Life of David Hockney

by Catherine Cusset

  What happened the following two days was to become part of his personal mythology. At the DMV, where he had been driven in the morning by his only contact in Los Angeles, a sculptor with whom his New York gallerist had put him in contact, David had filled out a few forms with questions so simple that they seemed to be addressed to a five-year-old child. Thus he had inadvertently taken, and passed, the writing portion of the test. “Come back this afternoon for the driving test,” they told him, although he had never driven a car in his life. The sculptor had helped him practice for a few hours in his pickup truck, which had an automatic transmission. It was easy. Despite a few mistakes, David had obtained his driver’s license that afternoon. The next morning he bought a used Ford Falcon. All of that happened in two days—on his fourth day in L.A. It was incredible, and exactly what he had imagined life in Los Angeles would be. While he was driving his new car through the huge city, he saw a highway rising up in the air like a ruin in a painting by Piranesi, and he said with exaltation: “Los Angeles could have a Piranesi, so here I am!” A week later he was in a one-room apartment in Venice that he also used as a studio, and he was starting to paint with acrylics, which in the States were of excellent quality and dried much quicker than oil paint. He was getting to know local artists during openings at art galleries, which were all on the same street. He was introduced to Nick Wilder, a young Stanford graduate who would become his first California gallerist, to Christopher Isherwood, a English novelist whose books he adored, and he was going to bars where men would meet.

  Reality rarely turns out to be what one imagined. In ’63, when David had arrived in Alexandria during the Egypt trip paid for by the Sunday Times, he had discovered a boring provincial town instead of the marvelous bohemian, cosmopolitan city the poems of Cavafy had created in his mind. But Los Angeles lived up to his dreams: he had immediately fallen in love with that megalopolis that combined American energy and Mediterranean heat. Everything was a marvel: the eight-lane highways, the immensity of the space, the light, the ocean, the vast beaches, the brilliant colors of the vegetation under the sun, the white villas with flat roofs, the glass buildings, the geometric lines, the houses of the stars built in artificial styles, the blending of modernity and nature. And the ease of life there: no social classes, no labels, no traditions, complications, elitism. Everyone was equal and free, the bars were open until two in the morning—the perfect time if you wanted to work the next day. Pleasure without guilt, a blue sky, heat, and the ocean. And pools glimmering under the sun. He had seen them from the plane when he was landing the first time, a myriad of light blue patches that dotted the ground. A pool here wasn’t a sign of opulence; it was just a basin you would dive into to cool off—and an excellent place to pick up men.

  For the past two and a half years he had lived off and on between the United States and England. He liked that double life between the old world and the new. After a year in Los Angeles, he had gone back to London to prepare some exhibitions. Then he had spent the summer of ’65 in Boulder, the fall of ’65 in L.A., the winter and spring of ’66 in London (with a stay in Beirut, where he had sought inspiration for a series of etchings illustrating a new translation of Cavafy’s poems), and now he was going back to Los Angeles, where he would remain all summer and probably fall, depending on how he felt. On one side there was London and Bradford—his family, his oldest friends, and his first gallerist—on the other, Los Angeles—easy sex, drugs, rich collectors—and between the two, New York, where he stopped as soon as he could to see Henry and go to exhibitions.

  In three years he had made only one mistake. The previous December, just before returning to London, he had encountered a boy in a bar in Venice. After spending a few days with him, he couldn’t imagine being without him. “Why don’t you come with me?” Bob had never been out of Los Angeles. They even had to delay their departure so he could get a passport. They drove across the United States with one of David’s English friends, who kept telling him he was crazy. Bob hadn’t liked New York: it was dark, noisy, and dirty; it reeked. “Europe is really different,” David had said. “You’ll see.” But Bob hadn’t been impressed by the trip on the Queen Mary in the deluxe cabins paid for by David, or by the royal welcome they had received from close friends at the Waterloo station, or by London. It was old. “Old”: a fatal flaw. Bob only wanted to take drugs and fuck. One evening they had found themselves seated in a bar near Ringo Starr and David had told him who their famous neighbor was. Bob hadn’t blinked: “Don’t the Beatles live in London?” As if it were perfectly natural, since they lived in London, to run into the Beatles on a street corner—or to run into the queen, for that matter! David had been forced to admit that he had never met anyone so stupid, and even if he found him incredibly handsome, after a week he could no longer stand Princess Bob. He sent him back to Los Angeles on the first flight he could book, and swore he would never make that mistake again. What he had thought was love was only desire.

