The King leads a nation in mourning, but for what exactly? David Hockney, that titan of Technicolor triviality, has been honoured in a historic tribute that feels less like a solemn farewell and more like a garish carnival of self-congratulation. Let us not mince words: Hockney was a giant, yes, but a giant of the very decadence that defines our age.
His pools, his lovers, his endless California sunsets: they are the visual equivalent of a civilisation past its prime, gaudy and obsessed with surface. Compare this to the Victorian era, where art served a moral purpose. Hockney’s legacy is a mirror to our own intellectual vacuity.
We weep for him, but we should weep for ourselves.
