The art world gathered this morning. Not for a spectacle. For a farewell. David Hockney, the man who painted swimming pools and defied convention, was laid to rest in a private ceremony. The location, a closely guarded secret. The guest list, tight. This was no state funeral. Hockney would have hated that.
Inside the small chapel, old friends, family, a few select figures from the cultural establishment. No cameras. No press. That’s how he wanted it. A source close to the family told me: ‘He always said, if there’s a fuss, I’m not coming. Well, he’s not coming, but there’s still a fuss.’
But outside, the quiet hum of tribute. Downing Street released a statement. So did the Royal Academy. The National Portrait Gallery hung a single piece in his memory. The usual dance of institutional grief. But here’s the thing: the tributes feel genuine. Hockney was a figure who transcended the art world. He was a national treasure, but the kind who never quite played by the rules.
Westminster is watching. Labour sources tell me they’re planning a parliamentary motion. A cross-party tribute. Expect the usual flurry of PMQs mentions. But Hockney’s real legacy? It’s not in the speeches. It’s in the way he made Britain look at colour again.
Today’s service was low-key. But the silence is louder than any fanfare. The art giant is gone. The institutions bow. The game moves on.