The death of David Hockney, aged 87, has left a silence in the art world that feels almost as vivid as his swimming pools. The funeral, held yesterday at a small chapel in Bridlington, was a characteristically understated affair – no grand cathedral, no political procession, just family, a few close friends, and the grey North Sea sky. For a man who painted California in blazing pinks and yellows, it felt fittingly English: stoic, private, and a little damp.
Hockney’s work defined how we see modern Britain. From the flat, bright landscapes of the Yorkshire Wolds to the intimate portraits of friends in his Los Angeles studio, he captured a sense of place and connection that transcended trend. His iPad drawings, produced with the same restless curiosity he applied to photocollages and stage design, were a testament to a man who never stopped experimenting. To the public, he was the cheerful figure with the round glasses and the flat cap, who painted his terrier and insisted that art should be joyful. But beneath that was a rigorous intelligence, a refusal to conform that made him as controversial as he was beloved.
The funeral itself reflected the man. It was held at 11am, as Hockney always preferred to start his day early, and the service included a reading from his friend, the poet Simon Armitage, and a recording of Erik Satie’s Gymnopédies – music he had painted to for decades. The coffin was simple, birch wood, with a single arrangement of yellow roses from his garden. No eulogies were given; instead, guests were invited to share a memory over tea and shortbread in the chapel hall. It was, said one attendee, ‘the most Hockney way to say goodbye.’
What does this loss mean for the culture? Hockney was not just a painter; he was a lens through which Britain saw its own vitality. He made the national landscape feel modern, and he made queerness visible without fanfare. His influence runs through generations of artists who learned from his colour, his perspective, and his determination to see joy in the ordinary. In an age of digital reproduction, his insistence on the physicality of line and pigment seemed almost radical. His passing leaves a gap that cannot be filled, but his legacy will continue to shimmer in every pool, every dappled light, every ordinary moment he taught us to observe.
As the funeral cortege left the chapel and headed towards the coast, a light rain began to fall. It felt, somehow, like a benediction. David Hockney is gone, but his world – so vivid, so generous – remains.
