Damien Hirst - Immaculate Heart

#2
gobbyidiot said:
Has anyone slagged this already? What an imagination from Britain's preeminent modern artist. Where on Earth does he get his inspiration?

http://www.guardian.co.uk/artanddesign/gallery/2008/jul/29/damien.hirst?picture=336031350
That particular one looks like the inspiration came from the forearm of a 18 year, 7 stone (wet through) jock full screwin the catering corps, with a penchant for heavy drinking, poncing roll ups and domestic violence.

Crap squaddie tattoos...who'd f ucking have one, I ask you.
 
#3
Ah, Damian Hirst - the man for whom the term "One Trick Pony" was seemingly invented.

Still, as long as the art establishment remains unwilling to point out that the Emperor is naked he will continue to be able to earn £200-300K for 20 minutes' work.
 
#4
shortfuse said:
gobbyidiot said:
Has anyone slagged this already? What an imagination from Britain's preeminent modern artist. Where on Earth does he get his inspiration?

http://www.guardian.co.uk/artanddesign/gallery/2008/jul/29/damien.hirst?picture=336031350
That particular one looks like the inspiration came from the forearm of a 18 year, 7 stone (wet through) jock full screwin the catering corps, with a penchant for heavy drinking, poncing roll ups and domestic violence.

Crap squaddie tattoos...who'd f ucking have one, I ask you.
All it needs is a little scroll round the bottom with a misspelt Belizean Prostitutes name.

"Malinda forever"

Then I can imagine that arm being shaken in fury at someone attempting to remove an extra spoon of cornflakes from the brekky hotplate.
 
#5
convoy_cock said:
shortfuse said:
gobbyidiot said:
Has anyone slagged this already? What an imagination from Britain's preeminent modern artist. Where on Earth does he get his inspiration?

http://www.guardian.co.uk/artanddesign/gallery/2008/jul/29/damien.hirst?picture=336031350
That particular one looks like the inspiration came from the forearm of a 18 year, 7 stone (wet through) jock full screwin the catering corps, with a penchant for heavy drinking, poncing roll ups and domestic violence.

Crap squaddie tattoos...who'd f ucking have one, I ask you.
All it needs is a little scroll round the bottom with a misspelt Belizean Prostitutes name.

"Malinda forever"

Then I can imagine that arm being shaken in fury at someone attempting to remove an extra spoon of cornflakes from the brekky hotplate.
I think in this work, Hirst has perfectly captured a moment in time, that time is 07:00 sometime between 1986-1995 in BAOR, the smell of deep fried economy bread aneamic bacon, and a vat of plum tomatoes wafting across the cold tiles and white formica table tops, as the first "young heroes" shuffle bravely into the cookhouse, scratching their scrotums and sniffing their fingers, as banaal euro synth pop echoes tinnily between the plastic rubber plants.

The smell of a piece of toast, wedged into the conveyor of the deadly toasting machine, and the bright lights of the hotplate, beckoning them on to their heart breakfast.

the SUS are already gobbling cereal in their coveralls, under the bored watchful eye of the 23 stone RP corporal, who's own plate is a marvel of the practiced skill of "the beanstealers scoff balancing act"

The "chewing gum" white jacket of the ginger headed mostachioed sloppo, his rusty barnet and straggly lip hair exaggerated in the reflection of the brass covered heat lamps, his ruddy, acne scarred face already sweating out pure Herforder pils from last nights session, secure in the memory his wife will not be backchatting him from her starfished sparko position in the hallway, where he'd pulled her back into line for some minor infringement of domestic etiquette, by the medium of braying her in the chops with a glass ashtray, his small ferret like eyes scan the queue, daring... nay begging someone to commit the cardinal sin of army cookery.... the dreaded "third sausage".

I'll start the bidding at 3 yellow handbags and 14 swamped mattresses.
 
#6
shortfuse said:
convoy_cock said:
shortfuse said:
gobbyidiot said:
Has anyone slagged this already? What an imagination from Britain's preeminent modern artist. Where on Earth does he get his inspiration?

http://www.guardian.co.uk/artanddesign/gallery/2008/jul/29/damien.hirst?picture=336031350
That particular one looks like the inspiration came from the forearm of a 18 year, 7 stone (wet through) jock full screwin the catering corps, with a penchant for heavy drinking, poncing roll ups and domestic violence.

Crap squaddie tattoos...who'd f ucking have one, I ask you.
All it needs is a little scroll round the bottom with a misspelt Belizean Prostitutes name.

