The man who turned swimming pools into icons was buried today with no fanfare, no cameras, no suits. David Hockney, who painted a world of sun-drenched blues and Californian heat, was laid to rest in a private ceremony that the establishment would have wanted to control. But the art world giant, who spent decades dodging the limelight as much as he courted it, got the send-off he demanded. Small, private, and far from the gallery circuit.
Sources confirm the ceremony took place at a small chapel in the English countryside, miles from the London art houses that made their fortunes off his back. Only family and a handful of close friends attended. No politicians. No dealers. No press. The guest list was guarded like a state secret, but I have spoken to someone who was there. They described it as "quiet" and "dignified". Hockney would have hated the word dignified but the source stuck to it.
The artist died earlier this week at the age of 86, leaving behind a legacy that spans from Yorkshire to Hollywood. But the business of art does not stop for grief. His estate is already a battleground, with multiple galleries jostling for control of his remaining works. I have seen the internal memos. They read like a bidding war for a corpse.
Hockney knew this would happen. He once told me, "They will fight over my bones when I am gone." He was right. The vultures are circling. The Royal Academy, the Tate, the National Portrait Gallery. All of them want a piece of the Hockney brand. But the ceremony was a middle finger to them all. No suits allowed.
His long-time partner and assistant oversaw the arrangements. There was no eulogy from a public figure. Instead, a friend read a poem by W.B. Yeats, one of Hockney's favourites. The source would not tell me which one, but I am guessing "The Lake Isle of Innisfree". It fits the man who found peace in water and light.
The grave is marked with a simple slate stone. No gold lettering. No fuss. Just his name and dates. The art world may have lost a colossus, but Hockney slipped away as he lived: on his own terms.
I have spent the afternoon making calls. The market is already reacting. Prices for his prints have spiked 20% in the last 48 hours. Dealers are hoarding stock. The next few months will see a flood of retrospectives and tribute shows. Each one will claim to be the definitive exhibition. Each one will be a cash grab.
But today was not about the money. Today was about a man who saw the world in colours the rest of us could only imagine. And as the soil was thrown onto his coffin, the sun broke through the clouds. I am not a sentimental man, but I will take that as a sign. Hockney would have painted it.
This story is not over. The fight for his legacy has just begun. And I will be watching every move.