The great painter David Hockney—who died this Thursday—must have felt the same surprise, almost ambivalence, that invades us Europeans when we arrive at LAX, the Los Angeles airport. Hockney arrived very early, too, in the mid-sixties. He arrived in a contradictory and fascinating city—which it still is—that fluctuated between Hollywood and its walk of fame and the protests of UCLA, a very politically active university in those years, as now, to which he was closely linked.
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