(C) Damien Hirst and Science Ltd. All rights reserved, DACS 2011. Photography by Prudence Cuming Associates
Hirst and assistants' Moxisylyte, 2008–2011
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Yet not everything about this almost mythical me-first artist translated directly into personal enrichment. There are those, like this memorialist, who earnestly contend that Hirst is singularly responsible for the raising of the Tate Modern, the sphinx-like rebirth of the Turner Prize, and—together with the bands Pulp, Blur, Oasis, and the lads at Manchester F.C.—for having tractor-pulled Britain out of centuries of insipid brown-sauce nostalgia. They and, no doubt, others will miss the passing of this colossal figure: the Alpha Tout who best represented the pluck and promotion of Cool Britannia. Although loutishly British, Hirst was the art world's huckster laureate. But expiring at the dawn of an era when money is no longer regarded as the exclusive, all-consuming subject of art, Hirst passed on before the wind fully changed direction and blew the froth back in his face. Had he hung on much longer, he would have found that he and his art had finally—in the time it takes an actual living human to give a shit about something, anything, other than money—gone from cool to tool.