know, plus I'm trying to watch "Dancing with the Stars" (sic), so leave me alone. I guess I'm just saying that perhaps we're entering a time of reckoning when market "corrections" will return sanity to our topsy-turvy world. Or maybe some investment banker is sipping a martini, staring at his new vitrine full of putrefying shark and wondering how to get a piece of that $700 billion the feds are getting ready to hand out.
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