Sculpture is a paradoxical medium. Often provoking (It looks like Britney Spears giving birth on a bearskin rug, but it isn’t really Britney Spears giving birth on a bearskin rug, wow, that’s confusing, y’all. Art is hard!) yet equally often irresistably attracting, it confounds as it engages. We adore, yet we recognize the falsehood inherent in the artist’s physical manifestation of an actual, yet independent subject; do we worship, or abhor?
Sometimes both. Two-part post. Sometimes the difference between appreciation and loathing just comes down to a point of view.
A mother was working in the kitchen, listening to her five-year-old son playing with his new electric train in the living room. She heard the train stop and her son saying, "All of you bastards who want off, get the fuck off now, cause we're in a hurry! and all of you bastards who are getting on, get the fuck on, cause we're going down the tracks".
In contrast to the public coming-out of Archie the London Giant Squid, Damien Hirst’s people were not consulted. Perhaps a bit of We’ll Show Those Toffeenosed Poms A Thing Or Two About Publicly Exhibiting Your Squid…I’m sure no-one on Earth with any degree of experience doubts either the ability or the inclination of Aussies to publicly exhibit their squid at the slightest provocation.
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