  * * *

  —

  He was already in California and was approaching L.A. Night had fallen. He would arrive late that evening, but there would surely be someone who would open the door, and a mattress on the floor to share. Having given up his studio in Venice, David would spend the summer at his friend Nick’s. Nick, who didn’t care about his material surroundings, had barely furnished the small apartment he rented, but was very welcoming. As soon as David got up in the morning he would jump into the communal pool.

  He was very excited when he walked into his class on Monday morning, filled with the enchanting visions that had accompanied him on his trip. But where were the blond, tanned surfers? The room was full of students in their thirties, even forties, wealthy housewives who must have been bored at home after their children had left the nest, or would-be teachers who looked nothing like the models in Physique Pictorial. They stared at David with curiosity. With his huge, black-framed glasses, his platinum blond hair, his tomato red suit, his mismatched socks, his tie with green and white polka dots, and his matching hat, he stood apart from the other instructors. David sighed at the thought of the coming months.

  He was introducing himself to his students when the door opened. A young man walked in.

  “Excuse me, is this class A200?” he asked hesitantly.

  “It’s the advanced painting class,” David answered, since he didn’t know the course number.

  “Oh, sorry. I made a mistake.”

  Taking a few quick steps, David placed himself between the boy and the door.

  “Why not give it a try? It’s not difficult…”

  The student looked at him timidly. He was very young, still a teenager. His eyes were light brown, with long lashes, he had wavy brown hair, velvety cheeks, sensual lips, and freckles on his nose.

  “I’m from England,” David said, “and, you’ll see, I am a very good professor. I’ve even received the gold medal from the Royal College of London!” he added, with a self-deprecating smile.

  This way of self-promotion wasn’t very subtle, but he had noticed that medals impressed Americans. He wanted the student to stay.

  “You’ve happened in here—have trust in fate!”

  That last argument seemed to convince the young man.

  An hour later, David was thrilled when he saw the drawing that the new student had done. He wasn’t just perfectly lovely, he had talent.

  “Your work is at the required level. You can stay, no problem.”

  “I haven’t taken the prerequisites to enroll in an advanced painting course,” the boy replied in his timid voice.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”

  There was no way that an administrative obstacle would come between him and Peter.

  Yes, his name was Peter, like the friend with whom David had been platonically in love at the Royal College. Peter was a common first name, of course, but he saw it as a sign—a gift from fate.

&
nbsp; Peter came to the next class. He had enrolled. At the end of the morning, he was gathering his things without hurrying, as if he had guessed David’s intentions. David didn’t even wait for the last student to leave before asking, “Want to grab a coffee?”

  It soon became natural for them to have lunch together after the daily summertime class, to go walking on the beach in Santa Monica, to swim in the pool at Nick’s apartment complex at the end of the afternoon, and to order pizza or fried chicken at his place while taking part in lively discussions on contemporary art. Peter, feeling intimidated, just listened. He made the trip every day by bus from the Valley, where he lived with his parents and two brothers. He was eighteen, came from a close-knit Jewish family, and had grown up in a wealthy suburb. His father sold life insurance, and his mother took care of the three boys. He had enrolled at the University of California at Santa Cruz, but regretted his choice because it didn’t offer any art courses—that’s why he was taking classes at UCLA during the vacation.

