In a move that has stunned the nation's gin-soaked art critics and sent a ripple of sober reflection through the chattering classes, His Majesty the King has declared a period of national mourning for David Hockney, the man who taught us that swimming pools are not merely for swimming, but for contemplating the existential horror of chlorinated water. The tribute, broadcast across all major networks, showed the King looking appropriately sombre, possibly contemplating the price of a Hockney original or the sheer audacity of someone who could make a splash look like a masterpiece.
Hockney, who has shuffled off this mortal coil at the ripe age of 87, was described by the Palace as a 'giant of British art'. This is, of course, the same Palace that once thought a series of tapestries about unicorns were a good idea. But let us not quibble. The man painted swimming pools. He painted them with a fervour that suggested he had never actually fallen into one fully clothed, which, let's be honest, is the true test of one's relationship with water.
The nation, ever ready to embrace a bit of collective melancholy, has responded with predictable fervour. Flags are at half-mast, though it must be said that half-mast is also the preferred state of many a union jack after a particularly vigorous bank holiday. Twitter, that cesspool of digital outrage and poorly-lit food photography, has erupted in a symphony of hashtags. #HockneyHero, #PoolParty, and the inevitable #BrushesWithGreatness are all trending, the latter mostly from people who once stood near him at an art gallery opening and felt a bit of his genius rub off on their corduroy jackets.
The BBC, never one to miss an opportunity for a montage, has already aired a programme consisting entirely of Hockney's paintings set to the gentle strumming of an acoustic guitar. This, we are told, is to help the nation 'process its grief'. Because nothing says 'processing grief' like a pop-up art book and the dulcet tones of George Michael's 'Careless Whisper' playing in the background.
But what of the art itself? Hockney's oeuvre, a dizzying array of pale limbs, unflattering bathing suits, and the kind of sky you only see in California or in the fever dreams of an Englishman who has had too much sun. His portraits, capturing the ennui of the wealthy with the same precision he captured the shimmer of water, have been declared 'national treasures' by the kind of people who think a jar of Marmite is a legitimate art installation.
The King's speech, delivered with the gravitas of a man who knows that the next day's papers will either praise his sensitivity or mock his attempt at cultural relevance, spoke of Hockney's 'unwavering commitment to capturing the light'. Light. Yes. That elusive thing that Hockney chased across continents, from the damp greys of Bradford to the garish neons of Los Angeles. The King, to his credit, did not mention the elephant in the room: that Hockney's later works, a series of iPad drawings, looked suspiciously like the doodles one might create whilst on hold with British Gas.
And now, the nation mourns. We shall gather in pubs, raise a glass of something cheap and British, and pretend we understand the profundity of a man who could spend forty years painting the same swimming pool from slightly different angles. We shall nod sagely at documentaries that describe his work as 'exploring the nature of perception' rather than what it really is: a man with a lot of paint and a mild obsession with chlorinated water.
In the end, Hockney was a giant. A giant who wore thick glasses and a flat cap, who looked like a friendly geography teacher but produced art that made you question your own existence. Or at least made you want to go for a swim. The nation mourns, and somewhere, in a gallery in Yorkshire, a painting of a diving board leans slightly to the left, as if in tribute.
