Curator Paul Pieroni, 31, goes so far as to insist that Hirst is “the embodiment of everything that’s wrong with contemporary art, across the board?…?He is Thatcher’s child, the essence of neoliberalism that prioritizes the entrepreneurial essence of who you are.”

But then, almost as though their knees have finished jerking, they begin to praise what Hirst has done to change the London scene. Pieroni even admits to having “very warm, runny feelings about early Hirst shows?…?I get a flutter when I think about ‘A Thousand Years.’?” Hoyland, who came to London from Bury in Lancashire, says that “there were no f–king northerners in the art world, and certainly no working-class northerners?…?I don’t think I’d be here without Hirst. I’d be a graphic designer in Leeds or Doncaster.”

Conroy insists that, like it or not, Hirst is simply unignorable. “The business model is what’s interesting,” he says. “The way it deals with the machinations of the market.” He shakes his head, in grudging admiration, over Hirst’s diamond skull: “If you make something that is so s–t, and then sell it to yourself, then it’s interesting.”

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