“No amount of skillful invention can replace the essential
element of imagination.” Edward Hopper (1882-1967) is the guy
who painted Nighthawks. His portrayal of lone figures in
physical or psychological disarray (sometimes both) is tinged
with a mysterious light. It is unsentimental, but not harsh.
Melancholy as well, though it stops short of despair. Hopper’s
images possess a voyeuristic quality. The painter’s gaze, and by
extension your own, falls upon private moments where a quiet
drama is about to unfold. Tension lurks beneath the surface, you
tell yourself. The scent of old lacquer hangs in the air and the
sun shines on promises broken. Edward Hopper’s world teeters on
the brink of exhaustion. Tomorrow’s a new day. Perhaps. Edward
Hopper was born in Upper Nyack, NY. During World Wars I and II,
they built submarine chasers there. Nyack was also a station on
the Underground Railroad. The satellite view reveals a quiet
little place where nothing much seems to happen. Fewer than
7,000 people live there now.