In a ceremony that reeked of old money and even older paint, His Majesty the King yesterday bestowed upon David Hockney the dubious honour of being labelled a ‘Giant of the Art World’ within the hallowed, draughty halls of Buckingham Palace. One can only assume the palace’s art collection, stuffed with dusty portraits of forgotten royals, felt a collective shudder as Hockney’s vibrant swimming pools and Californian sunbursts were wheeled past.
The event was a masterclass in the British establishment’s ability to co-opt counterculture. Here was Hockney, the boy from Bradford who dared to paint naked lads in showers and splash the world in swimming trunks, now being fawned over by a monarch whose family tree reads like a list of people who have never needed to queue for anything. The irony was so thick you could have framed it and sold it at Sotheby’s.
The King, dressed in a suit that cost more than most artists’ annual studio rent, spoke of Hockney’s ‘extraordinary vision’ and ‘contribution to the cultural fabric’. Meanwhile, one imagines Hockney, now 87 and still sporting those iconic round spectacles, was mentally sketching a caricature of the King’s horse-faced aides. The man who once said ‘I paint what I like, when I like, and where I like’ was suddenly the subject of a royal proclamation. That is the art world for you: a place where rebels become knights, and radicals are given gongs.
The tribute included a display of Hockney’s works spanning seven decades. There were the early etchings, the photocollages, the huge landscapes that look like giant postcards from a world we long to escape to. Each piece seemed to mock the stuffy surroundings. The palace’s chandeliers dimmed in comparison to Hockney’s use of colour. The Royal Standard fluttering outside suddenly looked a bit, well, beige.
But the real performance was Hockney’s brief speech. He rambled about how he never wanted to be an old master, he wanted to be a new one. The audience of art critics, tweed-wearers, and minor royals nodded as if they understood. Most probably thought a ‘Yorkshire terrier’ was a kind of dog. Hockney’s thick accent and no-nonsense attitude were a welcome splash of cold water on the palatial pomp. He even made a joke about the gin in the palace bar, which I must say is a subject close to my heart.
Let us not forget the context. Britain burns. The NHS crumbles. The cost of living laughs in our faces. And here we are, watching a monarch give a medal to a man who paints pools. It is either a sublime distraction or a perfect metaphor. Hockney’s art is an escape, a bright lie. But maybe, just maybe, that is what we need. A respite from the grey. A vision of somewhere sunny where men lounge by the water and the colours never run.
So raise a glass of cheap gin to David Hockney, the giant who paints tiny figures. To the King, who probably owns a pool but never swims in it. And to the nation, forever caught between satire and sentiment. This was not a news event. It was a performance art piece. And I say that with admiration.
