I wrote about Howard Hodgkin here last year.  I was saddened to read yesterday the news of his death at the age of 84.  I used to see him quite frequently some fifteen years ago at a café in Museum Street in London, close to his studio.  On the first occasion, I recognized him and pretended not to.  Many well-known people have finely-tuned antennae for such things and I could tell he was grateful to be left alone and enjoy his coffee.  After a few such “sightings” over several weeks, he finally came and sat at my table and struck up a conversation.  Then, and on many subsequent occasions, we talked for a few minutes over our coffees.  I don’t remember our conversations, except one about India, a place he loved and visited often. I saw him one final time, last year in New York, at the opening of one of his shows.  He was in a wheelchair.  I shook his hand.

We never broke the silent conspiracy.  I knew who he was.  He knew I knew.  We both pretended not to know. At the time, that seemed the right thing to do.  Yesterday, reading of his death, I wished for a moment that I’d told him how beautiful his pictures were.