Walking past the Gagosian on Davies St on Friday, I saw prints being taken out and put in the back of a cab. This is the activity on the eve of a new exhibition of Hirst's work (which also happens to coincide with another brief show across town. In another coincidence I have no idea whether Tracey Emin was on her way to the Gagosian).
I'm reading a book on Hirst at the moment which is rather good. I like this, for example:
I have proved it to myself that art is about life and the art world's about money. And I'm the only one who fucking knows that. (1996)