The Damien Hirst retrospective at Tate Modern feels a little like stepping into the world’s most aesthetically sophisticated morgue. Or pharmacy. Or aquarium. Or possibly all three. Hirst has always been a master of the aesthetic double-take; that unsettling moment when you realise you are admiring something you would normally avoid touching, inhaling, or being in the same postcode as. Tate Modern, ever patient with artists who enjoy provoking mild existential crises, gives him the full architectural stage.

The chronology unfolds like a case study in 1990s British bravado. Early vitrines containing immaculate, stainless-steel medical cabinets present themselves with the serene confidence of establishments that believe they can fix your life. Their neatly arranged pills and surgical tools gleam with the authority of institutions that historically have not deserved such trust. It is Minimalism with a pharmacy degree; a combination that is quietly hilarious once you notice it.
Then come the animals. The shark (suspended in formaldehyde with the gravitas of an Old Testament parable) still dominates the room, its open mouth captured in perpetual threat. Nearby, bisected cows and sheep rest in translucent tanks like unwitting co-authors of a very precise treatise on mortality. What is striking, all these years later, is how calm the works have become. Shock recedes; their strange dignity emerges. The vitrines no longer scream provocation; they whisper taxonomy.
The butterfly works shimmer with a kind of uneasy seduction. At a distance, the kaleidoscopic wings read like stained glass windows for a secular cathedral; up close, you are confronted with the fact that beauty here is built from bodies. Hirst has always understood the theological vocabulary of display (resurrection, relics, ritual) and he borrows it shamelessly, perhaps accurately noting that contemporary audiences respond more faithfully to colour gradients than scripture.
The dot paintings, presented en masse, perform an unexpected trick: they become less about repetition and more about the industrial comedy of an artist who outsourced an entire worldview to geometry and assistants. Their charm lies in their absurd seriousness, a reminder that systems break down not despite precision, but because of it.
Tate Modern’s vastness suits Hirst. The Turbine Hall’s industrial authority reframes the work as something closer to institutional critique than sensationalism. The retrospective reveals what was always true beneath the Young British Artist theatrics: Hirst is less a provocateur than a classicist of death. His materials  (glass, steel, insects, animals, pharmaceuticals) are curated with the emotional control of someone cataloguing the human condition rather than trying to shock it.
Leaving the exhibition, one feels that peculiar combination of sterility and awe Hirst excels at inducing. It’s the sensation of having visited a temple devoted to the paradox that life is both miraculous and, inconveniently, finite. And that, in Hirst’s hands, beauty and horror share remarkably similar lighting.