Otherwise, though, the prevailing impression is of nature’s unhurried, inexorable rhythms, as we move from bare-branched trees, represented in midwinter, to the flaring blossom of spring, early summer’s great, shaggy greenery, the fallen, orange and yellow leaves of autumn, and back to winter – and white.
Here are the four seasons – but counter-intuitively, given the work’s emptiness, I was reminded of another venerable artistic subject: the Ages of Man. Because – and this is its enchantment – the frieze also functions as a metaphor for an individual’s long life, marked by moments of serenity and bliss, but also passages of hardship, difficulty, even grief. At points, Hockney portrays imposing fallen boughs, like spiky abstract sculptures, which have a funereal air. There’s rain as well as sunshine in this Normandie-Neverland.
I’ve never been totally sold on Hockney’s iPad art. In this case, too many of his marks (perfect circles denoting dandelions; odd, staccato dot-clusters conveying the immateriality of clouds) are obviously artificial. Off-putting in their inhuman uniformity, they jar with the natural subject matter (although Hockney’s palette, with its intense purples, is hardly naturalistic). Several transitions within the frieze are awkward and abrupt.
Yet, I was surprised by how spellbinding I found A Year in Normandie. It doesn’t reflect my memory of lockdown (our household was upended by a demanding one-year-old); it might not reflect yours. But it is, somehow, universal: a sort of quiet paradise that simultaneously implies life’s ups and downs. The effect is beautiful, transporting and – since Hockney’s art is often said to be simplistically carefree – unexpectedly emotional.
At Serpentine North until Aug 23; serpentinegalleries.org