  What developed between them over the summer was more than mere friendship. It was complete trust, along with an almost paternal tenderness shown by the twenty-nine-year-old man for the eighteen-year-old and an unreserved admiration by the younger for the older, a mutual concern, a longing to be together all the time, sadness when the time came to part—they hadn’t noticed the hours passing—and an increasingly irresistible desire to touch each other. The end of the summer was approaching. Peter would soon have to return to Santa Cruz for his second year. Santa Cruz was a six-hour drive from Los Angeles when there wasn’t too much traffic, and almost eight hours on the bus. How would they manage it? The question was hanging between them even when they didn’t bring it up.

  For the Labor Day weekend Peter’s parents were going to Santa Fe with his brothers, and he was allowed to stay home alone. He invited David over, and David was touched when he saw the house and Peter’s room decorated with posters, his drawings, and photos of him when he was a little boy, blonder, gorgeous. They spent the day by the pool. David drew Peter from the back in his swim trunks, lying on a lounge chair. Who made the first move? Peter mentioned being upset at the thought of their coming separation, David went over to sit next to him, put his hand on his shoulder, warmed by the sun. Or perhaps Peter took his hand, put it on his face, kissed it. Which one said “I love you” first? Peter was a virgin, he was an innocent boy who knew even less than David had back in Bradford. David deflowered him, but Peter asked only for that, his entire body trembling with desire. The act of love was on both sides a complete gift, entirely sweet, performed in gratitude and joy.

  Peter left. David promised to come see him every weekend. A six-hour drive is nothing when you’re driving to your lover. In Santa Cruz he rented a room in the very appropriately named Dream Inn, which they didn’t leave the entire weekend. When they weren’t sleeping or making love, David drew Peter, his round shoulders, still childlike but also wide and muscled, the shoulders of a swimmer, his slender and almost feminine waist, his nose covered with freckles, his mouth with the swollen, incredibly sensual upper lip, even his teeth, his beautiful, straight, healthy American teeth brushed with Colgate morning and night, his hair sweeping his forehead, the sparse, almost red hair in his armpits that David couldn’t stop smelling, his penis, his soft, firm, and white buttocks. When they separated on Sunday evening it was a ripping apart. Peter wasn’t doing anything specific in Santa Cruz. Why didn’t he transfer to Los Angeles? It would cause some administrative difficulties, but David, who had become friends with a painting professor close to the dean of the arts, said he would arrange things. The day when Peter learned that his transfer to UCLA for the second semester had been approved, he leapt up and down in the motel room.

  David thought of Aristophanes’ concept of love, which he had once read in one of Plato’s dialogues. He felt he had found his other half. Their bodies and their souls interlocked perfectly. Peter was intelligent, sensitive, delicate, he had a sense of humor, and was so gorgeous! And he loved David, his mind, his humor, his accent, which he found refined, his kindness, his way of drawing and painting, his energy, his face, his smile, his solid body of an English peasant, his muscular arms, his hands.

  For the first time David was passionately in love with a man who loved him back, and for the first time he painted real life—not an idea, not something he had seen in a book. He painted Nick in his pool, and Peter getting out of Nick’s pool. He painted the water. The movement of the water, its transparency, its shimmering, which he stylized with wavy lines, the splash rising up when a diver hits the water, the only trace of a body that has disappeared under the surface. How could you depict something that was pure movement and lasted only a fraction of an instant, like an orgasm? He used thin paintbrushes and spent fifteen days with the most absolute concentration painting all the little lines of the splash. Two weeks for something that lasted two seconds.

  For Christmas he brought Peter to London. He was of course afraid because of the bad experience of the year before. But Peter had nothing in common with Bob. He loved London. He loved everything that was old; he delighted in rummaging through the antique shops on Portobello Road, not far from Powis Terrace, where David lived. He met David’s friends, who thought he was charming. “David and Peter.” Their names were associated more and more often. They were a couple.

