)
Although he doesn't like the tag, Bradford-born David Hockney
is perceived by the public as a pop artist. This work dates around a very
important year of discovery for Hockney.
He made his first major impact as a painter with the Young Contemporaries
Exhibition in January 1961 and painted in a deliberately rough and rudimentary
style which owed a great deal to Jean Dubuffet and discussions with RB Kitaj
(also featured in 'Sussed'). He visited New York, bleached his hair and began
to present a new image.
This artwork was conserved in 2001 with the aid of a grant from North West
Museums Service
Over the centuries, hero worship has changed. Once we looked up to royalty,
political figures and the military. Now we worship celebrities from television,
music and sport. We copy their clothes, style and logos in an effort to be
like them. We buy the things they advertise.
What effect does this change have on society?
My heroes are the musicians-magicians who heard the call, who refused the
call, then accepted the call, who crossed the dangerous thresholds of perilous
places and were tested.
Who faced the desperate ordeal, the dance with death, the confrontation with
the ultimate enemy. Who seized the grail, the elixir of life, the philosopher's
stone; who, in bringing it all back home, were pursued by fearful forces seeking
vengeance.
Who demonstrated fabulous transformations. And who made it home at last with
miraculous music to share.
True generosity.Real altruism.
It was such a brilliant night. He was the deepest dream flying in the soul
of the music, up tempo; riding the global rhythms of Latin America, India,
of the city of Detroit, of the City of Night assailed by sirens; all kinds
of traffic, a symphony of horns, high octane street scenes, crowds buzzing,
bars, clubs, buildings like mountains.
I loved it and my spirit soared amidst dazzling neon dreams, and possibilities
everywhere abounded, I rolled with the dice, and in the roll of the dice was
reflected the whole of the star filled sky. He reflected the music, smashed
tenderly through the mirror, he danced beyond the mirror.
A flame ignited in the heart, a musician-magician invoking the power of the
soul, summoning spirits that shimmered in the air about him, and so brightly
did his meaning shine. On flights of fancy he had us flying, taught us how
to conjure visions, to see through our mind's eye.
He urged us to give rein to our imaginations, revealed to us our own wild
spirits, unafraid, unbowed. The music was aquamarine, deeper than the night,
bright colours exploding like fireworks all along his lithe, sinuous, harder
than diamond riffs. Thoughts swimming with the grace of tropical fish; feelings
bleeding from beautiful sunset-sunrise wounds.
His music moved through the night like a half forgotten memory, like a promise,
like a prayer, like a lover, like an assassin, like pure desire.
This music so brave, so true, so bold, so skilled, so assured, traces sensuous
motifs, ritual patterns, perfumed mysteries all across your gently yielding
body. And you hear in the music your own true voice calling your own true
name, summoning your secret self to come out and play, and you sigh, and the
garb you wear like a like a mask, like a disguise for the world dissolves,
and you step out to the beat of your heart. And you dance in, through and
beyond time and onto the dance floor of the coolest club in the world.
You ride the song over the moon, skate down the moonlight to dance upon the
waters of an ancient lake. You dance into your own true senses, you smile,
you know that the healing has begun, and you shine like the sun.