![]() Hirst was basically easy to capture: you could make him brutal, cynical in an “I shit on you from the top of my pile of cash” kind of way you could also make him a rebel artist (but rich all the same) pursuing an anguished work on death finally, there was in his face something ruddy and heavy, typically English, which made him look like a rank-and-file Arsenal supporter. ![]() There was certainly a problem with Koons. Jed shaded it with his brush and stepped back three paces. They could have been in Qatar, or Dubai the decoration of the room was, in reality, inspired by an advertisement photograph, taken from a German luxury publication, of the Emirates Palace Hotel in Abu Dhabi. The night was bright, the air absolutely clear. Hirst was drinking a Bud Light.īehind them, a bay window opened onto a landscape of tall buildings that formed a Babylonian tangle of gigantic polygons that stretched across the horizon. Between them, on the coffee table, was a basket of candied fruits that neither paid any attention to. ![]() Both of them were wearing black suits-Koons’s had fine pinstripes-and white shirts and black ties. Sitting opposite him, slightly hunched up, on a white leather sofa partly draped with silks, Damien Hirst seemed to be about to express an objection his face was flushed, morose. ![]() Jeff Koons had just got up from his chair, enthusiastically throwing his arms out in front of him. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |