Word reached the Lobby just after noon. David Hockney, the man who painted swimming pools and Yorkshire landscapes with the same vivid fervour, had gone. Not with a bang.
Not with a champagne-soaked wake. A low-key funeral. That’s the word from the gallery insiders.
The art world is in mourning, but the man himself chose silence. No grand state send-off. No fanfare.
The Tate is preparing a statement. Expect plenty of 'one of the greatest British artists of the 20th century' platitudes. But the real story is the quiet dignity of it.
He never did like the pomp. Remember the row over the Royal Academy retrospective? He wanted it in the spring, not the autumn.
Got his way. Always did. The funeral was a small affair, they say.
Just family. A few close friends. No politicians.
No cameras. That takes discipline in this town. The legacy will now face its greatest test.
The galleries will scramble for his late works. Prices will spike. But Hockney, even in death, dictated the terms.
The last masterpiece is his exit. A man who spent a lifetime looking at the world, never wanted us looking at him. Not at the end.
The Lobby knows that kind of control. Rare. Powerful.
That’s the Hockney way.