Howard Hodgkin at Tate Britain

You're already too late. Sorry. Howard Hodgkin's life-spanning exhibition at Tate Britain finishes this very day; come the morning, the moment will have passed. One imagines that it won't be the last time that a significant body of his work is exhibited in this space; one hopes, at the same time, that it won't happen again for a while.

Because he hasn't finished yet, quite clearly. One of the most striking aspects of a genuinely joyous experience is that Hodgkin's most recent paintings, gathered together towards the end of this chronological collection, have the same vitality as those from what would generally be considered to be the peak of his career. Indeed, they offer a couple of mighty highlights to send you on your way: "Come Into The Garden, Maud", clusters and swirls of petal-like colours on a bare wooden frame, is particularly breathtaking.

But it is not alone. There is almost too much here, certainly too much to describe in detail. There are too many paintings that ask politely for your time and reward it many times over; from the very first room, in which Hodgkin enthusiastically starts to evolve his distinctive style, this is a wonderfully conversational exhibition. Some paintings shout and scream, others hang silently and indifferently. But Howard Hodgkin's paintings talk to you: they're intelligent and literate, sure, but they're also funny, kind, dramatic, and occasionally a bit rude. In short, they're great company...and I still haven't tired of them after two loops around the exhibition.

Of course, his colours dazzle most. They're bold and yet subtle, full of thought and feeling...and, just once, they're removed altogether to leave something black-and-white-and-grey, a bolt from the blue. Tellingly, the catalogue cannot capture any of this: it tells us what the paintings look like, but it doesn't tell us how they feel...and how they feel is what they are.

Above all, it's the range of which Hodgkin is capable that really astonishes. His style evolves gradually over time, but it's a means to an end...or to a number of ends, more accurately. Few painters can reach so far: this is a body of work that covers all manner of subjects, moods, thoughts, and yet never feels in any way compromised. Each painting is something different: a tranquil garden, perhaps, or a passionate love affair. A heartfelt tribute to a close friend, or the memory of a quarrelsome dinner. A room, a city, a landscape. Each time, the title gives a gentle hint to help you get along, and then you're left in the company of the work itself.

In the end, it comes down to this: it made me smile and laugh and gasp and frown and raise an eyebrow and mutter to myself in a slightly deranged way ("My God, that's fantastic!"), and I went around on my own. It filled me with innocent, teenage enthusiasm. It made me want to share it with anyone who'd listen, immediately.

My New Favourite Painter.