Vol. 159 / No. 1375
Vol. 159 / No. 1375
VENICE IS A city that floats in time as well as place. In
contrast to Rome, steeped in ancient remains, Venice lacks a classical origin –
its Greco-Roman antiquities were imported rather than unearthed. Renaissance
artists such as Titian created a fictional past for the city, imagining
mythological scenes in the landscapes of the Veneto. It is apt, then, that Damien
Hirst has made Venice the setting of Treasures from the Wreck of the
Unbelievable (to 3rd December), his own grandiose act of mythmaking and
artistic renaissance. Ten years in the making, it is a wildly ambitious feat –
a wholesale canon of fake history.
To call Hirst’s Venice extravaganza an ‘exhibition’ in the
conventional sense would be to deny its dizzying excess of scale and spectacle.
Arrayed throughout the two vast buildings of the François Pinault Foundation –
Palazzo Grassi and the converted customs house, the Punta dell Dogana, Venice –
this outpouring of bronzes, marbles, coins, gold and silverware, and other faux-archaeological
curiosities in myriad precious materials, from malachite to jade, has the scale
and interminability of a great imperial museum (Fig.90), or perhaps an ancient triumphal
procession of spoils.
Navigating the galleries and stairways, one has sense of a
giant classical-Baroque fist smashing through contemporary tastes and pieties.
This fist finds embodiment in the headless colossus which rises through the three-storey
atrium of Palazzo Grassi. Titled Demon with bowl (exhibition enlargement) (cat.
p.155; Fig.92), the bronze-painted giant appears mid-stride, bearing a massive
bowl, while its other hand hangs in the slackened attitude of Michelangelo’s
David. The body is monstrous in size and bulk, its penis bearing down like a
missile ready to fire. In a surrealist twist, its scarred bronze surface is
littered with sea anemones, coral and cucumbers.
These marine accretions point to the elaborate backstory
accompanying Hirst’s canon of objects. The treasures in Venice are said to derive
from the art collection of Cif Amotan II, a freed slave from Antioch who lived
in the first century AD and amassed a dazzling hoard from across the ancient
world. Amotan’s ‘commissions, copies, fakes, purchases and plunder’ were lost
at sea, and in 2008 the vast wreckage site was discovered off east Africa. In
each of the show’s capacious venues, Hirst purports to show the recovered artefacts
alongside ‘modern’ reconstructions. The date of 2008 is telling. It not only
marks the decade-long germination of this project, but also takes us back to
Hirst’s last great act of hubris – his auction of 244 new works at Sotheby’s,
just two weeks before the financial markets crashed.
The Venice project reveals Hirst’s hubris to be undimmed.
Much of the work looks different from anything he has made in the past, but his
old fascinations with death, belief, reproduction – and lucre – remain
palpable. There is a brazen admission of the way in which art (perhaps all art)
professes its unbelievability while simultaneously luring viewers into its
perfidy – demanding that we suspend disbelief. If Hirst’s largest sculptures in
bronze and marble appear to have emerged from 3D printers (which in a sense they
have – rendered from digital models by a foundry), this is part of the point.
The tale of the shipwreck is knowingly, preposterously
fanciful. In various works, sea encrustations appear to have been incorporated into
‘original’ sculptures, as if they were always part of the work: Hirst’s fiction
folds in on itself. Reclining woman (2012; pp.66–67), for example, a nude
carved from glittery white marble, is presented as an antique fragment
(supposedly the lid of a sarcophagus) – her breast and a slither of shin are
missing – and yet she is garlanded with marble sea sponges. Elsewhere the
shipwreck story – always paper-thin – seems to unravel altogether, as in the
pink marble Five grecian nudes (2012; pp.48–49), which look closer to identikit
shop mannequins.
Hirst has, in this way, created a corpus of work that revels
in unreality and spills repeatedly into kitsch, an affront to good taste and
serious judgment. But there is something liberating in this – not just for
Hirst but the viewer. Not to fall – however grudgingly – for the pure
spectacularity of the event would be to lack a sense of what has so often made art
so powerful (if not always good). Every criticism that has been levelled at the
show – of vulgarity, fakeness and profligacy – is part of its force, its
pounding raison d’être. Many of the works are individually unimpressive, but this
hardly seems to matter: through their scale and breadth Hirst’s treasures
achieve a cumulative effect that is swaggering, almost pugnacious.
