An artist has passed away peacefully at the age of 88 — an artist who never surrendered to the fame won through a single style, nor to the changing times. He experimented with new techniques and created many different ways of seeing the world. He was one of the artists I deeply admired, because he took up photography in a way no one else was doing at the time — even though, in the end, he said that photography was boring. I, too, have a few pieces in which I tried to imitate his style, but I was too young and too impatient, and I lacked the perseverance to carry it through to the end.

David Hockney.

An Englishman who wanted to leave Britain and went on to create his most iconic works in Los Angeles, where gay photographers shooting male nudes had gathered. He was young and full of vigor. Unlike earlier artists whose work became famous and expensive only after their death, he fully enjoyed life as a celebrated artist. He lived as Picasso, my hero, did. A lucky gay man born in the right century.

Now that he is gone, his works will be quoted at staggering sums. If he could know how much their value has soared now that he has departed, he would turn over in his grave in astonishment. Art grows far more valuable when the artist dies — because there will be no more creation.

His image is well preserved in film, video, and photographs. If you want to know about him, you need only type his name into Google or some other search engine. We truly live in a convenient world.

What I feel through his death is how clearly fixed this thing called life is. You are born, you live a few decades, and then you die. That is precisely what life is.

I grew up with Hockney. I know his work and I know how he thinks. Those who knew him personally will shed many tears now that he is no longer here. I do not weep for him. He lived a splendid life — so why should I cry for him? How I wish I could live as he did~~. But then again, I did not even know him personally.

These days we get to see the younger selves of the famous alongside how they look now. Their faces are wrinkled, sagging, and gaunt, and they walk with the limping gait of old age. Then we see them in their youth. We come to see what time does to a person. And then they die. Only the name remains. A tiger leaves its hide when it dies; a man leaves his name.

The gardenia in my garden bloomed splendidly, like white satin steeped in perfume, then faded to a pale yellow, withered, and dropped from its stem. The cycle of life. And yet its beauty is seared into the mind.

Somewhere, another Hockney will be born and repeat the cycle.

But how wondrous the life of David Hockney was.