SPANISH INQUISITION MEETING DAVID HOCKNEY ©2004
In February 2004 my wife and I were invited to spend a brief holiday with a friend of Susan’s in Mijas, a village near Malaga. Margaret Shotton is a Doctor of Philosophy and had lived in Nottingham until moving to Spain in 2001. She had been a regular early morning visitor to McDonald’s in Beeston, a Nottingham suburb, where she noticed Susan buried in her Times and Telegraph crossword puzzles. They struck up a friendship and Margaret became an avid crossword addict. Their choice of venue was largely governed by the endless supply of free coffee after you had bought the first cup.
We spent a delightful three days with Margaret and decided to move on to Malaga for the last three days. On our final day we realised that, although we had seen most of the sights, we had yet to visit the recently opened Picasso Museum. This was an inconspicuous building down a side street just a few minutes walk from our hotel. We arrived some ten minutes before the 10am opening and joined a group of around a dozen tourists waiting for the doors to open. Susan disappeared into a shop and as she emerged I noticed the arrival of a vaguely familiar man aged around 65. Brown jacket, sun glasses, trilby and walking stick. “Who does that remind you of ?” I asked Susan. She hesitated and ventured a guess, “David Hockney ?”. “It is David Hockney” I spluttered. He nodded a sort of greeting. I couldn’t resist an opening gambit. “Good morning, good to meet a fellow Bradfordian so far from home”. That broke the ice. And we chatted about our home town. We had visited the Hockney exhibition, which takes up four floors, at Salt’s Mill in Shipley, the scene of childhood expeditions to the family mobile home near Shipley Glen. Two of Hockney’s male friends joined in the conversation. “Have you been to Barcelona?” asked the world renowned artist. We hadn’t. “You must go, “he said. “The cathedral is awe inspiring.” We knew that. It’s reputation was legendary. Hockney chain smoked and bemoaned the petty restrictions we in the UK had to endure. Through the slight American accent there was still a trace of Yorkshire. You never lose it.
Promptly at 10am the doors opened, we trooped in and up the stairs. Hockney produced a purse, took out some money and bought an admission ticket. No one recognised him. He checked in his camera at security as did we and into the first gallery we went. I asked Susan not to crowd him. so we kept a discreet distance. However, whenever we got up close to one of Pablo’s great works of art there was David peering over our shoulders explaining the nuances of the work. Susan spotted a sculpture and over he came and told her much more about it than the guide could have done.
There was an amusing incident when we spotted an attendant seemingly admonishing Hockney over we knew not what. Hockney appeared to accept whatever criticism was being levelled at him but the attendant kept pointing to the walking stick. The museum had only been opened three months and apparently here was some upstart stabbing his cane into the pristine floor. Suddenly an office door opened and out came a female official with clip board She almost ran towards the attendant and, although we were out of earshot, she obviously ordered the poor man to back off. She knew who he was telling off even if no one else did-apart from us.
After we completed our tour of the galleries we headed down to the basement hoping for more artistic delights. It was just a basement but sure enough David and his pals followed us. Upon leaving the building I did something I don’t think I have ever done in my life. No, I didn’t want his autograph-just a photo. I took a shot and one of the accompanying young gents took two more.
We said our goodbyes and headed for some alfresco coffee. We phoned our very artistic son, Robert at his BBC desk. “Guess who we’ve been chatting to ?” At first he didn’t believe us but soon joined in the excitement.
There is a follow- up to this story. In 2005 we found ourselves staying at a rural hotel near Bridlington where Hockney’s mother had lived and his sister still did. The hotel had a small gallery with some paintings, the work of the owner’s father. There was a copy of the Guardian opened at a page showing a large photograph of David Hockney. At dinner that night we asked if we might meet the artist. He came to our table and it transpired that he was a personal friend of Hockney and if we were staying through to the following lunchtime he would be at the hotel. Regrettably we had a lunch appointment in Whitby but as the story unfolded the artist revealed that he had set up locations in the area for Hockney to paint. The results were exhibited at the Annely Juda gallery in London in 2007 and are about to be on view at the Royal Academy.
