for the love of god


Hirst talks about the diamond skull almost as if it’s a mythical treasure – something that Indiana Jones might don his fedora for, that criminal gangs might plan to steal. In time, he imagines people fighting over it, dying for it. He sounds almost disappointed that he can’t keep it at home – “The insurance companies would go mental.” He’d evidently like it to end up in an international museum or gallery. As I am about to leave his office, Hirst and his assistants are trying on wigs: there’s a Ramones theme to the office Christmas party; the place rings with laughter. Hirst, in the silliest of wigs, asks whether I fancy some crisps or chocolate, pulling out a drawer stuffed full of both. I help myself to a chocolate bar. It’s a childish treat from someone with a lot of money who remembers what it was like to be born with very little.

more from Nicholas Glass at the FT here.