New York Movie
by Edward Hopper, 1939.
Oil on canvas (The Museum of Modern Art, New York City).
Rough times, my peeps, rough times.
You all sit together in darkness while I stand hidden in bright light,
listening to you enjoy the unfolding story.
tags: New York Movie, Edward Hopper, American Art
I hope I’m not asking an ignorant question, but what are you back from?
If I’d known you were going there, I would have asked you to say hi to all my buddies.
you are such a bad boy. i wish i’d met your friends, too.
Glad to have you back.
do tell more!
Glad you’re back from Hell and points south. I sent you some mail yesterday and today…may have a bit of work for you, if you’re interested.
Drop me a line…
I also don’t know where you went but his post seems to say it all. I find this picture so beautifully sad and it definitely makes me think of you in so many ways. Wish I could be there to at least offer a cuppa tea.
Wish I could make things different for you. All I can do is hope life gets better. I love your blog and visit it each day, for what it’s worth!
I’m applying today at Colorado State University. I will be a 2nd degree student and hope to complete the chemistry I left off so many years ago. Your blog and Pharyngula are the only mostly science sites I frequent and you’ve both inspired me to get off my ass and pursue my passions. Thanks for keeping up this blog.
This is late, but the mail here is slow. Hell may be hot but the vistas are beautiful. It’s been 110-117 all week in the desert and the night time temps. aren’t cooling off much either. The air conditioner in the trailer rattles constantly threatening to quit and the water tastes bad but the vistas are beautiful. Trying to drive anywhere is a nightmare of traffic jams with everyone jockeying for position but the vistas are beautiful. The dust storms can blanket the valley reducing the visibility to zero and the winds knock down trees and power lines but the vistas are beautiful. The water table is dropping and there’s talk of recycling waste water for drinking but the vistas are beautiful. Everyone’s moving here and it’s more crowded everyday, everyone loves the vistas, there beautiful.
I think you went to the wrong part of hell.
thanks, everyone. i appreciate your kind words.
It’s quite a painting. Makes you wonder what she is thinking about. Birds maybe?
Glad you managed to come back from wherever hell is.
I love this painting, too…and have always been fascinated with how he creates a feeling of isolation by cutting the painting right in two – on one side, the pensive usherette, on the other, the theatre, filled with people watching a movie. In the middle, a wall. I don’t know what’s going on with you, either, but i hope you’re doing ok. you’ve already read this, but here’s my poem (from the book) about the painting..I think this is about transformation, which might be timely…an offering to make you feel better.
New York Movie: Edward Hopper, 1939
What is it we feel, when in darkness a story flickers
on a screen, flat but full of light? What is being
whispered when salty lips touch warm necks and a story
flows in dusty waves through a room darker still?
What is thought in each small room between ear
and ear and mouth, where each day falls down and down
into a pool of its own, where each thought is turned away
or put away, a torn ticket softening in your hand?
Imagine the street beyond this cinema’s red breath,
as we watch the story unfold: the man looks
out a window at a woman who doesn’t see him, and outside
the street is jeweled with rain just like the street
behind this movie house where we sit, watching.
We desire to be in more than one place at a time.
Glass crushed beneath a boot in the street has found
its fate, but the walker keeps moving and soon the man
in the movie will know the woman; will love her or kill her–
the woman will know him or not, love him or be killed
by him. Or kill him. All this happens at the same moment–
light ebbs to the shape inevitability brings. Bright screen,
crushed glass, branches coaxing a song from dark panes, and a woman
knowing that soon everything will change: light flows to darkness,
glass crushed to sand, loneliness to love to something else
entirely. What is it, she wonders, when we sit and listen
to the trees tap tap tap upon the panes? What is that old song
and what is the voiceless rain trying to say?
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