David Hockney Taught Me to Love Color
In September 2007, about a week into my freshman year of college, I received a magazine in the mail that changed my brain chemistry in that way that’s only possible when you’re not yet 17 and enough of a sensitive knucklehead to consider 500 Days of Summer the height of cinematic achievement. (For the record: I still do.) It was GQ’s 50th anniversary issue, about as beefy as a phone book and built around a landmark list of the 50 most stylish men of the past 50 years. (There were 10 different cover stars; I lucked out and received the best one: Michael Jordan.) I still think about the style advice doled out in that print package all the time—like the decree to buy your leather jackets “a size smaller than you normally would” to mimic the Ramones—but there was one page in particular that I remember stopping me in my tracks. It was the entry for David Hockney, the transformative British painter who died on Thursday at age 88. The photograph they’d chosen of …








