Early Sunday Morning (Fig. 1). This painting contains, psychologically speaking, a good deal more time than just that instant which the long morning shadows would indicate. The opened windows of the upper storey testify, together with the partly raised rollerblinds, to an exhaustingly endured warm night, and the clear sky signals that there will be another hot day. A remark by Hopper is important: “It wasn't necessarily Sunday. That word was tacked on later by someone else” (Levin 1980, 46). Having noted that the door to the shop on the right stands open already, we may imagine the gradually accumulating city sounds of an ordinary working-day. Within an hour, or so, the barber will climb down the stairs and unlock his door, and busy Fords, Chevrolets, and hand-carts will eventually cross our view, some of them stopping a while, perhaps avoiding the zone round the fire-plug. Moreover, by parking on our side of the street, right in front of the entry from where Hopper made his sketches, a driver might even destroy the whole view. In his painting Sunday (Fig. 2), Hopper had actually shown what such a street front would be like on a Sunday. The sun is already high in the sky and there is a sleepy atmosphere. There, too, one door has been opened, while the other two will remain closed, one of them definitely on Monday as well. After having seen to something in his shop, or in his workshop behind it, the owner is now seated on the wooden sidewalk, enjoying his sunny solitude with a cigar. The Barber Shop (Fig. 3). The modern clock on the wall points to 1.03 PM, while the sun is pouring down into this basement parlour in central Manhattan. The only customer, who is treating himself to a hair cut, has not yet thought of having his hands manicured. Thus the neat manicurist is passing her time with a weekly at her table, equally neat with its shiny glass top. She, and not the boss, becomes the focus of our attention, surrounded as she is by the sunlight and its reflections. The large size of the painting (60 x 78 inches) is surprising. However, if the beholder is to feel present in the parlour and share its sunny atmosphere, the generous size is required. French Six-Day Bicycle Rider (Fig. 4). The true racing cyclist is very much of a Frenchman, so Hopper reasoned as he started planning this painting. Awaiting the return of his fellow cyclist, the rider collects himself seated on the bunk. The place is Madison Square Garden, and the afternoon sun is still high above. For six days the two will ride and tie. On the masonite alcove we notice a tricolour, and a second one is being arranged on the opposite side by a young attendant. Beyond there is a chair for his use whenever the Master wishes to be left alone. The boy will be seated as soon as he has fixed the second tricolour. Leaned against the alcove stand the only two bicycles that arc permitted. However, further away, there is another pair and another boy attending his Master, who now may be concentrating on his start like our Frenchman is. Nevertheless, neither will be the sole and only winner. Cape Cod Evening (Fig. 5). Hopper, usually so reticent, has been quite forthcoming about this painting: “It is no exact transcription of a place, but pieced together from sketches and mental impressions of things in the vicinity. The grove of locust trees was done from sketches of trees nearby. The doorway of the house comes from Orleans about twenty miles from here. The figures were done almost entirely without models, and the dry, blowing grass can be seen from my studio window in the late summer or autumn. In the woman I attempted to get the broad, strong-jawed face and blond hair of a Finnish type of which there are many on the Cape. The man is a dark-haired Yankee. The dog is listening to something, probably a whippoorwill or some evening sound” (Goodrich 1976, 109). Thus he attempted to present the very quintessence of his summer ambience, which he left only reluctantly, some times quite late in the autumn. As for the two protagonists, the pale woman looks as if she were freezing already. The weather-beaten man, who can surely stand far more severe evenings, is about to throw something for the collie to fetch. New York Movie (Fig. 6). Hopper was a passionate movie-goer. In those days there was always an “usherette” to lead the visitors to their seats. As usual, he had his young wife Jo pose, perhaps for hours, this time in a piccolo dress with a torch in her left hand, a session that took place in the vestibule of their apartment. We may feel sorry for the picture's beautiful lonely figure. Yet, who knows, she may have been quite a different girl in the day. Hotel Lobby (Fig. 7). A late evening in the lobby of a minor, luxuriously quiet Manhattan hotel. Behind the elderly couple we get a glimpse of the breakfast lounge, now in darkness, with its covers laid for tomorrow's meal. From a soft armchair next to the distinguished gentleman, his wife is looking up towards his face. Sooner or later something will be said, but it will be uttered in a low voice. The fittings of the place warrant this. The perfect modern illumination of the lobby has tempted an easy-going young woman from upstairs (enacted by Jo) to continue her reading here. The main characters are nonetheless the elderly couple. The man has been standing like this quite a while, with his wife's eyes directed towards him, a tender glance perhaps, but any moment she will say, almost in a whisper: “Could you not find out what has become of the clerk?” But there is nobody to ask in — except for the young lady. She looks quite at home here. Hotel by the Railroad (Fig.8). One often hears that Hoppers paintings are about loneliness, about the alienation and lack of communication within a ruthlessly developing society. Yet, how misleading such words may be! His world is mostly inhabited by goodhearted people who are rather contented with their lives. The perspective of loneliness, which his pictures no doubt contain, is rather ours. What, then, is Hotel by the Railroad about? Answer: the bliss of having arrived. The journey was long and warm, and exhausted as they were, the protagonists have settled down in a hotel close to the station. Sitting in her salmon-coloured underwear, the woman continues reading her book, as she did on the train, while her husband, perhaps refreshed at a wash-stand, is now confirming his well-being with a cigarette. The fact that trains will rumble by, means nothing now. But why do they not pay more attention to each other? Alas, after some forty years of marriage it is the most natural and mutually accepted thing that both follow their own wishes and inclinations. Without turning towards her, and still tenderly, he may say her name and utter something. They may make an odd couple, she with her undone, how greyish hair, he with his own particular neatness. But everything is so straightforward between them, and that adds to the happiness of elderly people.
Tijdschrift beschrijving