The Bradford-born painter who brought California sunshine to canvas was buried this morning in a private ceremony in the Yorkshire Dales, a final return to the landscape that shaped his early work. David Hockney, 87, died last week after a long illness, and his family requested privacy. Only 30 mourners attended the service at a small church near the village of Wold Newton, where Hockney had kept a studio since the 1990s.
His partner, Jean-Pierre Gonçalves de Lima, stood at the front, holding a single sunflower. The church was marked by modest floral tributes from local residents. ‘He was one of us,’ said Margaret Thorpe, 74, who lived next door to the church.
‘He came back here because he loved the light.’ Hockney’s career spanned seven decades, from the bold etchings of his Royal College days to the sweeping iPad drawings of Yorkshire’s seasons. But his legacy is also one of fierce independence.
He never stopped painting, even as arthritis twisted his hands. The art world’s elite paid tribute from afar. Tate director Maria Balshaw called him ‘a genius who demystified modern art’.
But in Bradford, where the council opened a book of condolence at Cartwright Hall, the grief is quieter. ‘He never forgot where he came from,’ said local Labour MP Anna Turley. ‘He always insisted his paintings of the Grand Canyon were painted from a Pentax photo he took in 1982.
No mythologising.’ That down-to-earth quality extended to his politics. Hockney was a vocal supporter of the miners during the 1984 strike, donating prints to raise funds for striking families.
‘He knew about struggle,’ said retired miner Dennis Riley, 81, from Barnsley. ‘His mum was a homemaker, his dad a conscientious objector. He didn’t live in an ivory tower.
’ The funeral, scheduled for 11am, went unannounced to avoid media intrusion. A single hearse arrived at the church, accompanied by a police escort. Inside, the service lasted 45 minutes.
A brass band played ‘Jerusalem’. Hockney’s ashes will be interred in the family plot in Bradford’s Undercliffe Cemetery, beside his mother and father. The National Portrait Gallery plans a retrospective in 2026.
But for those who knew him best, the private ceremony was apt. ‘David hated fuss,’ said his former dealer, Timothy Taylor. ‘He would have hated the headlines.
He just wanted to paint and be left alone.’ The churchyard is now empty save for the flowers. A light rain began to fall as the last car left.
In the distance, the hills rolled grey and green. It is the Yorkshire Hockney painted a hundred times. Today, they bury him in it.