In February 2004 my wife and I were invited to spend a brief holiday with a friend of Susan’s in Mijas, a village near Malaga. Margaret Shotton is a Doctor of Philosophy and had lived in Nottingham until moving to Spain in 2001. She had been a regular early morning visitor to McDonald’s in Beeston, a Nottingham suburb, where she noticed Susan buried in her Times and Telegraph crossword puzzles. They struck up a friendship and Margaret became an avid crossword addict. Their choice of venue was largely governed by the endless supply of free coffee after you had bought the first cup.
We spent a delightful three days with Margaret and decided to move on to Malaga for the last three days. On our final day we realised that, although we had seen most of the sights, we had yet to visit the recently opened Picasso Museum. This was an inconspicuous building down a side street just a few minutes walk from our hotel. We arrived some ten minutes before the 10am opening and joined a group of around a dozen tourists waiting for the doors to open. Susan disappeared into a shop and as she emerged I noticed the arrival of a vaguely familiar man aged around 65. Brown jacket, sun glasses, trilby and walking stick. “Who does that remind you of ?” I asked Susan. She hesitated and ventured a guess, “David Hockney ?”. “It is David Hockney” I spluttered. He nodded a sort of greeting. I couldn’t resist an opening gambit. “Good morning, good to meet a fellow Bradfordian so far from home”. That broke the ice. And we chatted about our home town. We had visited the Hockney exhibition, which takes up four floors, at Salt’s Mill in Shipley, the scene of childhood expeditions to the family mobile home near Shipley Glen. Two of Hockney’s male friends joined in the conversation. “Have you been to Barcelona?” asked the world renowned artist. We hadn’t. “You must go, “he said. “The cathedral is awe inspiring.” We knew that. It’s reputation was legendary. Hockney chain smoked and bemoaned the petty restrictions we in the UK had to endure. Through the slight American accent there was still a trace of Yorkshire. You never lose it.
Promptly at 10am the doors opened, we trooped in and up the stairs. Hockney produced a purse, took out some money and bought an admission ticket. No one recognised him. He checked in his camera at security as did we and into the first gallery we went. I asked Susan not to crowd him. so we kept a discreet distance. However, whenever we got up close to one of Pablo’s great works of art there was David peering over our shoulders explaining the nuances of the work. Susan spotted a sculpture and over he came and told her much more about it than the guide could have done.
There was an amusing incident when we spotted an attendant seemingly admonishing Hockney over we knew not what. Hockney appeared to accept whatever criticism was being levelled at him but the attendant kept pointing to the walking stick. The museum had only been opened three months and apparently here was some upstart stabbing his cane into the pristine floor. Suddenly an office door opened and out came a female official with clip board She almost ran towards the attendant and, although we were out of earshot, she obviously ordered the poor man to back off. She knew who he was telling off even if no one else did-apart from us.
After we completed our tour of the galleries we headed down to the basement hoping for more artistic delights. It was just a basement but sure enough David and his pals followed us. Upon leaving the building I did something I don’t think I have ever done in my life. No, I didn’t want his autograph-just a photo. I took a shot and one of the accompanying young gents took two more.
We said our goodbyes and headed for some alfresco coffee. We phoned our very artistic son, Robert at his BBC desk. “Guess who we’ve been chatting to ?” At first he didn’t believe us but soon joined in the excitement.
There is a follow- up to this story. In 2005 we found ourselves staying at a rural hotel near Bridlington where Hockney’s mother had lived and his sister still did. The hotel had a small gallery with some paintings, the work of the owner’s father. There was a copy of the Guardian opened at a page showing a large photograph of David Hockney. At dinner that night we asked if we might meet the artist. He came to our table and it transpired that he was a personal friend of Hockney and if we were staying through to the following lunchtime he would be at the hotel. Regrettably we had a lunch appointment in Whitby but as the story unfolded the artist revealed that he had set up locations in the area for Hockney to paint. The results were exhibited at the Annely Juda gallery in London in 2007 and are about to be on view at the Royal Academy.
