RIP David Hockney

 

It is a profoundly grey day, which feels entirely inappropriate given the subject. David Hockney has died, and suddenly the world feels rather lacking in technicolour.

He was, quite simply, a giant. To glance at a Hockney is to think, oh, how lovely, a swimming pool, but to actually look, really look, is to be gently hit by the quiet, subversive brilliance of it all. He was painting queer desire, domesticity, and unapologetic pleasure back when the law of the land deemed his very existence a crime. To reframe "homosexual propaganda" into sun-drenched, glorious masterpieces is a level of chic activism some can only aspire to. There is a beautiful, poignant irony that he left us during Pride Month; a final, dramatic curtain call from a true pioneer who refused to live in the shadows. 

Whenever I manage to drag myself out of a darkened cinema or emerge blinking from the Underground, it is usually works like his vibrant splashes of Yorkshire or California that pull me into a gallery. His work possessed that rare, spectacular magic: making the incredibly complex look utterly effortless. The King has led the tributes, which is a classic establishment move, but Hockney belonged to the dreamers, the outsiders, and anyone who ever looked at a splash of acrylic and felt a sudden, overwhelming rush of joy.

The British art scene is suddenly looking terribly beige. RIP, David Hockney. You were utterly fabulous.