06/12/2026
I became aware of art in 1984.
My parents were emerging collectors, inspired by Hunk and Moo Anderson, acquiring prints by Francis and Lobdell, ceramics by Gilhooly. I watched their process with mild, passive appreciation. And then the summer of ‘84, we went to LA for the art preceding the Olympic games, and something shifted.
The Hockney pool posters were everywhere. And I noticed.
Because he had captured my entire summer in a single image. Hours in the pool playing mermaid games, choreographing our interpretations of synchronized swimming. The sun off the water. The burn of chlorine. A plate of watermelon next to a woven lounge chair, a damp towel, my dad’s transistor radio carrying the baseball game across the yard.
I was 12. I didn’t have the language for what I was feeling. But Hockney did.
That moment, the recognition that an artist could hold your own life back to you and make it glow, is what drives everything I collect, everything I curate, every room I walk into hoping to feel it again.
Thank you, Mr. Hockney. You started something.
David Hockney July 9, 1937 - June 11, 2026
