A painting can create a visceral reaction, emotion beyond tears, and that is all and must be enough. Other times there will be room for words. For me, more than any other painter, Edward Hopper evokes that response.
Hopper’s work is all about the space between people and things, space that is usually filled with light that never really illuminates, space that exists on its own plane, space and light that create their own tension.
Hopper says…
When I don’t feel in the mood for painting I go to the movies for a week or more.
So much of every art is an expression of the subconscious that it seems to me most of all the important qualities are put there unconsciously, and little of importance by the conscious intellect.
"Maybe I'm not very human. What I wanted to do was to paint sunlight on the side of a house."
For more of my writing about pictures, see here.
Edward Hopper, Two on the Aisle, 1927
Two on the aisle
Why arrive so early, these three?
The woman in red, already seated
Wrap over the back of her chair
Eyes firmly on her program.
The woman in black, hand smoothing
Her green cloak over her chair.
The bald man in the tux
Takes off his coat, looks
Up casually, away from both.
Well.
One wife in green, one mistress in red.
“Be there early,” he said. “I will
See you. You leave when I arrive.
I will excuse myself, and
We can meet in the lobby.
I can caress your hand with
The same fingers I used
This afternoon. We will
Breathe the same air, and I will
Look into your eyes, fall in them
As deep inside you
As I was
This afternoon.”
They will return, separately, by the time
The musicians arrive and begin to tune.
She will look at the back of his head
Want to feel his body against hers
As she did this afternoon.
He will look at the stage, careful
To keep
His hands unmoving, while
He thinks of her mouth and tongue.
While the air is filled with music
So light, he will begin
To cry inside
Because of what is, and what is
Not, because there is so much
Space, and so little, because
The light can never pierce
His inside dark.
Edward Hopper, Office at Night, 1940
Office at Night
She left her typewriter to walk to the files.
She opened the drawer, took out a file,
And the letter dropped to the floor
By his desk.
It is the letter she was not supposed to see,
The letter about her,
Regarding a transfer.
Because he can no longer stand her so close,
At her typewriter,
Just across the room,
Facing him
Hour after hour,
Her lace collar always fresh,
The slight perspiration glisten on her upper lip
When she concentrates.
The way, when she rises, her dress clings
To her legs and hips
The way her breasts seem always,
Under her dress,
Like a warm invitation.
He loves her so much,
More than his wife,
More than his children,
So he knows he must move her
Out of his life.
She will find a new life in Des Moines,
Meet some nice single guy,
Get married,
Raise kids.
And he will go on with his life—
An okay life,
A sort of living.
Of course, she loves him, too.
She loved him the first time
She came into his office
And finally,
After sitting quietly,
Got up the nerve up
To look at him directly.
Her heart actually stopped beating.
Until that moment she had thought
The magazine phrase
Was fiction.
Now she knows the truth.
She has never told him,
Never said a word to him
Or anyone.
Except that now,
In a moment,
She will try
To say something.
But she won’t.
She will put the transfer paper on his desk
And he will say, without looking up,
“Yes, it’s for the best.
You’ll do well in Des Moines.”
And she will put the cover
On her typewriter,
Push her chair back from her desk,
Stand, smooth her skirt,
Straighten her lace collar,
And leave,
Without closing the door.
He will rise and close the door,
Then stand and begin to sob,
His shoulders shaking in the blue white light.
On the other side of the door,
In the semi-darkness of
An empty office hallway,
At nine in the evening
Of a Wednesday in October,
She will stand and wait
For love to pass away.
At that moment she will be only
Tears and a dark future.
And all her life
She will wish
She had left the paper on the floor,
And she will wonder,
If she had left it on the floor,
Would he have picked it up,
And looked at her,
Then slowly crumpled it
With his strong fingers?
She thinks this almost every morning
While she is at the stove in Des Moines,
Slowly stirring the oatmeal
For her five year old son,
Called Skipper
By his father.
Edward Hopper, A Woman in the Sun, 1961
A Woman in The Sun 1961 (Whitney)
The light is bright, she faces
Bright yellow light, but looks
Down, to the edge of the bright.
Why has she left her bed
With the blue blanket?
Where are her clothes?
The shoes are there, alone
She stands, ready to look
At something we cannot see.
We can see the other window
The window with green hills
And summer light.
But we can never know
What she will see
When she raises her eyes
To look into the sun.
Did Icarus just leave?
Had they made love in her single bed?
Stockings stripped, but she’s
Forgotten, along with the notion
That the heat of the sun
Would melt the wax.
She had forgot to tell him
About the wax.
She knew.
And smoking now
She is sorry.
She will put on her yellow dress
And blue-black shoes.
She will comb her hair.
And leave.
She will do better next time.
Edward Hopper, Western Motel, 1957
Western Motel
In a moment I will rise from the red bed
Put on my blue jacket
Let fingers touch my golden hair.
You will pick up the two suitcases
And we will leave the light green room
And begin again, in the dark green car.
Even though it is early morning
The car will be hot.
We will roll down the windows, and sit.
Let the air cool the car
While inside the room
Empty air still holds
The red bed and the red chair
The bed where I sat and looked at
My blue jacket and thought
If I stay, I will be here
And you will be alone
In the green car.
We will never know which was better.
Edward Hopper, Cape Cod Morning, 1950
Cape cod morning
The princess in the castle
Sits and stares through
Yellow curtains, longs for
The cool green park
She knows he waits there.
That is his job, his duty, his life.
Just as it is hers
To long for the Park.