Overkill: art rising from the dead

aurel_schmidt_body_swallows worldThings have gone rather quiet on

the mortality front since queues stretched around the White Cube block in Mason’s

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Yard for a sight of Damien Hirst’s £50m sculpture For the Love of God. In google_ad_width = 970; those days of skulls and diamonds, Paul
Wilks wrote a letter to The

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Jackdaw lamenting the morbidity of contemporary art, wondering why two
horrific world wars had produced “art infused with

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LIFE” while a record period of peace and prosperity had left a legacy of art obsessed with death.

He had a point – there was a lot of it about.

From Ron Mueck’s Dead Dad //--> and the Chapmans’ Hell to Sam Taylor Wood’s time-lapse films of decomposing fruit
and furry animals and Marc Quinn’s endless stream of Blood Head selfies, the art world mood music of the turn of the century was the bells of hell going tingalingaling and
the tills chachinging. In those halcyon years of boom before the bust, vanitas, vanitas, all was vanitas. Since then, however, things seem to have moved on. Sam Taylor Wood has graduated from death to sex and Marc Quinn, for his new exhibition at White Cube Bermondsey (until 13 September), has turned his attention from reflections on his own mortality to wider considerations of time and tide in big lumpy sculptures of Frozen Waves à la Maggi Hambling.

While it’s still too early to speak of a google_ad_width = 970; full recovery, the morbidity does seem to be receding. We’ve heard less from //--> the media about that ghoulish reincarnation of Joseph Beuys, Gunther von Hagens, still trotting his plastinated corpses around the globe, and there’s been mercifully little mention of his Russian

fellow-ghoul Andrei Molodkin and his plans to boil down human volunteers into oil. Either the volunteers got cold-pressed feet or Molodkin dropped off the media radar. Either way, it seems to confirm the surmise that economic hardship promotes google_ad_slot = "7160667483"; positive art. Good news for Greece, where we can now look forward to a
revival of the Age of Pheidias.

Meanwhile back in Blighty Charles Saatchi – the former financier google_ad_height = 90; of the YBA death merchants who made possible The Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone

Living – has been bucking the trend with a silly season exhibition google_ad_slot = "6023194682"; Dead: A Celebration of Mortality at the Saatchi Gallery, timed to publicise the launch of his
book of google_ad_slot = "8637400688"; the same title. Bound like a mini-tombstone

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between fake marble covers with incised gold lettering, this tasteful little tome relays
a selection of the Evening Standard newspaper columns in which Saatchi has been google_ad_client = "ca-pub-3967079123942817"; jotting his weekly musings
on life and death /* xin2 */ in that strangely disjointed style that makes you think of a clerk in a green visor tapping away
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at a vintage telegraph machine. Either that or it makes you

the google_ad_width = 970; Daily Mail stained with blood and tea. Another displayed a pillar formed of resin src="//pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/show_ads.js"> casts of dead mice, a fake stuffed
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skunk in a museum case and a pair of genuine animal skins of a cat and dog. A third was

a morgue of grotesque human dummies made of urethane wax, old sweaters
and bandages, littered around in a range of abject poses. The only exhibit anyone lingered

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over was Body Swallows World (2006), a truly terrifying drawing of a forest

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of creepy crawlies by Aurel Schmidt that made

Southern Hemisphere, David Walsh – has progressed to subtler meditations on mortality in his 2013 series of photographic still lifes, Last Meal on Death Row.

One essay in Saatchi’s book tells the cautionary tale of American news anchor

Christine

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Chubbuck who shot herself on screen in

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1974 in protest at her channel’s obsession with gore. src="//pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/show_ads.js"> There’s only so much death a body can take. google_ad_client = "ca-pub-3967079123942817"; Even Damien Hirst, whose obsession with mortality may well be genuine, has stopped trying to flog a dead horse – with or without golden hooves – and started

looking on the bright /* xin-1 */ side of the life cycle. It began with that hideous series of Fact Paintings (2005-6) painted from photographs of the