"Malinda forever"

Then I can imagine that arm being shaken in fury at someone attempting to remove an extra spoon of cornflakes from the brekky hotplate.
I think in this work, Hirst has perfectly captured a moment in time, that time is 07:00 sometime between 1986-1995 in BAOR, the smell of deep fried economy bread aneamic bacon, and a vat of plum tomatoes wafting across the cold tiles and white formica table tops, as the first "young heroes" shuffle bravely into the cookhouse, scratching their scrotums and sniffing their fingers, as banaal euro synth pop echoes tinnily between the plastic rubber plants.

The smell of a piece of toast, wedged into the conveyor of the deadly toasting machine, and the bright lights of the hotplate, beckoning them on to their heart breakfast.

the SUS are already gobbling cereal in their coveralls, under the bored watchful eye of the 23 stone RP corporal, who's own plate is a marvel of the practiced skill of "the beanstealers scoff balancing act"

The "chewing gum" white jacket of the ginger headed mostachioed sloppo, his rusty barnet and straggly lip hair exaggerated in the reflection of the brass covered heat lamps, his ruddy, acne scarred face already sweating out pure Herforder pils from last nights session, secure in the memory his wife will not be backchatting him from her starfished sparko position in the hallway, where he'd pulled her back into line for some minor infringement of domestic etiquette, by the medium of braying her in the chops with a glass ashtray, his small ferret like eyes scan the queue, daring... nay begging someone to commit the cardinal sin of army cookery.... the dreaded "third sausage".

I'll start the bidding at 3 yellow handbags and 14 swamped mattresses.
Shortfuse that was poetry sheer poetry, brought a tear to my (japs) eye.

I'll up the bid to one 3litre bottle of Asbach and 200 Embassy red.
 
#7
shortfuse said:
convoy_cock said:
shortfuse said:
gobbyidiot said:
I think in this work, Hirst has perfectly captured a moment in time, that time is 07:00 sometime between 1986-1995 in BAOR..........
That's good - you must be gutted that you've shown more art in your crit and he's the one getting paid.

Incidentally, have you seen the house he's refurbishing? The wages of sin may be despair but the wages of shit art are Premiership level.

Hirst's hoose - http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk/2005/sep/01/arts.artsnews
 
#8
Steven said:
shortfuse said:
convoy_cock said:
shortfuse said:
gobbyidiot said:
Has anyone slagged this already? What an imagination from Britain's preeminent modern artist. Where on Earth does he get his inspiration?

http://www.guardian.co.uk/artanddesign/gallery/2008/jul/29/damien.hirst?picture=336031350
That particular one looks like the inspiration came from the forearm of a 18 year, 7 stone (wet through) jock full screwin the catering corps, with a penchant for heavy drinking, poncing roll ups and domestic violence.

Crap squaddie tattoos...who'd f ucking have one, I ask you.
All it needs is a little scroll round the bottom with a misspelt Belizean Prostitutes name.

"Malinda forever"

Then I can imagine that arm being shaken in fury at someone attempting to remove an extra spoon of cornflakes from the brekky hotplate.
I think in this work, Hirst has perfectly captured a moment in time, that time is 07:00 sometime between 1986-1995 in BAOR, the smell of deep fried economy bread aneamic bacon, and a vat of plum tomatoes wafting across the cold tiles and white formica table tops, as the first "young heroes" shuffle bravely into the cookhouse, scratching their scrotums and sniffing their fingers, as banaal euro synth pop echoes tinnily between the plastic rubber plants.

The smell of a piece of toast, wedged into the conveyor of the deadly toasting machine, and the bright lights of the hotplate, beckoning them on to their heart breakfast.

the SUS are already gobbling cereal in their coveralls, under the bored watchful eye of the 23 stone RP corporal, who's own plate is a marvel of the practiced skill of "the beanstealers scoff balancing act"

The "chewing gum" white jacket of the ginger headed mostachioed sloppo, his rusty barnet and straggly lip hair exaggerated in the reflection of the brass covered heat lamps, his ruddy, acne scarred face already sweating out pure Herforder pils from last nights session, secure in the memory his wife will not be backchatting him from her starfished sparko position in the hallway, where he'd pulled her back into line for some minor infringement of domestic etiquette, by the medium of braying her in the chops with a glass ashtray, his small ferret like eyes scan the queue, daring... nay begging someone to commit the cardinal sin of army cookery.... the dreaded "third sausage".

I'll start the bidding at 3 yellow handbags and 14 swamped mattresses.
Shortfuse that was poetry sheer poetry, brought a tear to my (japs) eye.

I'll up the bid to one 3litre bottle of Asbach and 200 Embassy red.
In the words of one of the crowd in 'I'm Gonna Git You Sucka' when Superfly recites his 'Dat Bitch betta have my money' poem.

"Shakespeare, man. That guys a muthafcukin genius"

Sloppos wives, the only people to use MFO boxes as transport.
 

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