He was deeply disapproved of by the artistic establishment in Edinburgh, but he remained resolutely popular.

The Sunday Philosophy Club by Alexander McCall Smith. Page 92.

Hen left the room, and Isabel leant back into the sofa and looked about her. It was well furnished, unlike many rented flats, which quickly develop a well-used look. There were prints on the wall—the landlord’s taste, presumably mixed with that of the tenants: a view of the Falls of Clyde (landlord); A Bigger Splash, by Hockney, and Amateur Philosophers, by Vettriano (tenants); and Iona, by Peploe (landlord). She smiled at the Vettriano — he was deeply disapproved of by the artistic establishment in Edinburgh, but he remained resolutely popular. Why was this? Because his figurative paintings said something about people’s lives (at least about the lives of people who danced on the beach in formal clothing); they had a narrative in the same way in which Edward Hopper’s paintings did. That was why there were so many poems inspired by Hopper; it was because there was a now-read-on note to everything he painted. Why are the people there? What are they thinking of? What are they going to do now? Hockney, of course, left nothing unanswered. It was very clear what everybody was about in a Hockney picture: swimming, and sex, and narcissism. Had Hockney drawn WHA? She remembered that he had; and he had captured rather well the geological catastrophe that was WHA’s face. I am like a map of Iceland. Had he said that? She thought not, but he could have. She would write a book one day about quotations which were entirely apocryphal but which could be attributed to people who might have said just that. I’ve reigned all afternoon, and now it’s snowing. Queen Victoria.