The greatest living artist.

David Hockney, Yorkshire born artist and some time Angeleno, has died aged 88. A two pack a day man he chose to disregard his doctors’ advice and outlived the lot. Clearly he had what I think of as the ‘Keith Richard gene’.

Acrylics, giant murals, iPad and iPhone paintings, Polaroids – Hockney did it all. And his sense of fun, his sheer joy of seeing, pervades all. After graduation from the Royal College of Art Hockney was soon selling his prodigious output, having always been a workaholic, and moved to Los Angeles the first chance he got. Heck, if you were from Yorkshire – what Monty Python once called ‘The Third World’ – you would have moved, too.

While Hockney denigrated photography as ‘not really seeing’ he was an adept user of the medium, never less than with this cover for a newly revitalized Vanity Fair:

Hockney’s shoelaces.

Then there’s this exceptional Polaroid collage of an intersection in the California desert:

Hockney’s shoelaces.

The book of that deYoung exhibition linked in the opening of this piece remains available and is a great introduction to (later) Hockney art.