The art world is in mourning. David Hockney, the painter, draftsman, printmaker, stage designer, and photographer who defined the visual language of the 20th century, has died at the age of 87. His passing marks the end of an era for British art, but his influence—like the pixels on an iPad, which he famously wielded in his later years—is indelible.
Hockney was not just an artist; he was a technological pioneer. Long before the rest of the world understood the creative potential of the smartphone, he was using Brushes, a painting app on the iPhone and iPad, to produce vibrant, luminous landscapes. The California sun of his adopted home, Los Angeles, seemed to seep through the screen. Critics scoffed. Hockney simply shrugged and sold the digital prints for thousands. He understood that the tool does not define the art, the vision does. That is the mark of a true innovator.
His legacy is a fascinating case study in digital sovereignty. In an age where Big Tech hoards our data and algorithms shape our tastes, Hockney embraced the very same technology to assert his own creative independence. He did not wait for permission from the art establishment. He used the tools available, hacked them for his own ends, and showed the world that art can live anywhere, even on a glowing rectangle in your pocket. That is a lesson for every creative professional staring down the barrel of automation.
But Hockney’s impact extends far beyond the canvas of a tablet. He fundamentally changed how we see the world. His photo collages, the iconic “joiners,” seem almost quaint today, but they were a radical deconstruction of perspective. In the 1980s, he took Polaroid snapshots of the same scene from multiple angles and assembled them into a single, Cubist-like mosaic. It was a premonition of our fractured attention spans, of the endless scroll. He saw the future and painted it.
The user experience of society, as we might call it in my world, was always at the centre of his work. He painted swimming pools not just as water but as light and movement. He painted portraits that captured a person’s essence, not just their likeness. He understood that every interaction with an artwork is a transaction. The viewer brings their own data, their own memories, and the painting completes the circuit. That is what made his work so profoundly human.
Now, as we reflect on his life, we must ask ourselves: what does it mean to be an innovator in the age of AI? Hockney was a Luddite in the best sense. He admired craft and manual skill but was never afraid to adopt new tools. He famously said, “The moment you cheat for the sake of beauty, you know you’re an artist.” He believed in the artist’s hand, not the algorithm. Yet he also said, “It’s very good to copy something, because you learn.” That is the paradox. Hockney copied the old masters, he copied Picasso, he copied the Fauvists. But he always transformed what he copied into something new. He was the original transformer.
His British legacy is cemented. The Tate, the National Portrait Gallery, the Royal Academy of Arts—each holds a piece of his soul. But his global influence is immeasurable. From the beaches of California to the landscapes of Yorkshire, Hockney saw colour where others saw grey. He painted joy in a cynical world. That is no small feat.
As we stand at the precipice of artificial general intelligence, quantum computing, and a future that seems increasingly abstract, Hockney’s work is a reminder that technology is only a mirror. It reflects our own desires, fears, and creativity. He used the iPad and Photoshop to create art that could only have been made by a human being. That is the ultimate defence against the machine.
We will not see his like again. But we can learn from his approach. Innovate not for innovation’s sake but for beauty. Question the tools but never fear them. And always, always paint the world as you see it. David Hockney did that, and the world is richer for it.
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