IN A GALLERY at London’s Tate Modern, a slim man in dapper black business-casual clothes is pacing, grasping his cell phone (also black, though the grasping makes his knuckles very white). Mr. Biz-Cas is oblivious to the museum’s temple of hush. He stalks past people and paintings, ignoring the white/cream dots in a grid and a taxidermied dove rising in a gold frame. “Can you transfer 8000 pounds to my current account,” he asks someone on the other end of the line. It’s shocking to hear – in an art gallery at that. Welcome to the Damian Hirst retrospective, which might be called Damian Hirst LLC.