  Back in Los Angeles, given the lack of intimacy in Nick’s apartment, they moved in together on Pico Boulevard, where David had rented a studio in the fall. Peter told his parents he was sharing a house with some other UCLA students. When his father discovered the truth, there were scenes, shouting, his mother crying, all of which he described to David, who laughed and sympathized with him. His parents demanded that he see a shrink. He agreed out of respect for them, even though he couldn’t see how those sessions would make him “normal.” Peter and David’s pleasure at finally being able to live together was so intense that neither those family problems nor the lack of comfort in their apartment could undermine it. The very small apartment was in an old, run-down house in the heart of a poor neighborhood in L.A., and whenever they turned on the lights, cockroaches skittered away. But it was a paradise because it sheltered their love. Peter spent the days at the university and David painted at home. In the evening they went out, went to the movies, ate at the Mexican restaurant on the corner or at a Japanese restaurant where David discreetly passed a small cup of sake to Peter, had dinner at Nick’s or at their friends Christopher and Don’s house. Peter wasn’t old enough to be served legally, and David no longer felt the need to go to bars. They drank California white wine, which was the only thing in their refrigerator.

  While leafing through a magazine David saw a Macy’s ad showing a bedroom, whose strong diagonal lines he liked: it looked like a sculpture. That’s how the idea for a painting was born: from a composition that was suddenly formed by chance in his mind, when he didn’t expect it, like an apparition that emerged out of reality or from an image. There was a bed in the foreground, covered with a bedspread with sharp angles. He decided to put Peter on it, lying on his stomach, in a T-shirt and socks, no underwear, and painted him from photos, being mindful of the shadows cast by the light entering the window. He first titled his painting The Room, Encino, but at Peter’s request changed the title to The Room, Tarzana, the name of the neighboring town, since Peter’s family lived in Encino and he was afraid that someone might recognize him. “Recognize your butt?” said David, laughing, because you couldn’t make out Peter’s features, and his buttocks were right in the center of the painting.

  In the spring, David received a prestigious award in England acknowledging avant-garde painters, the John Moores Prize from the Walker Art Gallery in Liverpool, for his painting Peter Getting Out of Nick’s Pool, in which he had painted Peter upright in the pool, from the back, naked, with water up to the middle of his thighs. By distancing himself from abstract painting, by going against the current to do what he wanted
, he had won his wager. It was as if the austere English critics wanted to celebrate his love for Peter and for California. He gave half of the money he won for the prize to his parents, so they could visit his brother who had moved to Australia, and with the rest he bought a used convertible Morris Minor, in which he took Peter and one of his friends from the Royal College to France and Italy that summer. Peter sat in the front next to him, Patrick squeezed his long legs into the back. Everything excited Peter, the steep, narrow roads, the landscapes, the Tuscan hills and cypresses, the villages, the Mediterranean, the museums, the wine, the food, the cheap antiques which he began eagerly to collect. His enthusiasm delighted David.

  They visited Rome, spent a week on the beach in Viareggio, then drove to Carennac, a village in southwestern France where Kas, his gallerist, had rented a château on the banks of the Dordogne River. He put David and Peter in a magnificent room, filled with antique furniture and a huge bed. Patrick painted watercolors, Peter took photos with the sophisticated camera his airline stewardess aunt had brought back from Japan, and David drew. He couldn’t have been happier. Everything important to him was here: love, sex, friendship, good wine, work. In September, Peter flew back to Los Angeles because he had to return to school, the dear boy, and David stayed in London to prepare an exhibition that would take place in January at Kasmin’s gallery. He did a large painting of Patrick in his studio on Manchester Street, which he finished just in time for the opening on January 19. Refusing to take himself seriously, he had ironically titled the exhibition A splash, a lawn, two rooms, two stains, some neat cushions and a table…painted, a simple factual description of the paintings to be exhibited. The critics loved the pools, the modernity of his rigorously geometric shapes with straight lines, and the light suffusing his works: he had truly become the painter of California. The success pleased him, of course, but it hardly made up for the physical pain Peter’s absence was causing him. So he left London as soon as he could for New York, where he met his lover, whom he had persuaded to cut classes. For the first time, they drove across the United States together. As soon as they were approaching Los Angeles after being on the road for five days, David could smell the salty air of the Pacific: he was home.