The tale of the artiste maudit is often spun to inject mystery and intrigue into the lives of great painters, that image of a tortured soul working all hours for peanuts, fingers worn to paint-splattered bone, barely sustained on a diet of mind-curdling absinthe and stale bread. Vincent van Goth is one painter spoken about in these terms, Chaïm Soutine is another, David Hockney is definitely not—and the heady, carefree photos taken by his former dealer John Kasmin show why.