This bullishness is checked, however, by a lurking
self-mockery. There is an obvious irony in the story of the former slave, ‘bloated
by excess wealth’, and this quality pervades – more or less subtly – the entire
display. The bronze Bust of a collector (2016; p.195) depicts Hirst in the
guise of an ancient potentate, coral creeping across his shoulder like ermine.
Each half of the exhibition is prefaced outside by an oversize sculptural tableau
in marble or bronze. Each is titled The fate of a banished man (2008; pp.30–31;
and 2014; p.153) and shows a man on a horse, being strangled by a massive snake
– a kind of high-octane version of Leighton’s Athlete wrestling with a python
(Tate, London). Possibly it is another oblique reference to Hirst himself,
excommunicated by the tastemakers of the art world – squeezed but not yet
vanquished.
These elements of humour and self-parody become overt in
Andromeda and the sea monster (2011; pp.184–85). This truck-sized diorama in
bronze shows the mythological heroine chained to a rock, howling like one of
Franz Xaver Messerschmidt’s agonised portrait-heads, while a great white shark rears
up at her. The shark, a melodramatic echo of Hirst’s becalmed animals in
formaldehyde, is engulfed in a side-battle with an octopus and dragon. The
spectacle is close to a theme-park sensation in fibreglass, subdued only by the
midnight-blue tincture of the bronze.
If this work seems ridiculous and sublime in the same
moment, it is because Hirst’s entire project is an elaborate hybrid. Greco- Roman
myths and motifs figure heavily: one of the most memorable pieces is a
screaming head of Medusa, reminiscent of Caravaggio’s painting, carved from
malachite (pp.198–99; Fig.93); and there is also a towering pyramidal group
depicting Cronos devouring his children (2011; pp.134–35), a kind of Baroque horror
show-cum-garden ornament. But there are also myriad allusions to Indian, Egyptian
and Meso-American cultures, not to mention more recent imports (‘made in China’
is stamped on the back of one statue). The entire experience is akin to a
sprawling Modernist poem, littered with quotations and lurching between
registers.
Occasionally, kitsch subsumes the work, as for example in a
giant Aztec ‘calendar stone’, which recalls a floral plantation on a
roundabout. But in parallel to the works’ sensationalism (or pure silliness)
there is repeatedly a subtext of sensuality, irrationality or violence. At
times this explodes into view: The minotaur (2012; pp.140–41) depicts the
mythological beast – a rippling bronze hulk in black granite – having sex with
a screaming captive woman.
We might detect, in this strange combination of bombast and
beauty, a will not to be taken seriously. And yet there does seem to be a
serious intent at the heart of Hirst’s project – a belief in art’s capacity to
be many things. He steers a path between the relentless levity of (say) Jeff
Koons and the portentous seriousness of contemporary mythmakers such as Joseph
Beuys. By constructing an entire mythological world, he both parodies and
probes the fickle nature of mythology (as, for example, does Ovid in the
Metamorphoses, where seriousness and pastiche are frequently hard to
distentangle).
It has been suggested that Hirst is, at heart, a curator
more than an artist – as witnessed by his organisation of the exhibition Freeze
in 1988, or more recently his Newport Street Gallery in Vauxhall. But Treasures
from the Wreck of the Unbelievable makes clear that these are not separable
identities. He has created (or curated) his own museum and mythosphere – a
labyrinthine edifice, simultaneously monumental and flimsy, documented in an
encyclopaedic catalogue.1 Excluded from the categories of good taste and
critical discourse, he has written his own grand narrative – a glorious frame
in which his work can reside on its own terms.
1 Catalogue: Damien Hirst – Treasures From The Wreck of the
Unbelievable. With contributions by Martin Bethenod, Elena Geuna, Franck
Goddio, Henri Loyrette and Simon Schama. 322 pp. incl. over 200 col. ills.
(Other Criteria, London, and Marsilio, Venice, 2017), £75. ISBN
978–1–906967–80–2.