What do you think?
Rate this book
280 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 2021
...when Covid-19 and lockdown struck, it made little difference to life at La Grande Cour, the centuries-old Normandy farmhouse where Hockney set up a studio a year earlier, in time to paint the arrival of spring. In fact, he relished the enforced isolation as an opportunity for even greater devotion to his art. Spring Cannot Be Cancelled is an uplifting manifesto that affirms art’s capacity to divert and inspire.
MG: What do you think when you see something very good by another artist?
DH: Well, you think 'Hmm, yes!' You're impressed. You get a bit jealous perhaps. I feel that, even of the etching on the wall behind you - by Leon Kossoff, isn't it? It's very, very good. He was always good, I thought. I liked him a lot.
I have often said that I can enjoy watching the rain in puddles, which makes me quite rare. I like rain. I have always done pictures of it. I did a print of the rain making the ink run, at the Gemini print studio in 1973.
When color television arrived, apparently Hockney noticed that by turning up the knobs, the picture can be made Fauvist. With FaceTime, you can get accidental effects much like late Bonnard.
He is the sort of person who can happily spend five hours just looking at an exhibition of paintings, and who for recreation, after spending a day drawing, might read Proust or Flaubert or zip through a seven-hundred-page study of Wagner's cultural influence.
There, in that chance visit to an exhibition, lay the germ for decades of thought and work: how the stroke of a brush, pen, or stick of charcoal could produce a picture that was better and in a way truer than any camera. What he saw in Marquet's work was what he also finds in Monet: beautiful marks that reveal the beauty of the world, so that when you've seen their pictures you see more in the world around you. Of course, that's what he's doing himself.
Just as the camera does not see space or sunsets as the human eye and brain perceive them, neither does it register the colours of flowers in the way that we experience them. That is why photographing a spring meadow, for example, is a frustrating business. Where you see a mass of wild blooms - red, yellow, blue, and white - the lens minimises these hues and records mainly grass and leaves. Monet's painter's-palette flower beds might not appeal to a serious aficionado of the herbaceous border. But then what a painter finds interesting will not delight every eye ('willows, old rotten planks, slimy posts, and brickwork' were on Constable's list of his favourite things). So arranging a garden for an artist to paint is different from making one for a horticulturist, a tree-fancier, or a lawn-lover. Conversely, what makes for a good painting or drawing is not necessarily the sort of prime specimen that would please a landscape architect or arboriculturist.
What is special about these landscapes is precisely that they are his own: long studied and internalised. He knows them deeply, thoroughly, intimately, and gets to see and understand more and more with each hour of attention. Bit by bit, these familiar spots turn out to be microcosms containing all the ingredients a painter could require.
The moral is this: it is not the place that is intrinsically interesting; it is the person looking at it. Wherever it is, it will part of the world; the laws of time and space will still apply. Then sun will rise and set, and so will the moon.
The message, though positive, is a tough one: 'The cause of death is birth'. But the pictures transmit the idea that idea through visual enjoyment or, to use an old-fashioned term, beauty.
DH: I think that there's a pleasure principle in art. Without it, art wouldn't be there. You can almost drain it away, but it still needs to be there. It's like in the theatre. Entertainment is a minimum requirement, not a maximum. Everything should be entertaining. You might go to higher levels, but you always need to accomplish that at least. The pleasure principle in art can't be denied; but that doesn't mean all art is easy and joyful.