A Friend I Never Met

John Scurry on David Hockney

John Scurry may be familiar to close Et Al readers as a veteran purveyor of left-arm spin for the Yarras. In civilian life, he is also a doyen of Australian jazz, and a painter exhibited in the National Gallery of Victoria and elsewhere - in other words, a man almost unfairly blessed with talent. So last week after a Yarras winter net session, I solicited his thoughts on the influence of the late David Hockney, arguably the most uniformly celebrated artist of the last fifty years, then cajoled him into jotting them down. Turns out he can write as well! Please make welcome, as we call him, El Scuzzo. GH

David Hockney had the kind of career to which all artists aspire: long, popular, always himself, somehow in tune with the times while also thumbing his nose at the prevailing orthodoxies and dogmas. Roughly a decade older than I am, he was also a touchstone, someone I could conceive of as a kindred spirit - losing him is a bit like losing an old friend or associate, a quietly hovering presence, even if I met him only in catalogues and art magazines.

In the late 60s and 70s, Hockney’s figurative work was a constant source of refreshment, promising a direction to pursue for those of a depictive bent. He was also a student’s favourite because of his background as working-class lad from Bradford in Yorkshire, with a precocious talent for drawing and a fierce independence, choosing to work from his own life experience and surroundings.