The deadness of Hirst’s product lines—flipping the bird to anyone who naively craves more and better from art—upsets a lot of people. I deem their ire misdirected. Don’t shoot the messenger. Hirst honestly vivifies a situation in which the power of money celebrates itself by shedding all pretext of supporting illiquid values.

Peter Schjeldahl smacks Damien Hirst (and his devotees and detractors) upside the head

Per usual, Schjeldahl states in elegant prose my scattered, inarticulate feelings about a visual artist. In this case, Damien Hirst, who, as the critic points out, isn’t interesting enough to get offended or self-righteous about (see: David Hockney, oh the irony!) and is guilty only of accepting the market’s obscene terms. If he didn’t, someone else would. Carry on, and let art eat itself.

Reading Schjeldahl’s column, it occurred to me that his position on Hirst is closely related to why I can’t be arsed to care one way or the other about Lana Del Rey. (And it would be easy to connect dots between, say, the deadness of Hirst and the blankness of LDR.) Aside from her SNL performance (awful and honestly called by ordinary folk living in blissful ignorance of purported metanarratives), Lana Del Rey—her music, her persona, her provocations—doesn’t merit outrage because she doesn’t merit notice. She’s the indie pop star the online hype-machine-as-celebration-of-hype demands and deserves. But it’s not like she invented the machine or anything. Carry on, and let, well … you know.

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