He himself admitted that it might be present, but denied that it
was intended. Indeed, the emphasis on it annoyed him: "The loneliness
thing is overdone," he said. But it undeniably exists.
-- Lloyd Goodrich, Edward Hopper
Or is it the light that exists for him as he paints?
Not that old buttery-yellow light-bulb light,
but this miraculous light the makers call "fluorescent,"
this clear-as-day light that bathes the diner,
this harbor in a sea of darkness. How it pours
through the plate-glass window, rinsing the red brick
wall across the street, spilling through the window
of somebody fast asleep! It's seeping into her dream.
You'd think the man in the white cap had more light
than a man would need to make it through this night.
The coffee urns are beaming over his shoulder
like stainless angels! What else would he talk about
to the dude whose cigarette's gone out? And what
would the lady be studying there but a book of matches?
And the man in the dark grey hat with his back to us--
is there anything left in his glass but light, more light.
Donald Finkel
in Heart to Heart (2001)
NIGHTHAWKS (EDWARD HOPPER, 1942)
Lying in bed, I glance at the picture;
A dark diner, nearly empty
is illuminated only by the light
from my window. It shines
always a constant reminder of the day,
even late at night, when only nighthawks roam the street.
Tonight I cannot see anyone on the street.
The city is a silent motion picture,
a black and white image of yesterday
I can't seem to ignore. I feel empty.
The stars above the buildings shine
brightly, only exaggerating the fluorescent light
which stifles sleep. I turn on the light
above my bed. The train rumbles down the street
and my roommate stirs. The light shines
on her face and on the picture
on the wall. I walk into the empty
living room and wait for the day.
I am reminded of a genius of his day,
a man who created light
which came from nowhere into a nearly empty
diner on a New York City street.
Without a camera, he composed a picture
of three men and a woman with shiny
red hair. the man in the white uniform shines
glasses behind the counter. He does this every day.
This is his life. He cannot picture
change in 1942. The woman inspects her light
pink nail polish. The other men stare into the street,
discovering nothing. It remains eternally empty.
Again I feel overwhelmed and empty,
like the nighthawks. Hopper made them shine
in the glow of white walls. In, off the street,
they too sat, waiting for the inevitable day
to come with the hope of new light.
They never knew this wasn't in the picture.
The picture on my wall continues to shine
as I sit alone each empty day
disturbed only by the hum of outside streetlights.
Liz Lane, BC '00
Stylus
