The former hell-raising, hard-partying YBA known for slicing animals in half is now painting trees in bloom. Has he lost his edge? And why is his hair blue?
The first thing that hits me when I see Damien Hirst’s Cherry Blossoms isn’t the scale (monumental) or the palette (psychedelic) but the paint itself. It’s thick, sticky and a little bit nasty. Creamy-white and dusty-pink daubs swirl from the surface like meringue kisses, fragile and sugary sweet. Others are more chewy, like dried gum. Then there are the viscous splats of mustard-yellow and brown, which are toe deep and remind me of something I side-stepped on the pavement this morning.
“I think the idea of being a painter has always appealed to me,” says Hirst, who is more famous for what we might call his non-canvas work. “I suppose it’s that old story of Turner being strapped to a mast during a storm so he could paint it – it’s a romantic thing.”
