Visible but not accessible
The unintended revelation in Hopper's Nighthawks
Often, artists are not in control of what their art reveals about themselves. At times, artists can make statements they didn’t intend to make. It’s humbling to make public what happens privately in our minds. Left on the page, the canvas, or in music, what was once in our control no longer only shows what an artist wants it to.
There’s a painting I have come to love for its relaxing, clean lines. Its hues are cool, and I feel drawn to it. Any general sampling of American art will feature Nighthawks by Edward Hopper has nearly been covered too much. Shown and re-shown, spoofed, and used in marketing. It’s like the Green Onions by Booker T. and the MGs. Great, but overplayed.
It depicts four people in a spare evening diner on the corner of a mid-century city street. These characters are a male and female seated together, a solo male with his back to the viewer, and a single busboy behind the counter, hunched over and appearing to engage with the male at the counter.
They are suspended in time, forever in a late evening moment, perhaps before going home. At first glance, it’s just that, a diner at night. But laid over the man that Hopper was, a complex understory emerges.
Much like the diners, he was visible, seen in the public eye, and his work forever. And yet, what does the painting reveal about that experience?
In her book, The Lonely City: Adventures in the Art of Being Alone, Olivia Laing shares a passing observation made while visiting the Hopper painting in Chicago.
A tour guide came in then, her dark hair piled on her head, a group of visitors trailing in her wake. She pointed to the painting, saying do you see, there isn’t a door? and they crowded round, making small noises of exclamation. She was right. The diner was a place of refuge, absolutely, but there was no visible entrance, no way to get in or out. There was a cartoonish, ochre-coloured door at the back of the painting, leading perhaps into a grimy kitchen. But from the street, the room was sealed: an urban aquarium, a glass cell.
The interior door will take someone deeper, more interior, hiding, but there’s no way out. Or in. Without realizing Hopper may well be showing the experience of being a known figure. A person on display (at least a part of themselves) and yet inaccessible. And unable to escape, leave, or withdraw except for aloneness. The tragic aspect of many of our lives is we, too, are like these diners. Seen but not accessible. If accessed only by way of someone who’s part of our own operation, our own inner working.
A closer look shows that while those in the dinner are in the same space, no one is directly facing or intimate in any real way.
Loneliness can be experienced by the most known and visible in society and can take this shape.
Laing further describes the experience of loneliness.
The sensation arises because of a felt absence or insufficiency of closeness, and its feeling tone ranges from discomfort to chronic, unbearable pain. In 1953, the psychiatrist and psychoanalyst Harry Stack Sullivan came up with what still stands as a working definition: ‘the exceedingly unpleasant and driving experience connected with inadequate discharge of the need for human intimacy’.
Healed but worse off
After the long nightmare of the pandemic, I expected life to recover. However, my expectation of our society's necessary relational connecting acts to at least return to its pre-pandemic state—which was already on the ropes by any metric—has been let down.
Just the opposite has taken place. The retreat from relational connection, arguably necessary at the time, has continued and, worse yet, been glorified and celebrated in memes and, sadly, the habits of everyday life for people.
Intentional corrective
As I wrote last week, we’ve moved. The social table has reset, and the vibe in our new locale is very different for many reasons. I’ve set a goal to have three to five conversations with complete strangers each week. It’s a real challenge across the board. But the gamble of public engagement has proven to be worth making. This week I met a guy name Tom from Iowa who loves to still work on his car, even though the electronics of the modern automobile makes it difficult. I met a lady named Karen who helps with the library book sale and went to a community college in Ohio. I met Carrie, McKayla, and their dog, Marvel. They are all San Diego Padre fans (I suspect Marvel doesn’t have a choice in this matter).
Are all my interactions spectacular? Homeruns? Not in their content. But in their benefit to a warm-blooded mammal who needs more people in their diner? Yes.
Human relationships can’t be maximized, optimized and always a win. But as Marvel, the Padres fan, will tell you, a hitter can go 3 for 10 over their career and be in the Hall of Fame.
Be well friends.