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Nighthawks, Edward Hopper, 1942, oil on canvas, 152,4x82,1cm
The Art Institute of Chicago,
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Some years ago, I visited a huge Parisian exhibition dedicated
to Edward Hopper at the Grand Palais.
As always on those occasions, an amazing number of people lined
up in layers, moving in parallel sliding, raucous ribbons alongside the walls
where Hopper’s world was exposed for everyone to try to see.
Seeing one Hopper painting can be a mystical experience. He does
that thing he does with the light and shadow, warm and cold colors, that
literally kidnaps the viewer into the frame. He tells the story of urban
loneliness, of shyness and introversion. He paints people in ones,
twos and threes, in cafes and ordinary rooms where they sit or stand, always
ignoring one another, preoccupied by something, whatever that may be. He paints
a universe where the word communication has yet to be invented.
Seeing all those paintings aligned on white walls, depicting one
after another lonely humans, is like eavesdropping on the man’s twice a
week imaginary therapy session. After all, didn’t he write:
“ Great art is the outward expression of an inner life in the
artist, and this inner life will result in his personal vision of the world. No
amount of skillful invention can replace the essential element of imagination.”[1]
But seeing dozens of Hopper’s painting while being carried by a
human river three person wide and four hundred person long is a sad experience
indeed. The contrast between the imaginary loners and the living sardines fills
the space that separates the many heads from the high ceiling of the Palais.
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| Nightfed, a study after Hopper, O/C, 120x67cm, on commission |
Of course, most of us will never have a one to one meeting with
Hopper. But I can’t help but envy those very, very privileged few who get to
sit alone in their secret vaulted basement, cognac glass in one hand, cigar in
the other (this is what you get from watching too many shows…) a Hopper
painting – rightfully obtained, of course! – hanging on the opposite
wood-paneled wall, museum lighting gracefully provided by the decorator.
What to do, then? Give up the great commercial asset that is
Hopper and only organize exhibitions where, let’s be bold, 20 people at a time
can be allowed to wander inside? Leave Hopper to his own museum or to dedicated
places in national establishments, where tourists armed with smartphones will
shoot selfies with Nighthawks behind
their backs?
Obviously, sharing art with us, the People, plays on our modern
illness of consumerism caracterized by no other motivation than that of
possessing something, be it an hour with Hopper in an overstuffed space. And,
yes, it requires a lot of self-discipline to truly appreciate Hopper’s art, or
any other art for that matter, under those conditions.
But, hey, until someone buys me a Hopper for my birthday, it’s
the best I can hope for.
