2 thoughts on “Hockney and Friends”

  1. It is a source of rare and great pride to my hometown of Bradford in the UK than we claim David Hockney as one of our own with his having been born within a stone’s thrown of the City which used to be known as Woolopolis.

    It is in this spirit of pride that I relate the following story for amusement: In the late 1980s a writer for the local newspaper called in on David’s Mother who lived in the same a back to back terrace she had brought her son up in. As Mrs Hockney made tea the writer looked around her front room which was dotted by unique illustrations and paintings by the artist himself.

    Drawings of his mother, for his mother, on the walls of his mother’s house. Each one unique, each with something to say about the relationship between artist and and mother, artist and family, artist and home.

    Looking at these unique works he took his tea – our writer did – and asked Mrs Hockney if she was not worried that someone may break into her modest home and steal these works of art.

    Mrs Hockney mused for a moment.

    “No,” she replied “I’m not worried. If someone did I’d just ask our David to do me some more.”

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