From 1986 to early 1989, I dated a woman who, along with her two sisters, received a BFA from the University of Calgary. Her mother’s degree came from the renowned Alberta College of Art; her father sat on the board of governors. The family lived art. They were the polar opposite of mine: my parents were into music but did not embrace the painterly arts. I was clearly an art bumpkin when we met (my being a drummer gave me a pass!).
A patient teacher, my girlfriend turned me on to many painters from myriad schools, and taught me what to consider when viewing their works - any works, really. But perhaps the most important thing she introduced me to was the work of her favourite artist, David Hockney. Our breakup wasn’t great (I was a cad, I guess) but I’ll forever love her for this education.
Hockney’s sense of style was fabulous, going beyond the bold glasses and stripes and colored cardigans. I’m definitely not a Crocs wearer, but lemon yellow Crocs with a suit when meeting King Charles? It’s just so Hockney.
He was often divisive and more than opinionated, yet this is nevertheless a sad day for the art world even though his passing wasn’t unexpected. His pool paintings were a gateway for my on-the-fly ‘education’; I’m still little more than an initiate.
RIP.
