Ten, maybe twelve years ago I was in Chicago for a conference. One morning I skipped out on the conference proceedings and walked over to the Art Institute. More than anything else I wanted to spend serious time with Nighthawks. I’d seen the painting a half dozen times over the years, but had never given it the attention that it deserves. This time I would.
Except that I couldn’t find it. I wandered every gallery in the American Art Section, but didn’t see it. I didn’t remember the painting having its own special location elsewhere in the building, but I was hoping that it did. After combing the American section for a second time and still not finding it, I approached a security guard and asked him if he knew where Nighthawks was.
“Yeah, I know,” the guard said. “It’s somewhere in Houston.” He laughed at his own joke and then explained that it was on loan for a special Edward Hopper retrospective.* I immediately left the American section of the museum and went over to the Impressionists. Monet was not enough to ease my disappointment.
* * *
Last Tuesday night I thought about or, maybe I should say, I experienced Nighthawks. I’d driven Manyu to a meeting in Onalaska. Rather than return home and then drive all of the way back to get her, I went to a nearby coffee shop to wait for the meeting to be over. I’d been to that particular shop many times before, but always earlier in the day. In the morning the place had always been crowded, sometimes to the point of me having to ask another customer whether he or she would be willing to share a table. That night the the place was empty but for two young baristas behind the counter. I checked the posted hours on the door to see if it was closing time.
It was two hours until closing, so I ordered a large decaf and took a seat. Over the next hour, six other people came into the shop. Two of them bought their drinks and left. The other four stayed and positioned themselves as far from me and as far from each other as they could get. I was on my laptop, two were scrolling on their phones, one read a book, and one sat in a chair next to the gas fireplace and watched the flames for the entire time I was there.
Melancholy so filled the room that I could not help but think of Hopper’s painting. I’ve been in other near empty coffee shops, but never before sensed such a mood. What was different this time? Obviously one thing was that everyone was alone. If even one of the customers had come in with a friend, the sound of human voices would have awaken the place. Also it was dark outside. Had it been daytime, I could have at least looked out the windows and seen the passing traffic. That night I looked at the windows and saw only the reflection of the people inside. They looked as alone in the glass as they did in person.
The baristas were no more animated than the customers They perked up whenever anyone placed an order, but otherwise silently waited for their shift to be over. When one of them stepped away from the counter to wipe tables, I looked up to acknowledge her when she got to the table next to mine. She acted like I wasn’t there.
In spite of the coffee shop’s somber atmosphere, I liked being there. I seldom get to write about something at the same time that it is happening. In one hour’s time, I sketched out the better part of this week’s blog. Still I won’t be going back anytime soon.
* I googled “Houston Edward Hopper retrospective,” because I wanted to know the exact year I didn’t get to see Nighthawks. According to AI, there’s never been a Hopper retrospective in Houston. Either Google or the guard got something wrong.
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