In a shocking development that will surprise absolutely no one who has ever met a celebrity octogenarian, David Hockney, Britain’s greatest living artist, has apparently shuffled off this mortal coil in a low-key funeral that was so low-key it was almost a state secret. The funeral, held in a private ceremony, was so discreet that even the pigeons in Trafalgar Square were left wondering if the man who painted swimming pools had finally decided to take a permanent dip.
Now, let’s be honest: if there’s one man who deserved a send-off with more pizzazz than a wet fart in a library, it’s Hockney. The man who gave us exploding splash zones in California, who turned Yorkshire’s dull fields into psychedelic patchworks, who wore mismatched socks before it was ironic. But no. Instead of a televised parade with floats shaped like giant paintbrushes and a motorcade of electric blue Rolls-Royces, we got a quiet ceremony. A whisper. A barely audible sigh from the art world.
I can imagine the scene. A handful of mourners, huddled in a crematorium that looks suspiciously like a branch of John Lewis. Hockney’s casket, presumably painted in primary colours and featuring a portrait of the artist as a young man staring at his own reflection. The vicar, possibly wearing a rainbow chasuble, mumbles something about “legacy” and “colour theory.” A single cello plays a dirge that sounds eerily like the theme from ‘The Snowy Day.’ And then, poof. Up in smoke, just like that. No fireworks. No confetti. Not even a commemorative plate.
Now, I’m not saying Hockney’s exit should have been a circus. But when you’ve spent your life waging war on drabness, you don’t go out with a whimper. You go out with a bang. A bazooka of brilliant blue. A cannon of cadmium yellow. Instead, we get a funeral that would have been too understated for a minor poet from Hull.
The British art establishment, predictably, is in a tizzy. But let’s be real: this is the same establishment that gave us the Turner Prize, which is basically a game of ‘how conceptual can we get before someone throws a bucket of paint at the wall.’ They’ll now spend weeks issuing pallid statements about Hockney’s “profound influence” and “indelible mark,” while the rest of us are left wondering why the man who made swimming pools look like cathedrals didn’t get a cathedral of a funeral.
So here’s a toast to David Hockney, you magnificent bastard. You painted a pool and made it a portal. You found a way to turn the English countryside into a psychedelic hellscape of beauty. And you died with the same quiet dignity that you lived with, flipping a giant middle finger at the idea that death should be anything other than mundane. But let’s be honest, mate: you deserved a party. A bloody big one. And if there’s any justice in the afterlife, you’re already sipping a gin and tonic in a celestial pool, surrounded by naked men and badminton nets. Cheers.