I have been remiss. Yesterday was one of my favourite artists' birthday: #davidhammons just turned 74. #hammons makes very simple yet extremely provocative #art. Like here, in 1983, where he's selling #snowballs he's made on the street in #newyork (his "Bliz-aard Ball Sale"). His body of work speaks about the politics of #race, #process and the 'currency' of art. He explores the status of the object but he also sheds light (and casts some serious shade in the process) on the way those objects are made, then come to and are then assimilated within the #market. Here's why I #love David Hammons. One of the best shows #whitecube did whilst I worked there was a very beautiful show of Hammons' work. Upstairs at Mason's Yard were 'Basketball Drawings' - apparitional #abstract works on paper made by coating a #basketball in #pigment and simply bouncing it on the paper. Downstairs were some killer sculptures and his wonderful 'Tarp Paintings' - Abstract Expressionist-inspired surfaces, painted by the artist, but then overlaid with and obfuscated by #tarp. The material used to hide rubbish. Or offer some form of shelter for the homeless. On the night of the opening all the salespeople were at the ready. Pumped for the show - which was quite, quite brilliant - and price lists at the ready. The crowd assembled outside was larger than usual. And then we got word that David had decided that it was OK for everyone to see the works upstairs but all the work downstairs were off limits. No-one was allowed to go down and see the work. Absofuckinglutely no-one. The visible was made invisible. The works weren't on hold; David put the market and the mechanics of the gallery on hold. It was a very simple, but telling gesture. The currency of art lies with the artist and not the gallery or auction house that sells it. Or the collector who buys it. It was a decision both fucking annoying and fucking genius all at once. If the art market is The Matrix then David Hammons is the Oracle. A sweet old man, maybe baking cookies and smoking a lot of cigarettes, who quietly and presciently knows fucking everything about fucking everything. Love.