Myra Hindley’s mugshot, at 9 by 11 feet. The image at the center of headlines and much controversy following its display in the 1997 exhibition ‘Sensation’, Marcus Harvey’s Myra is no stranger to debate. Labelled a “sick exploitation of dead children” by the charity Kidscape in the '90s, and the cause of weeks-long protests on the steps of the RA, the painting depicts Moors Murderer Hindley in children’s handprints – a choice that evoked national rage.
Yet the impact of such a widely controversial work is all but lost in debate until it's right in front of you, a fact I learned very quickly when I arrived at the Newport Street Gallery, Vauxhall. Framed by the exhibition’s entrance way, the potency of Hindley’s gaze looms over the gallery's foyer, unsettling instantly and establishing a sense of dread that seems to linger throughout the show.
The Newport Street Gallery, owned by artist Damien Hirst, recently staged the exhibition ‘Dominion’, a show consisting of some 80 works all owned by Hirst and curated by none other than his 29-year-old son Connor Hirst. Featuring the works of Warhol, Bacon and many of Hirst’s contemporaries, ‘Dominion’ feels like an artistic insight into Hirst’s consciousness: a place of provocation, commercialisation and occasional garishness, all framed within sleek, white cube packaging. The show also marked the younger Hirst’s curatorial debut, and though the débutant is not entirely lacking in promise, there remains some work to be done.
Marcus Harvey’s 'Myra' in Room 1
From Banksy to Bacon, ‘Dominion’ is packed with names both big and small, occasionally interspersed with archeological relics – including a pierced ceremonial skull – that no doubt fetch millions. Hirst features himself in Room 3 in the form of a spot painting and in the company of Jeff Koons and Banksy. Sarah Lucas features prominently in both painting and sculpture, while artist Wes Lang, easily mistaken for Basquiat, appears consistently throughout.
And, though nothing was apparently wrong with Hirst’s curatorial choices, there was nothing strikingly correct. In fact, there seemed a strange absence of conscious curatorial direction throughout, with many choices feeling incidental. Tenuous links between colour and form were made to string together works, with the most notable being a "red room" centered around a small Banksy sign and a rather loud Sarah Lucas triptych. For the most part, though, there remained a feeling of disunity throughout the exhibition: dialogue between the works, as well as with the viewer themselves, struggled to be ignited.
In a somewhat utilitarian approach, placements were seemingly determined spatially and according to convenience. Gavin Turk’s Giraffe (2021) was condemned to a small section of wall conjoining two rooms, while his series Transit Disaster appeared in near entirety scattered throughout the space. A pastiche of Warhol’s infamous Silver Car Crash (1963), the Transit Disaster silkscreens are rendered mere imitation when unfairly placed opposite Warhol himself, in the form of his Electric Chair series. If this is dialogue between works, it is not a happy one.
Warhol’s 'Electric Chair' silkscreens
An oddity of ‘Dominion’ was the complete lack of labels. All works, barring the prized skulls, were displayed completely unidentified, a choice that came across as pretentious and illogical. What viewers were given was a corresponding map that labels each work with the minimal title, date and artist, and leaves the viewer turning in circles matching the map to their surroundings – the process of which, when done under Myra Hindley’s gaze, is enough to make anyone break into a cold sweat.
Hirst’s choices of works, however, were undeniably perceptive: a striking balance between old and new, shock and subtlety, and always impactful no matter how familiar the works. In short, ‘Dominion’ is an exhibition carried by the strengths of its artists. Francis Bacon, Patron Saint of the YBAs remains as strikingly nauseating as in 1944 when the Studies...for a Crucifixion were first done, whilst Matt Collishaw’s Wound (1996) refuses to buckle under the gaze of Harvey’s Myra. A personal favourite, however, is found in the inclusion of an Angus Fairhurst piece entitled The Great Ecstasy. The dilapidated sign, a relic of the '90s recession, appears obscurely high from the lower gallery, becoming only later becoming easily discernable from the upper gallery. It is Tracey Emin, however, who bids farewell in neon cursive above the exhibition’s exit.
‘Dominion’ is in many ways exactly what you would expect: indulgent, if not aimless at points. And yet, it somehow finds ways to excite, unnerve and provoke, despite some of its curatorial shortcomings. Built on works that retain their impact, ‘Dominion’ sees Connor Hirst revive some of the '90s ethos of shock and provocation and testify to the remaining power of some of modern art’s most familiar sights.
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